I nod, the twinge of hope from a moment ago snuffed out in an instant.
She turns her attention back to the toaster to watch the cinnamon raisin bread. We’re both silent for a long moment, staring at our reflections in the tiny glass door.
“Also, it doesn’t hurt that I’ve been harboring a bit of a crush on you since move-in day.”
A what?
I whip my head around to look at her. “Since move-in day? Move-in day, Mia?”
She grins and glances over at me, knowing exactly what’s coming.
“You literally broke the elevator on move-in day. I had to carry all my stuff up the stairs.”
“I didn’t break the elevator, Allie. It’s not my fault that thing is ancient! I held one button for a little bit too long, and the entire elevator shorted out,” she says, throwing her hands in the air. “How was I supposed to know that was going to happen?”
“There was a sign! Literally right above it.”
“In like eight-point font!”
“Oh my God, you are so annoying,” I say as I squeeze my eyes shut, rubbing them. “Why do I even like you?”
I freeze, the both of us realizing what I just said.
I slowly open my fingers to see Mia’s cool blue eyes, one of her eyebrows raised, that charming, infuriating, blood-boiling smirk plastered on her face. “You what?”
I pull my hands away. “Oh, don’t smirk at me, Mia. You think because I—”
She kisses me, her lips cutting me off midsentence. It’s quick, and sweet, and sends the entire room spinning, my legs and my arms turning into Jell-O as her hands find my waist.
We pull apart and she smiles at me, that dimple on her right cheek appearing.
“You know,” I say, reaching up to lightly touch her cheek. “I don’t think I’d want to be stuck in an apartment during a global pandemic with anyone else.”
If someone had told me a week ago I’d be saying that, I’d have called them crazy.
Mostly because there was a hidden truth that I had refused to ever acknowledge.
Behind every fight, and every sleepless night, and every marshmallow stolen out of my Lucky Charms box, there was something more. There was me wanting to talk to her, and me wanting to be around her, and me not really caring if she ate all the food on my half of the snack shelf, as long as she had something to eat.
And as long as I could annoy her about it after.
“Me neither,” Mia says.
The toaster dings, but she ignores it, pulling me closer. She kisses me again, that spark that used to fuel every argument we’ve ever had finding a new home, as the room around us disappears.
GRAY
In a world of Bing Crosbys, my perfect guy would probably be a Danny Kaye. Sweet-talking, talented dancer, gangly limbs and a smile that radiates pure sunshine. To me, Danny Kaye is the epitome of 1950s classic cinema charm. You can keep Bing’s smooth baritone and polish. I don’t want it.
However, I might be convinced to change my stance, if only for Rosemary Clooney’s dress in the “Love, You Didn’t Do Right by Me” number in White Christmas.
That’s how much I love that dress.
Gray: I’d give up Danny Kaye for that dress.
Jude: Whoa.
Jude: Bold words.
I giggle as I read his reply, turning up the volume on my laptop to fully appreciate Clooney’s song. Halfway through the scene, my A2NeighborGram tab flashes again, and I click on it.
Jude: Thankfully, you’re a genius with a needle, so you can have both!
I sigh, my cursor hovering over Jude’s avatar, a tiny black-and-white photo of Danny Kaye’s headshot that he put up as a joke after the first time we chatted. I’m pretty sure Jude and I are the only two people under age forty-five on this app, not to mention the only ones not paying a mortgage. It’s supposed to be used as a tool for communication around the various neighborhoods in Ann Arbor, Michigan. You know, lost dogs and lawn-mowing services and the like. But last week I put up an ad for face masks, and Jude happened to be scrolling for his uncle’s pandemic-ready, porch-to-porch delivery business, and we’ve been chatting ever since.
Gray: Contrary to what Hallmark would have you believe, Christmas movies aren’t real life. Danny Kaye wasn’t an immortal, and worldwide pandemics wait for no prom.
Jude: …
You see, I’ve been sewing ever since my grandma gave me her prized Singer and taught me how to hem my first Halloween costume. While some kids were actively auditioning for lead roles in children’s summer theater camp, I was the only one begging to apprentice in costume design. The Wizard of Oz, Les Misérables, Oklahoma!…I’ve seen it and done it. I rarely have time to make things for myself, and honestly, when would I wear one of my fancy creations?
Which is all to say, I’ve been planning my prom dress for years. From the moment I saw Rosemary Clooney step onstage in that black gown and shimmery gloves, I was head over heels. I couldn’t wait to have curves worthy of a gown like that. I practiced the scalloped neckline the entire summer before my senior year. I saved the money I made doing bridesmaid dress alterations for the expensive fabric.
But then Mr. COVID-19 came to town.
Jude: Are you sure you don’t want to save your dress?
Jude: My uncle has material. People have been donating scraps.
The truth is, I thought about saving my dress and maybe using it for a college formal or a wedding or something, but even still, it was so fancy. Too fancy for anything less than prom. I spent a solid four days pouting and raging and making my family as miserable as I was, until I got a call from my aunt Cam. She works as a special events coordinator in a nursing home, where they were out of face masks. The nurses and doctors were the front-line workers who needed the
