Page 45 of Not Home Alone

“Everything okay?” she asks.

“Quinn showed up at the family thing I was at. Apparently, our mistletoe kiss has already gone viral.”

Now she’s doing that thing where she tries not to look totally thrilled. I’m aware of Quinn’s mean girl behavior, and my sister has mentioned that Quinn and her friends made fun of Merrily after The Notcracker incident. I doubt she was even on Quinn’s radar before that. “Oh no,” Merrily gasps. “That was fast.”

“It certainly was.”

“Hope Quinn wasn’t upset.”

“I’m told she was, unfortunately.”

“Oh well!” She shrugs, grinning from ear to ear. “How do you like the music? Fun, right?”

It’s just a lot of chaotic noise to me, but I say, “Ja. Sehr lustig.” Very fun.

Her big brown eyes widen. “You speak German?”

“Not really. I went out with a German model a few times. Picked up a few phrases.”

The look of recognition on her face is delicious. She has definitely Googled me. I knew it. “Oh, really? A German model? Fancy! I went out on one date with a guy in college who did some modeling. His last name was Kraus, but he was born in Milwaukee. His family has a very successful plumbing business there, and he’s the model on their website and in their Facebook ads. He’s brought in a lot of business for them!” She taps her fingers on the table. “Was your German model date in anything I would have seen?”

“Not recently. She mostly did runway, but she was on the cover of a lot of fashion magazines when she was younger, and she’s a TV show host sometimes.”

“Cool cool cool!” she says, feigning enthusiasm for my former dates. Something or someone catches her attention behind me and causes her to frown. I look over my shoulder and see that there’s a group of four women sitting at the bar, definitely tourists, who are staring at me and giggling. They do that thing where they toss their heads back, laughing while dragging their fingers through their hair. I turn back to give Merrily my full attention. “It’s not as cool as being here with you, Baby Broccoli.” I give her a wink.

She snort-laughs at that, but it does make her sit up a little straighter. “Damn straight,” she says. “Don’t you forget it.”

“I haven’t forgotten a thing about you in ten years,” I tell her. “Doubt I ever will.”

That causes her to blush and blink a few times. If she can’t tell whether I mean it or not, she can join the club. I honestly have no idea right now.

“You’re literally wearing my face on your shirt and women are still trying to get your attention,” she says. “Is this what it’s like for you all the time? A buffet of women and you just pick one for the night?” It’s not insecure the way she says it, just… vulnerable and genuinely curious.

“That’s what it was like before you came back into my life,” is my honest answer. She searches my face, probably waiting for a smirk. A wink. Something to break the tension. So I add, “That’s the truth, Baby Cucumber.” And I wink. But I can’t seem to manage a smirk.

I can only hold Merrily’s confused gaze and wait for the sweet relief of bourbon.

“Did you even know who I was before you walked into the gym for that first Notcracker rehearsal?” she asks.

Hasn’t even had the shot of Jägermeister yet, and she’s asking random questions. I weigh the pros and cons of telling her.

She leans in and says, “I knew who you were, of course, when we were in elementary school, because you were a Moody. You were a year older, and we ran in different social circles even before you went to boarding school. So I wouldn’t be offended if you didn’t know I existed.”

“I knew you existed,” I say, hoping she’ll let me get away with only saying that.

“Go on…”

Of course she wouldn’t let me off that easily. Sighing, I explain. “When my mom was…” This is way too loud and festive a restaurant to say words like “was alive,” so I start over. “Before I was ten, my mom took me to The Christmas Barn a few times.”

Once again, Merrily doesn’t seem to know how to respond.

“She loved that store. And one time, you were there. I must have been nine, so you were eight. I don’t think you saw us because you were so busy rearranging the decorations on one of the Christmas trees near the window. I just remember seeing this little blonde girl in a red dress who wouldn’t stop singing ‘Jingle Bell Rock.’”

Her eyes are getting watery, but she laughs on an exhale.

“Like, you just kept singing it over and over and over. I was going to go tell you to stop, but my mom held me back and told me you were the daughter of Joe Tucker, the owner of this store. And she said you were cute. And then we left and that was it. So, yes. When we were introduced at rehearsal and the director said your dad owned The Christmas Barn, I remembered you.”

Now, her lower lip is quivering, and I wish I hadn’t told her. “Your mom knew who I was?”