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"Oh, wow," I said, sighing out my breath at the lights before us.
It was something like out of a movie or a TV documentary about those people who dedicate their lives to having the most extreme Christmas displays known to mankind.
Some houses went for a classier display, lining every angle of their houses, porches, and front paths.
Others went whole-hog.
Meaning every square inch of their properties were crowded with various pieces of Christmas kitsch. Plastic soldiers flanked the walkways, trumpet-bearing angels stood thirty strong around the porch. Giant nutcrackers here. Santa and Mrs. Claus there. Polar bears, snowmen, gingerbread men, and candy canes were everywhere.
One property lined their entire front lawn in colored twinkle lights.
"Oh, here," I said, using my free hand to rummage for the special glasses. "Okay. First things first... Santa or reindeer?"
"Reindeer," Crosby decided, releasing me to fold the glasses to sit over his ears. "Oh, that's trippy," he decided, wobbling a little as he looked around.
Not wanting to miss out on the fun, I slipped on the Santa glasses, and did a slow scan of the street.
"Whoa there," Crosby said when I nearly rammed into a wooden nutcracker bigger than I was. "Come here. We have to stick together," he decided, reaching down to take my hand.
We'd walked arm-in-arm more than a few times in our friendship. But I wasn't sure he'd ever reached for my hand. Hand holding was somehow more intimate, right? It certainly felt that way. Even through the leather of his gloves and the thick wool of mine, I could feel the way his fingers laced through mine, held on tight.
My stomach did another of those strange flip-flops at the touch, making me pull to a stop as Crosby attempted to pull me with him across the street.
"You alright there?" he asked, reaching up with his free hand to pluck the glasses off my nose, tucking them into his pocket as he looked down at me.
"I...ah," I started, not sure what to say, how to explain that his hand holding mine felt wrong and right at the same time, that there seemed to be a battle going on in my body between what Crosby had always meant to me and what he could mean to me.
I couldn't find words, but I felt my hand do a little involuntary spasm against his, tightening and releasing.
Recognition crossed Crosby's face at that. He'd always been so good at reading me, reading between the lines, between the words.
His arm started to raise, pulling mine and my linked hand up as well until our hands were up near our faces.
"Is this not okay?" he asked, voice velvety, almost unfamiliar. I thought I knew all of Crosby's voices, but this one sounded different. It sounded smooth and sexy; it managed to slither under all my layers of clothing and tease across my skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake. "Can I not hold your hand, Dea?" he pressed when my lips refused to work in conjunction with my brain, all my wires getting crossed trying to decipher what was going on with my body.
But one thought did manage to cross my mind, doing so loudly, boldly, undeniable.
I liked how it felt when he held my hand.
Hell, I liked how it sounded when he said my name in that voice.
"You can hold my hand," I told him, voice a strange, choked little whisper.
"Good," he declared, his free hand raising, pulling my hat that had slipped upward down over my ear. "I like it," he added, his fingers leaving my hat to trace down my jaw, making a shiver work its way through me.
For one suspended moment, I was sure his fingers were going to snag my chin, tilt my face, lower his head, seal his lips to mine.
But then something crossed his face, something that seemed like a mix of uncertainty and disappointment and regret.
His hand dropped from my face as he deliberately turned away, pulling me with him down the street again, making endless small talk for the next half an hour before we both decided it was time to get going as the crowds from the bars started coming in.
"Tired?" Crosby asked, sitting next to me after we finally made it back to the subway after a long, cold walk across the bridge. I was. Alcohol always did that for me. A quick, soaring high, followed by complete exhaustion.
"Mmhmm," I agreed, yanking my head back up from where it had been bobbing toward my chest.
"Here," Crosby said, arm going around my shoulders, half turning me into his side. "Take a rest," he demanded softly even as I felt my head leaning into his shoulder. I didn't stop to wonder why I wanted to do so, just sucked in a deep breath, breathing in his spicy, but understated cologne. "Better?" he asked.
