Ugly Sweater Weather

"What? Mr. Christmas himself actually doesn't understand the significance of the Christmas Pickle?" I asked, tsking my tongue at him as I took it from him. "Well, the deal is. The pickle gets hidden in the tree. And the first person to find it on Christmas morning gets to open the first gift."

"Now I know what I am getting my mom for her birthday," he declared. I knew his mother was born a few days before Christmas, something she claimed started her lifelong obsession with the season. "She will love this," he added, watching as I stashed the pickle in the tree.

"Alright, you next," I told him, holding out the box toward him, watching as he reached inside, pulled something out, unraveled it from the safety of its tissue paper.

"Oh, wow, Dea. That hair..." he said, trying not to laugh at what I already knew to be one of my old school ornaments. You know the ones, where they take your school picture from that year and make you glue it inside a wreath made by winding green yarn around a cardboard circle.

"That was a particularly rough look," I agreed, looking at a small me with her hair in Shirley Temple ringlets that only served to make my face look too round, my eyes too big, my baby fat double chin too obvious. Of course, the fact that I was wearing a white turtle neck under a gray sweater did not help the look.

"This one isn't much better," he said a moment later, hitting the motherland of all my old school ornaments, producing my first grade picture of me in a floral long-sleeved jumpsuit, my hair pulled into high double pigtails that—for God knows what reason—were then braided.

"And this is why I am very diligent about my dental hygiene," I told him, shaking my head at my toothless smile. "No teeth is not a good look for me. Please tell me you have at least one embarrassing childhood photo.

"I have one my parents snapped after I took a pair of scissors to my hair here," he told me, reaching up toward the scalp directly above his left eye. "Before they dragged me into the bathroom to shave the rest of it off."

"You probably managed to make hairlessness look cute."

"What can I say, I've just always been this devilishly handsome."

I had no problem imagining that as the case. Crosby was one of those guys who always looked perfectly put together. Of course, it was always easier for guys in general, but even freshly rolled out of bed, eyes still bleary from sleep, wrapped up in a giant bubble jacket, walking an impatient Lillybean to meet Lock and me for a walk, he looked like he belonged in a magazine.

He was probably one of those little boys whose parents always dressed him up in fancy sweaters instead of the silly animal-printed ones I always had on.

"You grew out of the awkward, Dea," he told me, misinterpreting my silence. "You have to know you're gorgeous."

As a whole, I tended to shake off compliments, disregard them. I was self-aware enough to know that it stemmed from a looks-conscious mother who thought the outside was the most important, who fished for compliments, who melted when she got them.

I didn't want to be like her. I didn't want my self-worth to come from others. And I didn't want to set my confidence on the shaky foundation of beauty I knew to be fleeting.

All that said, there was a distinct little wobble in my belly at his words, something unexpected, something I was sure stemmed from knowing that he first thought I was interesting and fun and a good person.

In fact, I had never heard him make a comment on my appearance before. Unless telling me I had spinach in my teeth or a leaf in my hair counted.

Which, well, it didn't.

That was the only explanation for the belly wobble.

"I, ah, thanks," I said, shuffling past him to grab another ornament, making a fuss about what was likely the least interesting one on the tree—just a simple key with the year I moved into my apartment on it—because I suddenly found the conversation a little awkward, a little uncomfortable almost.

"Hey now, this one isn't so bad," he said, producing another ornament from school, this time featuring my school picture of me with pin-straight hair and a red-and-white sweater.

"That was fifth grade. My mother woke me up at five a.m. to straighten my hair."

"I like your hair like this better," he told me, looking at me for what felt like a lingering moment before he turned to the tree to find a blank spot.

I don't know if I was over-analyzing the situation or what, but it felt like Crosby was being a lot more complimentary than usual. And while it was his nature to be someone to pick me up on a bad day—and I could see him viewing this cancelled Christmas thing as a bad day/week/month for me—it never seemed like he complimented me on my physical appearance often.