His eyes — his stupidly beautiful eyes that are straight out of a fashion magazine — narrow. “Yeah?”
I nod fervently, feeling like my head might pop off. “Totally. You made my night.”
Those eyes narrow further, and now he’s flicking them up and down my form.
Is he checking me out? Is he checking me for weapons? Honestly, it could be either. I feel like a dumbass.
But then I remember how we connected via text, how it all felt so right. The memory bolsters me.
We match, he and I. We go together. It was as unquestionable when my words were melding with his.
I cling to that truth. Maybe the man’s just not good with on-the-spot speaking. That would explain why he’s got reindeer as coworkers instead of humans.
“Well,” I say, bouncing on my toes, wishing I was texting instead of speaking, “I’ll catch you later.”
“Yeah,” he says for what feels like the millionth time. The guy’s really not good with in-person interaction.
And then I wink. Out of desperation. Because hell, he’s seen my naked body — via photograph at least — and because I can’t hold my weird self back.
He sees and — my belly swoops sickeningly — cringes.
The man actually cringes.
Great.
“Bye, Sexton!” I say too cheerfully, beating a hasty retreat. It’s a miracle I don’t lose my footing again.
Breathless, I whirl to face Tansy.
Her forehead is furrowed with skepticism. “Um, you sure that was the guy you were sexting last night?” she says, glancing over my shoulder at Sexton.
I refuse to look back at him. “Absolutely,” I say with more confidence than I feel. “I got his number out of the directory just like he said. Who else could it be?”
But privately I have to agree with my friend. This face-to-face interaction with the guy of my wet dreams feels nothing like our digital encounter last night.
How can a man seem so much more authentic over text than he does in person?
I let Tansy lead me to the photo shop, this question looming large in my mind. I wonder how long it will take for me to come up with a satisfactory answer.
Jasper
I don’t need a mirror to know that I light up like a Christmas tree when Bethany walks into the photo shop, but I don’t care.
Because it’s Bethany.
Last night she showed me more of herself, body, heart, and mind, than I ever could have hoped for.
I barely slept, imagining this moment, when we get to see each other face-to-face after sharing our hearts via text.
I intend to sweep her into my arms and feel the sweet body that she sent me a photo of feels against mine.
I expect it will feel amazing.
Fated.
Meant to be.
Bethany and Tansy trudge into the shop. The latter peels away to make sure her photo equipment is ready for the day. Bethany heads for the counter to see if she needs to set out any more photo order forms, pamphlets, and candy canes for our imminent visitors.
I join her at the counter, suddenly breathless. “Hey,” I say, grin flopping all over my face.
“Hey.” She reaches beneath the counter and pulls out a fresh stack of pamphlets without a glance in my direction.
I’m not deterred. Not after how we connected last night. “I loved getting to chat with you yesterday.”
Her blue eyes flick my way, forehead furrowed in confusion. “Um. Yeah.”
My heart starts fluttering with fear. None of this feels right. How is she barely offering more than one-word answers after how last night went?
“I’d love to talk again.” My eyes bore into her, willing her to meet them.
She does, but again it’s just a glance, and a perplexed one at that. “Okay, I guess.”
Bethany hesitates. For one tinseled moment, I think she’s going to turn to me, laughing, and snap out of her stupor.
When she speaks all my hopes come tumbling down.
“Thanks for the tip on the staff directory. That was really helpful.” Then she turns back to her work like I don’t matter. Like I don’t exist.
It’s New York City all over again.
But this time, it hurts more.
A lot more.
The only thing left for me to do is settle into Santa’s chair and pretend, for the sake of all the children about to come bursting through the door, that my heart isn’t hanging in tatters.
Somehow I endure the day.
Even though I want to flinch away from each person that perches on my lap.
Even though every child’s whispered Christmas wish grates in my ears.
Even though I can’t escape the sight of Bethany and the fact that, for all that we shared in writing, I’m invisible to her.
I slip out of the photo shop as soon as my shift ends, carefully keeping my eyes trained on my feet hitting the cobblestones. I don’t want to accidentally meet Bethany’s empty eyes and feel gutted all over again.
By the time I pull my car into the gym’s parking lot, I’m mad as hell.
It’s fine if Bethany’s not into me. But why talk like she did the night before only to all but ignore me in person?
I’m usually a good judge of character. I didn’t get the sense that she could be that cruel.
I guess I was wrong.
Prowling the weight room, I lift heavy until my muscles are screaming loud enough to distract me from the pain of Bethany’s rejection. Then I hop on the treadmill and run until my lungs are on fire and my shirt is soaked through with sweat.
By the time I’ve showered, I’ve cooled off literally and metaphorically — a little. I’m still hurt, still upset. But I’m thinking clearly enough to be curious.
I want to know why Bethany ran so damn hot and cold.
I need to know.
On my drive home, I decide — I’m going to find out. Or try to, anyway.
Back at my place, I throw some leftover pad thai down my gullet. Then I crack open a beer and, phone in hand, throw myself onto the living room couch.
And on Bethany’s mercy.
Like, hopefully.
Hey, Bethany, I type into the messages app, I’m sorry things were so weird today. Are you okay?
I’m not taking the blame. I’m sorry that the day played out like it did. But it seems like a diplomatic way to get the conversation going.
The three dots that indicate the recipient is typing appear at the bottom of the app. Forcing my heart to cool its metaphorical tits, I gulp down some beer.
Omg, comes Bethany’s reply, I’m so glad you thought things were weird too!!! I felt like I was going crazy. We seemed to connect so deeply last night, and then today . . .
Yeah, I hurry to text back. I totally agree. Should we try again?
I’d like nothing more, she returns.
A wild idea blossoms in my brain. A plan to woo Bethany, in person. To sweep her off her feet. To wine and dine her and do all those cliche romantic things that are only cliche because they’re so damn true.
And I want to do it anywhere but Santa’s Workshop.
I don’t know if this is too much, too soon.
But I can’t go through another day like today.
Because maybe Bethany just felt weird about getting romantic with a coworker. I’m sure that management isn’t fond of that kind of entanglement among staff.