I lay my head on her shoulder. “Do you think it’s possible for me to get to the point where I’ll be able to communicate with a guy the way a healthy relationship requires?”
She smooths the hair from my brow. “I know you will. It’ll just take some patience on both of your parts.”
“I can’t imagine I’d need to exercise much patience with Jeremy.”
“He’s a man, so yes, you will, but”—she moves so I’ll look at her—“I meant you need to be patient with yourself, Kenz.” Her blue eyes dart between my own. “Give yourself a break, okay?”
I try to smile, but my lips wobble. “Okay.”
“About Saturday night.” She sighs. “I’ll understand if you don’t—”
“I’ll go.” I surprise us both by interrupting.
“You will?” Her eyebrows rise.
Already my pulse is picking up speed. My mouth floods, and I swallow. My body is sending out its high-alert signals to flee thesituation. Instead, I nod. If I’m ever going to get to the point where I can look Jeremy in the eye for longer than three seconds or hold a conversation that lasts past half a dozen exchanges, then I can’t avoid every social situation that makes me uncomfortable. I need to strengthen my people-skills muscles. Maybe then, eventually, I’ll be able to confess the secret feelings I’ve been harboring for him. Maybe then some of my daydreams could become a reality.
“And I think we should go shopping tonight. Get presents for the community kids so we can wrap them and turn them in tomorrow, but also maybe pick out a new outfit as well?”
She eyes me up and down. “Who are you thinking of going as?”
“Me,” I say. “I think I’ll dress as myself this time.”
She gives me a squeeze. “I’ve always liked you best of all.”
17
What do you think of this?” I step out of the dressing room and hold my arms to the sides. I have on an emerald-green sweater dress that skims the tops of my knees. The waist is cinched in with a wide black belt that gives the cable-knit material the illusion of shape.
“Gem tones are for sure your color palette.” Keri eyes me up and down. “All you need are some black leggings under that and your knee-high boots, and you’re all set.”
I’m not sureall setis the phrase I’d use, since nerves have burrowed into my stomach and decided to make it their permanent home. But I like the dress. It’s comfortable and, more importantly, I feel comfortable in it. One less thing to worry about come Saturday night, since I know my headspace is already going to be overcrowded with too many thoughts about trying to keep the conversation flowing instead of acting like a beaver and damming it up with my awkwardness. It’s a date with training wheels, so to speak, but if I crash and burn instead of learning to pedal on my own, then I’ll never be able to ride the bike I really have my heart set on—Jeremy.
Oh, wow. That’s not what I meant at all. Sugar cookies, I need to work on my metaphors. I cannotsay stuff likethatout loud.
I shut the changing room door behind me and put back on my jeans and Packers hoodie. I wanted to watch the football game with Mom, but after how she was on Tuesday, I thought it might be a good idea to call ahead and see what kind of day she was having. Gabriella told me Mom had been agitated most of the day, and she didn’t think it would be a good idea to add any more stimulus to her environment.
I run my hand over the green-and-gold embossed stitching of the football team’s name, sending up a prayer for my mom. Tears prick my eyes, but I blink them back.
I suck in a breath and exhale on a tremble, flicking my wrists in an attempt to shake off the anxious energy beginning to travel my spine like an interstate highway. Mom always told me not to borrow tomorrow’s trouble, but I can never seem to help myself. The same creative imagination that allows me to design intricate and complex renderings also has a dark side: the ability to think up multiple conclusions to any scenario. And those conclusions aren’t always so happy.
Folding the dress, I exit the changing area and then pay for it. Keri is looking at a rack of accessories when I tuck the receipt into the bag.
“Is there anything you want to shop for?” I ask.
“Yes. I’m dying for a Cinnabon.”
There aren’t any lines when we arrive at the food court, but the majority of the tables are filled. After we order, Keri runs to the restroom, and I assure her I’ll grab the cinnamon rolls and find us a seat. I have to serpentine around people and tables but finally find an open spot near the middle of the dining area.
The smell of warm, yeasty, cinnamon-filled dough and melty, gooey cream cheese frosting makes my mouth water. I pinch off a piece with my fingers and stuff it in my mouth. My eyes roll into the back of my head. So good.
Suddenly, a man at the table to my left stands, uses his chair as a step, and climbs on top of the table.
What in the world? People start to notice, and conversations begin to die down.
In a loud voice, he sings out in a rich, smooth tenor, “We wish you a merry Christmas.” He holds the last note.
The woman to my right follows his moves, and soon she’s on her table, adding her voice to his. “We wish you a merry Christmas.”
