My True Love Gave to Me: Twelve Holiday Stories(2)

“Thank you,” he said, taking it and slinging it around his neck. “That was a good catch—but I was actually trying to lure you out onto the dance floor.”

“That was a coffee table, Noel.”

“There was room for two, Margaret.”

Mags wrinkled her nose, considering. “I don’t think there was.”

“There’s always room for you with me, on every coffee table,” he said. “Because you are my best friend.”

“Pony is your best friend.”

Noel ran his fingers through his hair. It was sweaty and curly and fell past his ears. “Pony is also my best friend. And also Frankie. And Connor.”

“And your mom,” Mags said.

Noel turned his grin on her. “But especially you. It’s our anniversary. I can’t believe you wouldn’t dance with me on our anniversary.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said. (She knew exactly what he was talking about.) “It happened right there.” Noel pointed at the buffet table where Alicia’s mom always laid out snacks. “I was having an allergic reaction, and you saved my life. You stuck an epinephrine pen into my heart.”

“I ate some pesto,” Mags said.

“Heroically,” Noel agreed.

She sat up suddenly. “You didn’t eat any of the chicken salad tonight, did you? There were almonds.”

“Still saving my life,” he said.

“Did you?”

“No. But I had some fruit cocktail. I think there were strawberries in it—my mouth is all tingly.”

Mags squinted at him. “Are you okay?”

Noel looked okay. He looked flushed. And sweaty. He looked like his teeth were too wide for his mouth, and his mouth was too wide for his face.

“I’m fine,” he said. “I’ll tell you if my tongue gets puffy.”

“Keep your lewd allergic reactions to yourself,” she said.

Noel wiggled his eyebrows. “You should see what happens when I eat shellfish.”

Mags rolled her eyes and tried not to laugh. After a second, she looked over at him again. “Wait, what happens when you eat shellfish?”

He waved his hand in front of his chest, halfheartedly. “I get a rash.”

She frowned. “How are you still alive?”

“Through the efforts of everyday heroes like yourself.”

“Don’t eat the pink salad, either,” she said. “It’s shrimp.”

Noel flicked his red tie around her neck and smiled at her. Which was different than a grin. “Thanks.”

“Thank you,” she said, pulling the ends of the tie even and looking down at them. “It matches my sweater.” Mags was wearing a giant sweater dress, some sort of Scandinavian design with a million colors.

“Everything matches your sweater,” he said. “You look like a Christmas-themed Easter egg.”

“I feel like a really colorful Muppet,” she said. “One of the fuzzy ones.”

“I like it,” Noel said. “It’s a feast for the senses.”

She couldn’t tell if he was making fun of her, so she changed the subject. “Where did Pony go?”

“Over there.” Noel pointed across the room. “He wanted to get in position to be standing casually near Simini when midnight strikes.”

“So he can kiss her?”

“Indeed,” Noel said. “On the mouth, if all goes to plan.”

“That’s so gross,” Mags said, fiddling with the ends of Noel’s tie.

“Kissing?”

“No … kissing is fine.” She felt herself blushing. Fortunately she wasn’t as pale as Noel; it wouldn’t be painted all over her face and throat. “What’s gross is using New Year’s Eve as an excuse to kiss someone who might want not want to kiss you. Using it as a trick.”

“Maybe Simini does want to kiss Pony.”

“Or maybe it’ll be really awkward,” Mags said. “And she’ll do it anyway because she feels like she has to.”

“He’s not going to maul her,” Noel said. “He’ll do the eye contact thing.”

“What eye contact thing?”

Noel swung his head around and made eye contact with Mags. He raised his eyebrows hopefully; his eyes went all soft and possible. It was definitely a face that said, Hey. Is it okay if I kiss you?

“Oh,” Mags said. “That’s really good.”

Noel snapped out of it—and made a face that said, Well, duh. “Of course it’s good. I’ve kissed girls before.”

“Have you?” Mags asked. She knew that Noel talked to girls. But she’d never heard of him having a girlfriend. And she would have heard of it—she was one of Noel’s four to five best friends.

“Pfft,” he said. “Three girls. Eight different occasions. I think I know how to make eye contact.”

That was significantly more kissing than Mags had managed in her sixteen years.

She glanced over at Pony again. He was standing near the television, studying his phone. Simini was a few feet away, talking to her friends.

“Still,” Mags said, “it feels like cheating.”