Page 43 of Grouch-ish

Without rolling from her side, Pear reached behind her and whipped the layers of blankets back to expose the sheet.

Shoving down my joggers, I slipped in behind her in only my boxer briefs and tugged her to me. The move was dangerous. She wasn’t sleeping in anything more than tiny shorts, exposing her majestic thighs, while something skimpy covered her up top, offering more of her soft arms.

Still, I wrapped an arm over her middle, held her tight to my chest, and fell asleep within seconds.

Happy New Year indeed.

+ + +

When I wake alone, I’m not surprised, but easily hear Pear rustling around in the kitchen.

Sliding from her bed, I notice the wooden snowflake I made her on the nightstand. Smiling to myself, I reach for my sweats and slip into them, shivering from the temperature shift of her warm bed to the cold room. I return to my room for a shirt then wander into the kitchen.

“Good morning,” I say, a little too cheerful, while hesitant. I don’t want any regrets about yesterday.

“Happy New Year,” She quickly glances at me without pausing from what she’s hastily cooking on the stovetop. Corned beef hash sizzles. Eggs fry.

Wrapping my arms around her middle, I tug her back to my chest. She stiffens a second, but I hold on until she settles against me.

I kiss the side of her neck. “You okay today?”

“Yeah,” she whispers, melting even more into me.

“You left the bed.” I hum. The vanilla scent of her skin is intoxicating.

“We need to get going.”

“Oh yeah?” I pull back and slip to her side, leaning my hip into the countertop. “What’s today’s plan?”

I should have asked for today to be my cheat day, but I’d been too excited yesterday morning when she suggested I take out the snowmobile. I haven’t been snowmobiling in forever and sledding through the forest, a girl at my back, zipping along the trails, was amazing. It’s been too long since I’ve been in the woods, and I’d forgotten how peaceful it can be. Living in Chicago, we have forest preserves, designated acres of woods with walking trails, but the space is not the same as the naked forest.

Today, however, is football day, although the championship of college bowl games doesn’t take place for another week.

“Polar Plunge. We need to be there by ten.”

“The what-what?” I blink. We have the tradition in Chicago, but I still don’t think I’ve heard her correctly.

“Polar Plunge. It’s a tradition. A cleansing of sorts. You rush into Lake Michigan, let the cold water cover you.” She waves dramatically down her body. “The lake washes all the toxic negativity of last year out to sea and refreshes you for a new year.”

“Excuse me?” This sounds like a load of modernistic horse crap.

“The Plunge is also a fundraiser for Special Olympics.”

This is something I know, as the fire department is often on hand for the idiots running into the frigid lake in sub-zero temperatures. Even if it is a fundraiser, some people are just stupid about plunging. A minute tops is the recommendation. Fifteen minutes is the maximum before the body will shut down. Some people have to push the limits, sending their bodies into shock or hypothermia.

Personally, I don’t want to dip my big toe into freezing lake water especially when the air temp outside is well below thirty-two degrees Fahrenheit. But here’s what happens when you kiss an orgasm out of a girl, and she looks at you with sky blue eyes and kiss-swollen lips. You find yourself saying: “What should I wear?”

I don’t have a bathing suit with me because there was no promise of pool-time at Cap’s retreat. I don’t even know if the camp has a pool and never considered we’d be dipping into a lake.

The smile that brightens Pear’s face adds to my torture. “Your boxer briefs are fine.”

No way. Everyone’s going to see I have a boner for this woman, not to mention they will then witness my balls shriveling into frozen nuggets thanks to the cold lake.

But an hour later, I’m not the only guy making a fool of himself for someone else, or because of generosity and all that. Pear has already paid the online registration fee, making an additional charitable donation, and she refuses to tell me what she’d spent so I can reimburse her.

People stand around hopping from foot to foot, rubbing hands together and stroking up their arms to keep warm as we await a countdown.

There are two countdowns, actually. One for removing your clothes down to whatever you plan to submerge in and another count for the race to the lake.