Page 62 of Go Back to December

When Baz raises a brow, I add, “It’s temporary.”

“Is he at work?”

“Manny? He’s in the Philippines visiting family, and then he’s headed on an aid trip with Doctors Without Borders.”

Baz hobbles to the kitchen, which brings him closer to the hallway with only one bedroom. “So the two of you are close.”

“Sort of.” I shove underwear and pajamas into the bag while his back is turned. “We met while we were doing development work in Latin America. There was a coup, and we were confined in this government-supervised hotel for two weeks before they deported us.”

“Jesus. That must have been frightening.”

“At the time, it was. Later, I realized it could have been a lot worse.”

“Now I understand why you took up street fighting.” He glances at the corridor. “There’s only one bedroom.”

Currently, the only thing occupying the bedroom is a single-size air mattress, a humiliation I do not care to expose to Baz. The possibility of Manny and me having any sort of sexual or romantic attraction to each other is comical, but Baz has never seen us together. This is the closest he’s come to the world I orbit, and it’s making that vein throb in his throat, which sets me further on edge.

“Is there something you’d like to ask me?” I don’t realize I’ve got my hand full of panties planted on my hip until Baz’s eyes dip there for a hot minute.

“Is Manny the reason you aren’t dating Justin?”

“For fuck’s sake.” I stomp into the kitchen and retrieve the scissors from the kitchen drawer.

Baz flaps a hand at the bedroom door. “It’s a fair question.”

Gritting my teeth, I slice through the brown paper. “Why, because we’re fake dating?”

“Yes.” His tone is mildly outraged, bordering on offended. When I look up, his jaw and eyes are tight.

“I’m not dating anyone, Baz. Not even you.”

He opens his mouth as if he’s going to say something important, but it’s just a sputter of breath.

In a heavy attempt at a truce, he gestures to the package and forces a smile. “After Christmas sale?”

“I wish. Care package from home. Holiday Mom Guilt.”

The first thing I pull out is a white sweater. For a woman who works in food service, the color is completely impractical, but it looks warm, so I toss it into the overnight bag.

Baz leans over the counter. “What else did Santa deliver?”

When a jumbo-size bag of red licorice appears, his face brightens. “That’s coming back with us.”

“She puts it in our stockings every year.”

“Not the supersize one.” Baz is incredulous. “It would take up the entire stocking.”

“That’s the point.”

His mouth twists in protest before the penny drops, and he realizes I grew up in a house where there wasn’t a lot of money for an infinite number of tiny gifts to fill our stockings.

I turn my attention back to the package and lift out a cardboard box hastily wrapped in tissue paper and labeled with a Post-it note that reads, Found these cleaning out the attic. XO.

A dark seed of dread takes root in my stomach, and I decide I like my phone again when it buzzes at the precise moment Baz’s phone pings.

He makes the same strangled sound he always utters when there’s a communication from Clan Johnson. “Don’t check it.”

“It could be urgent.”