Window Shopping

I cough into my fist because I suspect my voice is scratchier than a porcupine with psoriasis. “I already had my usual three and a half this morning.”

Stella blinks. “Impressive.” She hesitates to take a second bite. “I’m going to save the rest for when I have coffee—“ I’m already holding out my metal travel mug. After a beat, she takes it from me, steadying it in her lap. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” I sigh. “I have some news.”

The donut stops mid-air on its way to her mouth. “Uh-oh.”

“Yeah.” I push a set of fingers through my hair. “The board decided to be here for the unveiling. Found out late last night.” The sound of her gulp fills the backseat. “It doesn’t change anything, all right? I’m going to run interference as much as possible.”

Her gaze cuts over to me. “I don’t need you to do that, Aiden.”

“They can be unnecessarily cruel sometimes. It’s one thing to have it directed at me, but you?” Baked goods churn in my stomach. “No. I can’t have that.”

“And I don’t want special treatment,” she says softly. “Would you be acting as a buffer between any other window dresser and the harsher parts of their job?”

I close my eyes. “No.”

It’s impossible to describe what happens inside of me when I’m around Stella. It’s like someone is stripping wallpaper in my chest, replacing the sheetrock, nailing up new artwork.

“This is a trial run, right?” Across the console, she nudges me in the side with her elbow. “Let me go through the trial. I can handle it.”

“Are you sure? Keith could have us in Mexico by Monday.”

“Aiden,” she scoff-laughs. I like how easily my name comes to her. Even more than that, I love the way her eyes meander over me. Down my chest and stomach. The fly of my dress pants, briefly. She must think the black fringe of her lashes is hiding her check-out mission, but they’re definitely not. Does she think of me when she’s in the shower? Has she touched herself in bed remembering what it felt like to have her legs around my waist? “I like your bow tie this morning. Are those walruses with wreathes around their necks?”

“They sure are.” I reach up and pull the sides to tighten it. “Found this one at the Union Square Christmas market two Decembers ago. Only one of its kind. Unless the salesgirl was just pulling my leg.”

Stella rolls her lips inward, suppressing a smile I would have paid admission to see bloom to its full potential. “Something tells me she was being honest. I can’t imagine anyone but you walking around with a walrus bow tie.” A few seconds tick by. A few seconds where I can only think about leaning across the seat and licking the taste of marshmallow and chocolate from her mouth. “Do you have ties for every season? Or is it just Christmas?”

“Christmas only. The rest of the year is just a basic rotation of colors. Red, black, blue.”

“Christmas is special to you.”

“Yeah. It is.” Stella is always trying to focus our conversations on me. I’m torn between letting her—maybe she’s not comfortable enough to reveal things about herself yet—and changing the subject to her, instead of me. Maybe it’s my apprehension over Shirley and Bradley having access to this girl who I want to wrap in blankets and ferry to Mexico, but I’m feeling anxious to know more about Stella. Now. Before the window unveiling. Before anyone else has a chance to chip away at this moment with her. “Is Christmas special to you?”

She looks up quickly. Then forward. “I have good memories of it. That calm feeling of everyone being sealed into the house for a full day, nowhere to go because nothing is open. My parents were always working—constantly—I was a latch-key kid. But Christmas…it was the only day of the year where they didn’t take work calls. Or rush out to meetings. My mother usually burned a pie and Dad would sit on the floor of the living room and read whatever World War II book my mother bought him.” She stops to think. “Those memories are special.”

“Did you always have a tree?”

“Yes,” she says slowly, as if trying to recall. “Up until middle school, maybe. We stopped decorating so much as I got older. We were barely having meals at the same table anymore. I guess it didn’t make much sense to create an atmosphere for us to be together. We were all just doing our own thing.” Her expression turns wry. “I was doing my own thing. I need to take responsibility for that. The thought of being parted from my friends for even a day turned me into teenage Godzilla.”

“Fear of missing out.”

She nods, scratches at a spot on the knee of her right stocking. “I really could have done with some missing out. My parents tried to warn me that I was…slipping. Down this treacherous slope. But I didn’t listen.” A beat passes. “It’s weird. When you’re younger, you think you know everything. Then you get older and live in constant awareness of how little you actually know and understand.”