Page 52 of A Not-So Holiday Paradise
Sixteen
Molly
I wakeup with my hand hanging over the edge of the mattress, curved toward Beckett’s. We look like God and Adam in the Sistine Chapel, reaching for each other, our fingertips inches apart—though the figures Michelangelo painted never looked like me. His models, from what I remember, were mostly devoid of freckles and wild red hair.
Beckett, on the other hand, could model for any sculptor he wanted, and they’d all be happy to have him. I look at him for a moment, my eyes scanning over the details I don’t normally get to stare at when he’s awake. His face is more relaxed in sleep than it ever is otherwise; he’s a worrier. Those creases in his forehead are all smooth now, and there’s no hint of a frown on his lips. He’s nothing but serene.
I roll over onto my back and stare at the ceiling. It’s Christmas Eve today. And I’m with Beckett Donovan, in the Virgin Islands, without the rest of my family. I’m not sure what I pictured for this Christmas season, but it wasn’t this. I wish I felt as serene as Beckett looks. But instead, my insides are a riot of emotion—splashes of excitement and worry and sadness all running together until I’m nothing but a tangled mess of feelings.
“Molly?”
I jump, yanked out of my thoughts by Beckett’s groggy voice.
“Yeah?” I say quickly, looking over at him. He stretches languidly, like a big cat bathing in the sun, his shirt riding up and offering me a glimpse of tanned, muscular perfection.
“Are you…humming?”
“Huh?” I say, blinking and yanking my gaze away from that strip of skin. When his words register in my brain, I realize he’s right; I have been humming. I’ve been humming “Deck the Halls,” to be exact. “Oh,” I say. I sit up. “Yeah. Sorry. I didn’t realize I was doing that.”
He shrugs. “It’s okay,” he says. Then he runs one hand over his hair, which is sticking up in the back. “Did you sleep okay?”
“Yeah, I did,” I say. Surprisingly well, actually. “Did you?”
Another shrug. “It was fine.”
A twinge of guilt plucks at me. “You can have the mattress tonight,” I say.
He gives me a look that plainly saysDon’t start this again,and I hold my hands up to placate him.
“Or not,” I say. “I can take the mattress.”
He nods. “Good.” Then he stands up, stretching once more. After a wide, gape-mouthed yawn, he says, “Do you need to shower?”
“I’m good for now,” I say.
“I’ll use it, then.” He goes to the chest of drawers against the wall and begins rifling through them, pulling out a shirt and some shorts. Then he leaves the room, and two seconds later I hear the bathroom door close.
I sigh, looking absently around as I think. What are we going to do today? We should do something Christmasy, right? There’s a Christmas Eve show on the cruise ship that I was looking forward to; I guess that’s not in my future anymore.
But there’s no point in focusing on the things I’m missing. “Focus on the positive!” I tell myself, forcing a smile onto my face. I read somewhere that smiling can trigger the release of dopamine and serotonin, so I push my muscles a little harder, until I look like a cavewoman baring her teeth at her prey.
I can’t say I notice any dopamine or serotonin action. My cheeks hurt, though. I let the smile drop.
It only takes me a couple minutes to get dressed and braid my hair. At this point I’m a walking Virgin Islands advertisement, but it’s better than being stuck in my swimsuit. Then I leave the room to examine what we’ve got to work with in the living room.
One loveseat. One small table. Two wooden chairs. I glance over my shoulder back to the bedroom, my eyes narrowing on the blankets as I think.
I can make it work. It should be enough.
First I drag the blankets off the mattress, along with the blanket Beckett slept under. Once they’re all in a nice pile in the middle of the living room floor, I begin moving furniture.
Beckett joins me halfway through the wrestling match I’m having with the loveseat.
“Why is it so heavy?” I gasp, looking at him as he stares, bewildered, at my progress. “It’s small. It should not be this hard to move.”
“Are you…” he says slowly, “trying to make a fort?”
“Of course,” I say, giving up on the loveseat. I slump against it so I can catch my breath. “It’s my favorite Christmas Eve tradition.”
