Our Totally, Ridiculous, Made-Up Christmas Relationship

“Really?” She leans her head on my shoulder, and I feel her hot breaths slapping against my neck. My gosh…I really like holding you. Her body wiggles even closer to mine, making me think she somewhat likes me holding her, too. “You’re playing the ‘I almost died’ card? At like four in the morning?”

“It’s three, and yes, I am.”

Her hands rub across her face, and she slaps her cheeks back and forth, trying to wake herself up. “Fine. But you’re cooking.”

I yank open the fridge and see what I have to work with. “How do you like your eggs?” I ask, pulling out the carton.

“Sunny-side up. At eight in the morning.” She mopes around the kitchen in her slippers and damn cute puppy dog pajamas, and I snicker at her tired attitude. Her hair is all frizzy and wild, and her make-up is smeared across her face, but I don’t mention it. It’s kind of cute, and it works perfectly with her early morning personality.

“Pancakes it is,” I say, pulling out all of the ingredients. Jules hops on the barstool across from me, and watches as I start mixing everything together. “Chocolate chips or blueberries?”

“Blueberries.” Her fingers open the blueberries and she pops a few into her mouth. Her nose wiggles at the tartness of the fruit and she shakes her head. “Chocolate chips.”

As I start to prepare our early-early breakfast, she lays her head down on the kitchen island, watching all my moves. Even though she doesn’t say a word, her body language speaks for her. She’s comfortable and relaxed around me—as if we have always awakened at three in the morning for breakfast dates. Her lips hold a soft smile upon them, showing me that she’s pleased I woke her from her dreams. For some odd reason, I feel as if I’m still dreaming.

“Why don’t you have a girlfriend?”

Her question should be random, but I’m surprised she hasn’t asked before. I turn on the skillet, dreading the idea of turning my body toward her and answering her. The words are there, my reasons are clear, but I don’t want to talk about it. Our eyes finally meet and we stare for a moment, neither of us blinking, neither of us wanting to blink. Until I turn away and go back to making pancakes.

She doesn’t push the subject, but I can tell she’s still wondering. “You cook a lot?”

“I used to.” My reply is curt, and I feel bad about it, but I can’t go into more detail. Tossing a few pancakes onto a plate, I slide it over to her and pull out the syrup from the cabinet.

“Thank you,” she yawns, covering her lips with her hand. “There are a lot of things about you that you don’t talk about, aren’t there?”

“There are a lot of things about me that I can’t talk about. Otherwise, I’ll turn into you and someone will need to pin me against a wall, feeding me a pep talk.” Turning off the stove, I grab my plate of pancakes and join her at the island.

“I give pretty decent pep talks.”

“I’m sure you do, I just don’t receive pep talks very well.”

“Oh my gosh.” Her eyes close as she takes the first bite of the pancakes and I swear it looks like she just had a moment of personal pleasure. “Three a.m. pancakes shouldn’t taste this good. No pancakes should taste this good.” My insides twist in a knot knowing that she enjoys them, creating some kind of weird satisfaction within me.

“You smell like smoke again,” she blurts out, eating her food.

“I’m trying to quit.”

“Why did you start?” Another question left unanswered. She blinks once, and when her blue eyes look up, I ease myself away from her in the opposite direction. She notes the new distance between us. “I’m sorry, I get personal. I’m nosy. Sorry.” Her apology is authentic, but it’s not necessary. She has no reason to apologize for my personal issues. There’s so much of my history I’ve learned to block out of my world, and there’s no reason for me to revisit it out loud. Inside my head those demons are free to float around, but the idea of the words actually leaving my lips is terrifying. There’s such a realness to talking about Penny, and about what happened, that it scares the living hell out of me.

“I wish I could be more like you. Able to shut up and forget things.” She stares at her pancakes, cutting them into pieces. “But I gotta say I also wish I knew more about you, about your history. It’s safe to say I fall for guys fast. I become weak searching for love or lust. Any emotion, really. But it’s different with you, Kayden. With you it’s hard to find the weakness inside of me. With you I feel strong. So, I simply wish I knew more about you, because you make me stronger.”

“What do you want to know?” I ask.

“Anything. It doesn’t have to be personal at all. I just want to know more.”

I cut my blueberry pancakes as she forks her chocolate chips, and we both open our mouths, feeding each other a bite. She arches a mischievous smile and I laugh. Then we each lift our plates and switch our pancakes around.

“I believed in Santa Claus until I was ten.” My confession doesn’t seem too thrilling, but her smile is so wide that I’m almost certain I can feel my face heating up from her joy.

“Are you trying to tell me that Santa isn’t real? You bite your tongue with those satanic lies!”

She’s wide awake now and more sexdorable than ever. “I also didn’t vote during the last election.”

“Un-American and Un-Santa. I’m so happy you’re only my made-up boyfriend. Because clearly this relationship would never work. Come on, what else?”

“I may or may not have thought it was ridiculously cute when you farted in your sleep.”

Her hands rush to cover the horrified expression on her face. “Shut up!” She shoves me in the arm and I cannot stop laughing. “Shut up! Are you serious?” Nodding, I continue eating. She shoves me again, and her cheeks are now the color of a tomato. “Did it smell bad?”