In my room, I change into my cat PJs while Diego is in the bathroom and wait for him to come to bed already stashed under the sheets. And, I’m not sure why, but I even go as far as picking up Mr. Darcy from the comforter and relocating him to the armchair in the corner. Unhappy with the move, the cat curls up and stares at me in resentment.
“Sorry,” I whisper.
When Diego comes in, the absence of the cat from the bed is the first thing he notices.
“So his royal highness is not gracing us with his presence tonight?”
I shrug. “Sharing a bed with us is an honor he doesn’t bestow easily. Mr. Darcy likes to keep his subjects on their toes. Don’t you?” I add in a silly voice.
The cat throws me a you-traitor stare, whips his tail in the air once, and then settles his head on his paws, probably deciding that ignoring me completely is punishment enough.
“Oh, you’re such a sourpuss,” I tell him.
But as Diego climbs into bed next to me, the cat drama is quickly forgotten. My whole body tenses under the covers for no reason. There’s enough free space between me and Diego that not an inch of our bodies is touching. Still, there’s a strong warmth emanating from his side of the bed, as if the air surrounding him was shimmering. Or maybe I’m making the air shimmer with heat whenever I think about that kiss today.
“You want to read or something?” I ask.
“No, I’m good.”
“Should I kill the lights, then?”
“Yeah.”
I turn to switch off the bedside lamp, and burrow deeper under the covers. “Good night.”
“Night,” comes Diego’s whispered answer.
I lie there, with my arms along my sides rigid as a mummy, staring into the dark with all my senses on high alert. From the utter silence on my right, I can tell Diego isn’t sleeping, either. Not a single breath coming out of him. What is he doing? What is he thinking?
Something brushes against my right pinky. At first, the touch is so light I think I’ve imagined it. But then Diego’s fingers tickle mine again in an unmistakable move, his thumb sweeping over my knuckles in a soft caress. And the simple skin-on-skin contact is enough to make me experience a charge like a static shock. A flow of current that shoots up from my hand to my arm, then to the rest of me.
Swallowing my sudden agitation, I return his touch, keeping my movements just as gentle and light. Until our fingers are intertwined in a firm lock. Diego’s thumb massages my palm in slow circles. I never thought of my hands as erogenous points, but I was wrong. This seemingly-innocent fondling is doing the weirdest things to me.
Our feet touch next. Just a tentative exploration at first, and then another joining of limbs.
I can’t stand this tension any longer. I gently tug Diego toward me, and he doesn’t seem to need much more encouragement to partially roll on top of me, the pressure of his body on mine divine. With his free hand, he cups my left cheek and… He doesn’t kiss me. He teases my lips with his, never allowing them to stay in contact for long. Nibbling at me with his teeth, and kissing me everywhere—cheeks, jaw, neck—but on the mouth.
Just when I think I won’t be able to stand this sweet torture any longer, he finally gives in to my silent prayer. The kiss feels much more intimate than the one we shared this morning, but no less heated.
We make out for hours. And I don’t know if it’s the fact that we’re in my old room and have to be careful not to make too much noise or to keep the bed from squeaking, but I feel like a high school junior exploring boys for the first time.
Why don’t adults spend more time kissing? Once we discover the main act—sex—we forget everything that used to come before. How good it is to just kiss. How intimate. How soul-baring. But now I’m back to being sixteen, and kissing Diego is all I want to do tonight. I’m not sure if he feels the same way, because we don’t say a word to each other the entire time. But he never tries to go further than kissing, and a very chaste version of second base. In fact, every roaming of our hands on our bodies is strictly clothes-on, with no skin coming in contact except for our hands, feet, and lips.
We kiss, kiss, and kiss, until my lips are so swollen they hurt. Still, I wouldn’t want it to ever stop. But at one point my body seems to have expended all its energy. I let Diego’s mouth go and burrow my head in the nook between his neck and shoulder, wrapping my legs around his in a tight embrace. I fall asleep almost immediately.
***
For the first time in I don’t know how many years, I wake up happy on Christmas Day. I’m smiling even before I can remember why, which doesn’t take long considering I’m sleeping all over him.
“Hey.” I shyly lift my head to look at Diego.
He has his arms wrapped around me, and gently pushes a lock of hair away from my forehead to kiss me there. “Morning.”
I blush and hide my face back into his neck.
Last night, in the dark, it all seemed simple. But right now, I don’t know what to tell Diego. We kissed. Real, non-job-related kissing. What does it mean? Are we dating for real now? Am I still his boss? What the hell is happening to us?
“Last night was…” I start tentatively.
“I know.” Diego holds me closer and kisses my head again.
I’m gathering enough courage to ask the hard question—What did last night mean to you?—when an explosion of Christmas bells from one of Mom’s favorite old songs invades the relative quiet of the morning.
My mother’s shouting quickly follows. “Come on, kids, time to get up! The buns are just out of the oven, come down before they get cold… and Merry Christmas, everyone!”
This is my mom’s idea of a jolly wake up call. She pumps holiday tunes at top volume on the stereo and calls us down to all have breakfast together with her famous cinnamon rolls. Usually, this treatment turns me into Miss Cranky MacGrumpy right away. I’d drag myself out of bed, join the breakfast table with a frown, only half-appreciate the deliciousness of my mother’s buns, and ready myself for a day of misery spent defending my dating life—or lack of thereof.
But not today. Today, I’m ready to gorge on buttery cinnamon rolls, I want to unwrap the presents, eat the turkey, and I might even start humming holiday tunes under my breath. Not even Aunt Betsy can ruin my mood.
“Better not make her wait,” I say, sitting up, glad I have an excuse to postpone The Conversation. “And the cinnamon rolls are worth it, I promise.”
We get up and awkwardly bump into each other as I side-step him on my way to the door. “I’ll meet you downstairs in just a few minutes,” I tell him.
In the bathroom, I take extra care to make myself as pretty as possible without giving the impression of trying too hard. I wash my face, brush my teeth, fluff my hair, and pinch some color into my cheeks. My lips are already red and plump, so they don’t need any extra pinching—a night of making out will do that for you. I’m tempted to apply some concealer under my eyes but decide against it. Julia might notice and call me out on it in front of everyone.
I hop down the stairs, skipping steps, and promptly barrel into Diego on the landing just as he comes out of the guest bathroom.
“Whoa, careful there.” He catches me by the waist and kisses my temple, whispering, “Merry Christmas, by the way.”
“Merry Christmas,” I repeat, out of breath.
We walk into the dining room holding hands and smiling like two fools.
“Morning.” I beam at everyone.
My mom immediately starts fussing around, serving coffee and placing two trays of cinnamon rolls on the table.
“Which ones are mine?” I ask.
Mom points to the tray on the left. “These are half raisin-free regulars.” For me, I hate raisins. “And the other half is the vegan version,” she adds for Julia.
Gosh, we’re two spoiled-rotten kids. At this moment, a surge of appreciation for my mom swells in my chest. I’m an awful child. I never call, I come home the bare minimum, and always try to avoid my family like the plague. True, whenever I talk to Mom she finds a way to work my non-existent love life into the conversation, driving me mad. But I know she does it out of real concern for my well-being. I should try to be more patient with her, and call her more, and visit more often.
But this year I can enjoy all her maternal love, with no discussions. I dread the moment I’ll have to tell her Diego and I broke up.
The thought hits me in the stomach like a punch with more force than I could’ve ever expected. To stage a fake breakup with my fake boyfriend has always been the plan, but after last night… What are we going to do? Are we still going to break up at the end of the week? Can you really break up if you’ve never even been officially together? Are we together?
The questions that have been swirling inside my head since I woke up, keep on spinning, chasing one another around my poor brain. I fend them off with a bite of warm roll and a sip of steamy coffee. Today’s my first chance at a merry Christmas, and I’m not going to waste it roasting in self-doubt all day. Que será, será…