An Ex for Christmas (Love Unexpectedly 5)

“Told you.”

He picks up his own bowl and winds some of the pasta around his fork, taking a bite nearly as big as mine.

Rigby huffs in frustration at the lack of sharing, but neither of us pays him any attention as we stuff mouthfuls of pasta in our months. In the way of people who have been friends for a long-ass time (and who skipped lunch), we don’t talk until the bowls are empty.

I rub my stomach as I slump back on the couch, wineglass in hand. “And I wonder why I’m pudgy. Being friends with you is not exactly a recipe for a size four.”

He glances over at me, his expression moody. “How many times do I have to tell you—”

“No body talk, I know,” I say quickly. “Sorry.”

He looks back at the tree, sips his own wine. “It’s not about being a size four. It’s not about being a size anything.”

I look over, surprised. For as long as I’ve known him, Mark’s always refused to indulge any body image woes on my part. Sometimes I’ll get the “You’re not fat, and we’re not talking about it” line, but mostly he just glowers.

This is new.

“What’s it about?” I ask curiously. I genuinely want to know, since Mark’s not exactly a guy who has a type. He’s dated blondes, brunettes, redheads. Short, tall, skinny, curvy. Of all the guys I know, he seems to truly be more interested in a girl’s personality than her looks, and yet he’s also a guy. He’s got to have something that turns him on.

Instead of answering my question, he gestures toward the ornaments still in their packaging on the ground. “Shouldn’t you start with those?”

Got it. Conversation over.

“Yeah, probably,” I say with a sigh, rolling into a standing position. Despite the big, carb-heavy meal, I feel more energized than anything. For starters, Mariah Carey’s “All I Want for Christmas” has just started playing, and that’s kinda my jam.

That, and like for most people, the ornaments are my favorite part. The lights are kind of a pain in the ass, if I’m being honest.

I tear into my jumbo assortment of ornaments, as well as the little package of another brand, and begin placing them around the tree, taking breaks to peek at the picture of my dream tree on Pinterest.

“Isn’t that cheating?” Mark says, coming back into the living room.

I look up in surprise, not realizing he’d gone into the kitchen in the first place. “Tell me you didn’t cook and clean.”

He shrugs. “Beats watching you dance around the tree agonizing over the placement of each snowflake.”

“Admit it,” I say, hanging up one of the few remaining glittery aqua balls. “It’s pretty.”

“It’s pretty,” he says dutifully, sitting back on the couch.

Rigby hops up beside him, melting my sappy heart by putting his sweet face on Mark’s knee. Then my heart turns into even more of a puddle, because Mark’s big hand rests on the dog’s head, his fingers rubbing gently.

Lucky dog.

I wince. Stupid girl.

I turn my attention back to the tree, taking great care with the placement of the last few ornaments, not only because I want this tree to look amazing on Instagram but also because the sooner the tree’s done, the sooner Mark will head home, and I’m not quite ready for this Christmas-perfect night to be over.

Finally there are no more ornaments to hang, and with a sigh that’s half contentment, half sadness, I step back and take a picture. As requested, I’ve been snapping and sending pictures as I’ve gone along in the process, and this time I add a little “Done!” with a heart next to it.

The time difference between New York and Alaska means that Mom’s awake, and she replies right away. So gorgeous! Now you just need something for the top.

Surprised, I glance back at the tree. “How’d I forget that?”

“What?” Mark asks, not opening his eyes from where he’d fallen semi-asleep a few minutes ago.

“I forgot a tree topper!”

“A what?”