Page 28 of Under The Meh-stletoe

The locks I'd put around my attraction for him opened all at once. I had wanted to be unavailable, but he'd made his way into my feelings anyway, sowing seeds that could grow if I let them.

When I didn't answer right away, he added, "I didn't think you'd relax enough if you didn't think I was drinking, too."

He shrugged. I squirmed, mostly uncomfortable in my realization.

"I assumed we'd walk…" I let out, lost at what else to say for the moment.

"It's a half hour walk in the dark. It's cold. It's fine. I'll drive. Should we go?"

I nodded and followed him out of The Silo. He opened the door for me and, as soon as I stepped outside, the cold air shocked my body.

"Oh shit." My head swam. "I'm drunk now."

He put his arm around me. "Are you really? Didn't seem like it a minute ago."

We stood right outside the bar, lonely in the parking lot, standing on gravel in the night.

"El aire me pegó." I stared at him. "Do you speak Spanish?"

"The air hit you," he translated. He guided me to the truck. "My mom taught me. I understand it better than I speak it. Will you be okay?"

"I think so. Just… Let's see what happens when you start driving."

Luckily, I didn't feel sick. The alcohol did seem to loosen my tongue.

"I mean," I argued, though Daniel wasn't speaking much. We'd been on the road for ten minutes and had another ten or so left. "I know exactly what you did. You asking for non-alco… holic… drinks— it was you mowing my lawn. Wasn't it?"

He snorted. "Sure. Yeah."

"So, Dan. Danny?"

"Let's keep it as Daniel."

"What about Daniel en español." Accordingly, I pronounced his name in a Latin American Spanish accent. "I hate when people read my name and sayale. Like the drink. I'm not fermented grains!"

"Only call me Daniel—" he pronounced it the same way I had— "if you want me to think of my mom."

"Okaaay. Ugh, you're cranky. But I like it, somehow? What I don't like is Christmas."

"Why don't you like it, again?"

"It's like the epi— epitome of toxic positivity. I hate toxic positivity."

"Agreed—"

"—you did say we click!—" I interrupted him nonsensically.

"— and the way it's forced consumerism as well." He continued as if I hadn't said anything. "From October to December—"

"The Ber months are supposed to be fun!" I hit my thigh with my palm. "Christmas isn't fun."

"—we're pushed all this themed stuff. But what isreallyspecial about it? Nothing but the convention of some monthly holidays."

We entered the urban zone of the town, simple one-story houses around us.

"We do click I think," I added.

He cleared his throat. "The things they say make the holidays special are things that should happen all year long. Being good to one another, being grateful…"