“Hm.” When he stands, he leans on the counter right beside the oven, as though he wants to be close enough to keep checking on them. I duck my head, hiding another smile, stirring my icing. After a few seconds, he clears his throat. “The Dreyers said they have a big meal for Christmas Eve. A lunch.”
“Oh?” My smile dims, the thought of my family pointed at the mention of something like this—another family’s traditions, another family’s gathering.
“They said we’re welcome. If—you know. If we’re still here.”
I stop stirring, set the bowl aside. It’s the perfect texture right now, just like my grandmother’s, and I don’t want to overmix it. I look toward the window, where the snow is steadily falling. “I think we’re still going to be here.” I try to sound sanguine about it, but I can hear the disappointment in my voice.
“Kris, I really am sorry.”
“It’s not your fault. It’s the job, you know? Who knows, maybe we can make some progress.”
He looks down at his feet, shakes his head slightly. I’ve sucked all the silliness right out of the room, mentioning the job, and I didn’t mean to.
“Listen, of course I’m disappointed about my family. But this”—I wave a hand vaguely around the room—“it’s sort of nice, you know?”
He looks up at me, a question in his eyes. My this—it’s not the job. But I’m not sure how to make a start at telling him.
I smooth the front of my sweatshirt, notice some flour dust here and there, and I concentrate on brushing it off while I speak. “You know, every year, at Christmas, when we’re away from work for so long, I—I miss you, you know?”
He doesn’t say anything, for long enough that I finally have to look up at him. He stands still as a statue, his arms crossed over his chest. The posture is cold, but the way one of his hands grips the opposite elbow, the way his eyes are fixed on me, the way he’s pulled his bottom lip, scar-side, slightly in—all of it is warm, warm, warm.
“You miss me?” There’s something in his voice I haven’t really heard before. Half surprise, half wonder. Like looking under the tree on Christmas morning.
I lift my shoulders, let them fall. “I do.”
After another long pause, he speaks again, his voice low, tentative. “They said we could come over tonight, too. If we wanted.”
The air between us crackles, like that moment just before I asked for his kiss. But I’m not going down that road again, not without an invitation.
“I don’t mind staying in,” I tell him.
He nods, bends, and checks the cookies again. When he straightens, he fixes me with another warm look. “Good,” he says. “We’ve got movies to watch, anyway.”
Chapter Nine
JASPER
“Unbelievable!” I shout, waving a hand in the direction of my laptop. “He’s in a Santa suit, not a ski mask! How does she not recognize him?”
Kristen laughs, keeping her eyes on the screen while the aforementioned man wraps his arms around the short, plucky woman who has spent the last ninety minutes not making the extremely obvious connection between her quiet doctor neighbor and the Santa who’s been doing visits to the children’s hospital wing where she works as an events planner. “But let me guess,” Kristen says. “You’ve got no problem with Superman.”
I frown as the two people on-screen kiss—chaste, close-mouthed, and not for longer than four seconds. Over the course of several movies, I have learned that this is the only type of acceptable kiss, and embarrassingly, each time I see one, I think of how unchaste Kris and I had been about it on our first try.
“Superman’s different,” I grumble, shifting on the love seat.
“Here comes the big reveal.” We’re quiet as the man tugs down his beard and lowers his eyes, looking sheepish about his identity.
“Seems like a consent issue, if you ask me,” I say.
“You know, I think you like these movies.”
No, I think. I like watching these movies with you.
I like everything about this day with her. When I’d woken up this morning, it’d been barely five a.m., and Kristen and I had moved in the night—my back pressed against the arm of the love seat, ass to the edge of the cushions, feet still resting on the floor. Her curled beside me, feet tucked up and head resting on my chest. She sleeps so heavily, and she snores, too, which would probably mortify her to know. I’d watched the snow outside the window and thought: this.
This is what Christmas morning is supposed to feel like.
But soon enough I’d remembered it’s not what Christmas morning feels like to her, so I’d gently disentangled myself and gotten to work. The cookie recipe from her sister, the massive assist from the Dreyers, a cable password borrowed from Ben and Kit for the movies, and my own determination to get it right. Somewhere in the back of my mind the job is kicking around; I’d thought about it all through my snowy walk back and forth to the Dreyers’. But in the cottage, I set it aside. For Kristen. For her Christmas.
On-screen, what’s happening is what I’ve learned is the “low moment”—the couple is about to split. The lady who can’t recognize her neighbor’s eyes, cheeks, teeth, or voice is walking down what I’m pretty sure is the same Main Street set from the previous movie, a single tear tracking down her face. I’ve looked sadder than this after cutting my face shaving, so probably it’s only another few minutes before we get the promised happily ever after.
I sneak a peek over at Kris. She’s got both hands wrapped around a cup of hot chocolate, her brows furrowed in concern. She does this every time, even though it always works out, and for a few seconds I get lost in the expressions that pass over her face
