Five minutes later, a Santa duck and a red-nosed reindeer in hand, we stroll proudly away from the booth, my arm slung over her shoulder. To think, last year I’d sulked over not being able to hit that hoop with my left arm.
Now I’m celebrating my girlfriend absolutely destroying me. Twice.
I kiss Marley quickly on the head, and she nuzzles closer to me, everything feeling absolutely perfect. We just need one thing.
“Hot chocolate?” I ask Marley, redirecting us toward a booth of treats and sweets, filled with enough candy to keep our local dentist in business until next Christmas.
She nods, eager, her teeth chattering in the cold.
“Two hot chocolates, please,” I say to the bundled-up barista behind the counter. “Extra whipped cream. Extra marshmallows.”
Marley watches as the barista makes the hot chocolates, shaking her head in disbelief. “That’s a lot of sugar,” she says.
“Are you talking about the chocolate melted in milk? Or just the whipped cream and marshmallows on top?”
She turns to look at me, the both of us laughing. “When you put it that way…”
“There’s no such thing as too much sugar,” I say, tugging lightly at her scarf as the barista hands us our hot chocolates, a thin trail of steam drifting off the frothy top. “Not at the Winter Festival.”
The hot chocolate is incredible, rich and creamy and sweet, exactly like I remember it.
Marley takes a small sip, a blissful smile appearing on her face. I reach out and grab her free hand, her fingers cold in my palm, as the two of us wind through the crowd to the holiday light show.
It’s awesome, lights of all different colors forming trees and reindeer and snowmen, a blanket of white underneath them. The twinkling colors guide us to the heart of the display, a long, glittering tunnel of blinking lights hanging down around us like falling stars.
We come to a stop in the center, and Marley takes a long sip of her hot chocolate, letting out a sigh. “You’re right. There’s no such thing as too much sugar.”
She pulls the cup away, whipped cream clinging to her upper lip. I reach out to wipe it off, but her voice stops me. “Oh boy.”
“What?” I ask, and she points up, tilting her head back, her rosy cheeks glowing in the waterfall of lights.
I look up to see mistletoe hanging just above us in the exact center of the tunnel.
“You know what that means,” Marley says, her gaze warmer than the hot chocolate in my hand.
I raise my eyebrows, surprised as I look around at all the people. Marley, who almost didn’t want to come out today, wants to kiss in public?
“Yeah?”
She nods, the whipped cream still lingering on her lip. “Yeah.”
I bend to kiss it off, and her hand twists into the front of my jacket, pulling me closer, the kiss intensifying. I lose myself in it, her lips cold but sweet. When we pull away, I’m short of breath, dizzy in the best kind of way.
I tuck her scarf closer to her neck, glancing to the side to see a familiar pair of brown eyes at the end of the tunnel.
Sam.
“Shit,” I say as he shakes his head at me, like he’s disappointed.
“What?” Marley asks, surprised.
“Sam.”
Her head whips around, but Sam’s already walking away, his broad shoulders fading into the distance between the twinkling holiday lights.
The moment is kind of deflated after that, so we head out from under the lights, walking slowly along the path to my house, Marley’s hand lacing into mine.
“I’m sorry,” she says, tugging gently on my fingers. “About Sam.”
“No, it’s fine. I’ve been trying to tell him,” I say, looking up at the snow, a few flakes landing on my forehead. “It’s just…”
“He’s never seen you with anyone else,” Marley fills in.
I nod, lowering my head.
“Will it be okay?” she asks.
I stop and pull her into my arms, reaching up to brush the hair out of her eyes. “It will be okay. Sam just has to get used to it.”
I say the words with total conviction, but I’m not entirely sure it’s the truth.
22
“Happy New Year,” Sam says, ducking inside the back door of my house. The holidays were so hectic I haven’t gotten a chance to see him since the Winter Festival a week ago.
He peers around, clutching a huge lump under his jacket. “Where’s Lydia?” he asks, walking past me to peek into the hallway, his head turning right and left.
“She’s out. I told you,” I say, watching as he hams it up, making a show of checking under the kitchen table. I’m relieved he isn’t being weird.