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Stephen Hill
Adam Bartley
Colin Austin
December 19, Tuesday Afternoon
I give a happy sigh as the credits roll, humming along with the Beach Boys singing “God Only Knows,” which is the ending of one of my favorite holiday movies of all time.
If you’ve got even a tiny sprinkle of romance and holiday spirit, you know exactly what I’m talking about.
Love Actually, baby. That ode to love and Christmas that I watch about eight times every December.
Burrowing deeper beneath the blanket Mark’s mom made, I reach for the remote and turn the volume down a smidge. “Who’s your favorite couple?”
“Hmm?”
Alarmed at the sleepy sound, I turn my head toward my best friend and give him a gentle kick when I see his eyes are closed. “Mark Blakely, tell me you did not just fall asleep during Love Actually.”
“I didn’t fall asleep during Love Actually,” he repeats dutifully.
I start to kick him again, but he grabs my foot. “I didn’t! I just closed my eyes for two seconds because the movie’s over.”
I narrow my eyes. “So who’s your favorite couple?”
“Out of the ten million?”
“It’s what makes the movie so special,” I insist. “It captures all sorts of love. New love, sibling love, lost love…”
He holds up a hand. “Can we not book-club it up in here?”
“I like the prime minister story line the best,” I say, reaching for my mug of hot cocoa. It’s a little lukewarm, but I’ll never let marshmallows go to waste.
“Why’s that?” he asks, turning to look at me.
It’s nearly ten, and other than pausing for dinner (yummy roast chicken and some sort of sinfully cheesy potatoes), and a couple snow-shoveling breaks, we’ve more or less been watching movies all day.
It’s been the perfect snow day. Well, almost perfect. I’d prefer to be at my house, since I’ve got the tree, and he’s only decorated with a weird nutcracker his aunt gave him. Still, his place has its perks. His cooking skills and stocked fridge, for one. His pajamas, for another. I borrowed a pair of pajama pants, an old sweatshirt, and a pair of socks. All of which are about three times too big for little old me but are cozy as heck.
“I like the way Hugh Grant chases his girl around London.”
“You mean abuses his power by stalking a former employee?”
I’d kick him again, but he’s still holding my foot, pressing his thumb against the ball of my foot in warning.
“Come on, favorite couple. Pretend for a second that you’re romantic,” I cajole.
Mark sighs. “Fine. I like the sign guy. The one who knocks on the hot girl’s door with the posters.”
I wrinkle my nose. “It’s cute, but it doesn’t even have a happy ending.”
“Sure it does.”
“No,” I say emphatically. “She’s married to the other guy.”
Mark waggles his eyebrows. “But she kissed the sign guy.”
“A goodbye kiss,” I explain patiently. “So that he could move on.”
