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“Looking forward to showing off those legs?” I ask her.
“Oh, these aren’t for me, captain,” she says with a wicked gleam in her eyes before she turns to the vendor, a weather-beaten man sporting a stubby gray ponytail. “Hi! My friend wants the full Christmas in Bermuda experience. Can you outfit him with your finest holiday shorts?”
The vendor studies me carefully. “Over the jeans or full festival?” he asks.
“Full festival,” Birdy answers, glancing at me with laughter on her face. “You’re tough. You can handle it.” She pats my chest, and if this is what it takes to keep her smiling at me like that, I’ll wear the damn shorts all night.
The man reaches into the stack of merchandise and holds up a pair. “Waist 31?” At my impressed nod, he gestures to a tiny tent behind him. “Change in there.”
I do as instructed, swapping my jeans for candy-cane shorts that almost hit my knees. I’m sure they look ridiculous with my lace-up cordovan boots, but Birdy’s delighted laugh when I emerge from the tent makes it worth it.
“No, no, I insist,” she says, reaching for her purse and extracting a credit card that she hands to the vendor, who gives her a receipt and a bag to stash my jeans in. “Now where can we grab some dinner?”
Just like the college boys, the vendor’s thrilled to direct us to a booth a few stops down that’s selling meat pies, codfish cakes, and small game hens on sticks, along with roasted chestnuts, hot wassail, and Bermuda banana ice cream. It all smells incredible, so we buy a little bit of everything and trade bites back and forth as we wander through the booths.
“Ever been to a German Christmas market?” I ask before slapping my forehead. “Oh wait, of course you haven’t.”
“Of course I haven’t!” she confirms with a laugh. “Is it like this?”
“God no.” Then I stop at a table full of hand-carved nutcrackers and wooden Santa Clauses. “Actually, a little. The one in Chicago is like this but forty times bigger. You’d hate it.”
She wanders ahead of me and runs her finger gently over a blown glass ornament in the shape of a dancing bear. “Maybe.” The next ornament that catches her eye is an ostrich that looks a little like Miss Gouda in its red and green ruffled skirt and gold high heels. She holds it up and peers at it in wonder.
“You should get it,” I tell her.
She frowns and sets it right back down. “No tree, remember?”
She pulls me to the next booth, displaying brightly painted home decor signs with sayings like SANTACROSSINGONLYand HAPPYHO-HO-HOLIDAYS. My mom would love them.
“How you doing there, Christmas Boy?” Birdy asks when a gust of wind scours the street and sets the light-wrapped inflatable palm trees dancing. “Willing to admit that you’re freezing your sugar plums off?”
“My sugar plums are fine,” I say with as much dignity as I can. Yes, it’s fucking arctic out, but I kind of love it. The other festival-goers who opted to go full festival give me knowing nods as they walk past, and the glow of this weird little community’s keeping me warm.
Well that and Birdy by my side, looking adorable in her red parka and pompon hat. She can claim to hate this all she wants, but her smile’s brighter than the lights wrapped around the fake palm trees as she sips hot chocolate from a coconut. Her joy is almost enough to banish the sting of being relegated to travel buddy status earlier today. I may have gone from the guy who gave her an orgasm so strong it uncorked her emotions bottle to her platonic car friend, but at least I’m showing her a good time.
Another gust of wind blasts down the street, and I wince. Yet again, my lack of foresight in packing a hat and gloves is biting me in the ass. Cold knees I can handle. Cold ears fucking suck.
Without warning, the kettle drum carols overhead fall silent, and the brassy sounds of a marching band kick up. Within moments, row after row of high schoolers in black and gold uniforms come parading past, playing a loud rendition of “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree” that’s semi-on key and performed with such enthusiasm that it’s hard to mind. Birdy bops along to the song as they turn the corner, the music distorting a little in the night air as they vanish from view.
Unfortunately, holding still during the performance made the cold worse, and I try to sneakily reach up to rub my ears with my freezing fingers.
“Sebastian!” Birdy clucks her tongue and grabs my hands in her mittened ones, rubbing them briskly. “What are the odds that somebody around here is selling hats?”
The odds turn out to be very good. When we turn onto the third street surrounding the town square, we run into a table full of hand-knit items made by the mother and daughter who own the yarn shop one town over and are excited to help me pick the right winter gear.
“Not that one, Mom,” the daughter says, shaking her head at the black hat the older woman’s holding. “He needs something brighter. Blue, maybe?”
“That one.” Birdy points at one toward the back of the booth. “It’ll bring out the green in his eyes.”
The grandmother leans over the table to peer closely at me. “You’re absolutely right, sweetie. There is a little green in all that brown.”
She reaches for the hat Birdy indicated, leaving me staring at my travel buddy in surprise.
“What?” she asks almost defensively. “I told you I think you have pretty eyes.”
Why this matter-of-fact statement unleashes a warm feeling in my chest, I have no idea. God, is this all it takes to jostle my emotions bottle loose? Birdy noticing a tiny detail like that about me?
“Here you go!” Yarn mom presents me with a bright green hat. “Try it on.”
