December Kisses || chaennie

Prologue

It was the first of December and it wasn't like decorations, lights and festive spirits spontaneously came about overnight. It took the preparation of holiday adverts on television and Secret Santa's organised two weeks in advanced. Like every year, something came to light in Jennie's eyes and that's how I found myself doing all that jolly stuff that I never got to do when I was younger.

I sat down in between two rather talkative people and attempted to shove my foot into these clunky and black ice skates. It didn't feel right on my foot. Glancing up slowly, I noticed my best friend already stood up, perfectly posed and looking at my shoelaces with a roll of her eyes.

My shoulders shrugged. "I want to feel comfortable when I die, okay?"

Ignoring the freaked out looks from either side of me, Jennie easily walked over and bent down. "Rosie, do you think I'd bring you somewhere where there was a possibility of your death?"

"Uh, yes."

"No." She tied up my shoelaces, quickly and efficiently and beckoned me over to the ice rink. "Not at Christmas time."

"Thank God for your festive spirit."

"There's a thing called free will. I believe it is me that you should thank. No?"

"Thank you, for the extension of my life. I'm quite grateful to be able to eat your stuffing."

Her eyes widened. "What?"

I stared, hard. "Christmas. Turkey. Stuffing. Yours?"

She looked away. "You're welcome."

Instead of taking the offered hand, I looped my arm in hers as she dragged us out onto the ice rink. Quite quickly, I released my grip and instead grabbed the bars at the side of the rink. Due to me refusing to wear the gloves she bought me, my hands grew instantly numb.

Like she hadn't noticed my scrambling toward the side, she darted off into the middle of the rink and twirled gracefully on one foot like an Olympic figure skater—like she had been doing it in secret for all these years and there I was, barely able to stand on the ice, never mind move or make a simple turn.

I was content enough to let my fingers fall off, standing at the side and switching my gaze between kids racing with Walrus helper, where the tail stuck up for where their hands could clasp and hold them steady and to where Jennie continued to do neat tricks.

Eventually, she skated toward me, holding both her hands out, expectantly. "We do this every year and you're still the same terrified sixteen-year-old."

I grabbed onto her hands and she skated backwards, pulling me into the middle. "In my defence, nineteen isn't far away from being sixteen."

"You're an adult," she said.

"Surprisingly, a pretty functional one."

"One who refused to wear the gloves I got you."

"Yes, because Peppa Pig illustrates how mature I am."

She looked down to her own, plain and black gloves, smirking. "It's not about its appearance, dear Rosie, it's the function. Grinning through something that may make you appear immature and reap the benefits of the warmth, is the highest of maturity."

I scoffed. "So, what? You're testing my ability to adult?"

She wore a small smile. "And if I am?"

I chewed on my inner cheek. "Well, what's my score right now?"

"Failing. Failing horribly."

"Sounds like a true reflection of my testing habits...over the years."

She slowly dragged one of my arms up in the air and somehow managed to twirl me around. Of course, when it came to simply stand in one spot and allowing another person to take control—essentially an easy part to play—I had to be me and screw it up. My boots clicked together and, so I tumbled. Tumbled right into the waiting arms, keeping me upright, barely, by holding onto my waist.

I ended up slouching and slowly, slid down her body until I sat quite safely and comfortably on the ground.

Jennie stared down at me, head tilted. "Are you telling me, that your incapability to skate comes from a habit of failure throughout your life? It all comes down to habit?"

I looked at the stolen glove in my hand and slipped it on. "Skating? Quite possibly." I wiggled my hand, grinning as she grabbed onto it. "But hey, I'm one hundred percent sure that I'm adulting at fifty percent right now."

She squeezed my hand. "The assessment was already marked."

"Oh."

"Sorry."

She didn't look sorry at all.