Dash And Lily's Book Of Dares: the sparkling prequel to Twelves Days of Dash and Lily

“No, this is Priya,” I said. “Priya, this is my friend Boomer.”

“I thought you were in Sweden,” Priya said. I couldn’t tell if she was irritated at me or irritated at the way one of her brothers was stretching out her sleeve.

“You were in Sweden?” Boomer asked.

“No,” I said. “The trip got called off at the last minute. Because of the political unrest.”

“In Sweden?” Priya seemed skeptical.

“Yeah—isn’t it strange how the Times isn’t covering it? Half the country’s on strike because of that thing the crown prince said about Pippi Longstocking. Which means no meatballs for Christmas, if you know what I mean.”

“That’s so sad!” Boomer said.

“Well, if you’re around,” Priya said, “I’m having people over the day after Christmas. Sofia will be there.”

“Sofia?”

“You know she’s back in town, right? For the holidays.”

I swear, it looked like Priya was enjoying this. Even her pipsqueak brothers seemed to be enjoying this.

“Of course I knew,” I lied. “I just—well, I thought I was going to be in Sweden. You know how it is.”

“It starts at six. Feel free to bring your friend here.” The brothers started to tug on her again. “I’ll see you then, I hope.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Sure. Sofia.”

I hadn’t meant to say that last word aloud. I wasn’t even sure Priya heard it, she was whisked away so fast by the running tugs on her clothing.

“I liked Sofia,” Boomer said.

“Yeah,” I told him. “So did I.”

It seemed a little strange to have two run-ins with Priya while on my Lily chase—but I had to dismiss it as coincidence. I didn’t see how she or Sofia could possibly fit into what Lily was doing. Sure, it could be one big practical joke, but the thing about Sofia and her friends was that while they were always practical, they were never jokers.

Naturally, the next consideration was: Did I want Sofia for Christmas? Wrapped in a bow. Under the tree. Telling me how frickin’ great I was.

No. Not really.

I’d liked her, sure. We’d been a good couple, insofar as that our friends—well, her friends more than mine—had created this mold of what a couple should be, and we fit into it just fine. We were the fourth couple tacked onto the quadruple date. We were good board game partners. We could text each other to sleep at night. She’d only been in New York for three years, so I got to explain all kinds of pop cultural references to her, while she’d tell me stories about Spain. We’d made it to third base, but got stuck there. Like we knew the catcher would tag us out if we tried to head home.

I’d been relieved (a little) when she’d told me she had to move back to Spain. We’d pledged we’d keep in touch, and that had worked for about a month. Now I read the updates on her online profile and she read mine, and that’s what we were to each other.

I wanted to want something more than Sofia for Christmas.

And was that Lily? I couldn’t really tell. For sure, the last thing I was going to write to her was All I want for Christmas is you.

“What do I want for Christmas?” I asked Angelina Jolie. Her full lips didn’t part with an answer.

“What do I want for Christmas?” I asked Charlize Theron. I even added, “Hey, nice dress,” but she still didn’t reply. I leaned over her cleavage and asked, “Are they real?” She didn’t make a move to slap me.

Finally, I turned to Boomer.

“What do I want for Christmas?”

He looked thoughtful for a second, then said, “World peace?”

“Not helpful!”

“Well, what’s in your Amazonian hope chest?” Boomer asked.

“My WHAT?”

“You know, on Amazon. Your hope chest.”

“You mean my wish list?”

“Yeah, that.”

And just like that, I knew what I wanted. Something I had always wanted. But it was so unrealistic it hadn’t even made it to my wish list.

I needed a bench to sit down on, but the only one I could see already had Elizabeth Taylor, Hugh Jackman, and Clark Gable perched atop it, waiting for a bus.

“I just need a sec,” I told Boomer before I ducked behind Ozzy Osbourne and his whole family (circa 2003) to write in the Moleskine.

No smart-assness (assy-smartness?) here.

The truth?

What I want for Christmas is an OED. Unabridged.

Just in case you are not a word nerd like myself:

O = Oxford