The first Christmas after my mom moved us in with my now-stepdad and Jax, I was mad.
Every single cell in my little six-year-old body was protesting—I was upset that Mom wouldn’t let me play my Disney Holiday Sing-Along CD in case it gave her new husband a headache, scared in case Santa didn’t know that I had a new address and my presents wouldn’t get delivered, and angry that I wasn’t allowed to hang my old snowman stocking on the front door knob like I used to at our old house. This new house had a fancy fireplace with four matching, white, fluffy stockings adorning it.
My mom was abandoning me, my stepdad was ruining everything, and my new big brother was gross and stinky. I was convinced that it would be the worst Christmas ever. A disaster. Catastrophe. Travesty of the highest order (yes, I was a dramatic child, if you hadn’t already gleaned that).
But then, on Christmas morning, little eight-year-old Jax came running into my bedroom at 5am in his Sonic the Hedgehog pajamas with a huge, overstuffed stocking in each hand. Turned out that in his house—which was now my house, too—you didn’t have to wait for the grown-ups to wake up to open the presents in your stocking.
My eyes grew huge at this news, and the two of us ripped into our stockings with glee. Then, we lay in my bed and stuffed our faces with the chocolate Santas we’d opened. By the time the adults finally got up and we could go downstairs and open the presents under the tree, we were both high on refined sugar and festive cheer, giggling like crazy.
The day only got better: not only did I have a brother to open presents with, but there was also a bowl of Ferrero Rocher we could just help ourselves to. Plus, the really big TV in the basement was way better for watching our new DVDs than the small TV we had in our old house.
By the end of Christmas day, I crawled into bed happy and content, and with a new best friend in my stepbrother. Everything that had previously felt so wrong—so out of place and different, in a bad way—now felt like it had fallen perfectly into place. The right place.
This is what Christmas morning this year feels like.
“You sure you’re comfortable?” I put a hand on Seb’s shoulder. His big body is positioned in front of me, leaning against my legs on the sofa. He offered to sit on the floor when he saw that there weren’t enough seats in the living room for everyone. Thoughtful, as usual.
He reaches up and laces his fingers through mine, holding my hand in place. The simple sensation of his callused fingertips moving over mine draws shivers out of me.
“Definitely,” he says as he leans back to rest his head against my legs. His dark blond hair fans out over my tights, and I resist the urge to stroke the strands with my free hand.
Instead, I smile. We’re all gathered around the tree, sipping mimosas (well, Seb and I are drinking orange juice—neither of us has touched a drop of alcohol since the hangover from hell after our wedding), and waiting for Dot to distribute our gifts.
“And this one is for… Elizabeth,” Dot—clad in a very appropriate red fleece robe, a Santa hat, and elf slippers—says almost darkly as she checks the tag, handing over a robin-egg-blue Tiffany bag.
Diamonds for the black diamond skier protegé. How original (insert eyeroll here).
“Oh, Adam, you shouldn’t have,” Lizzie says in this breathy voice, fingering her sparkle-clad earlobes as she gazes upon the shimmering pendant necklace laying upon white tissue paper. “You got me these earrings last week.”
Adam smiles at her. It’s a nice smile. A smile I always liked. But it’s nothing like when Seb smiles, and his eyes go soft and crinkly, and his cheeks curl like parentheses around his mouth, bracketing the smile to show it off in all its glory.
“It’s Christmas,” Adam tells her. “It’s my job to spoil you.”
Seb’s fingers tighten on mine, and I squeeze back reassuringly. Gift-giving was one of the things I was most nervous about—seeing Adam and Elizabeth, happy and in love, as he showers her with tokens of his affection on Christmas morning. Just like he used to do with me. Not that gifts hold much importance to me—I value time and thoughtfulness over material things—but I was still not looking forward to it.
This morning, however, I find that I don’t give a flying fudge about what Adam or Elizabeth are doing. He could be composing sonnets to rival Shakespeare’s for her, and I wouldn’t bat an eye.
Why?
Because honestly, I’m enjoying my time with Seb way too much. The two of us spent all day yesterday baking cookies and gingerbread people in everyone’s likeness while we blasted Christmas music. Turns out that Sebastian Slater knows all the words to “All I Want for Christmas is You,” is an absolutely terrible baker, and is somehow an even worse cookie decorator. We eventually made an assembly line of cookies that we were able to decorate and arrange in boxes to store overnight.
Seb made me laugh, in particular, when he “accidentally” broke the foot off the Adam cookie and fed it to Dot’s scrappy little terrier, Porkchop.
“Skiing accident,” Seb told me gravely when I assessed the damage. “He may never walk again.”
I grabbed the cookie, bit off the other foot, and declared, “No, he will definitely never walk again.”
Seb laughed at this, and I inhaled the velvety sound, committing it to memory.
After we finished baking, we went for a walk into the village. The cabin is a couple of miles away from the little mountain town, and it’s a beautiful walk to get there, whether you take the residential side streets—the way I like to—or the snowy, twisty-turning, hiking trails through the forest—Jax’s preferred route.
In town, Seb and I went to a cozy little cafe, where we sat in front of a roaring fireplace, talking for hours about everything and nothing all at once.
It was amazing.
Once Elizabeth is done cooing over her new necklace, Dot harrumphs and shoves a large square package onto Adam’s lap. “This one is from me, for you and your fiancée.”
Adam takes the package, without thanking his grandma, and rips it open. He stares at the contents until all of us are staring at him, too. Waiting.
“Well?” Elizabeth demands. “What is it?”
Adam holds up a vintage-y wall sign—one of the ones you buy on Etsy or at craft markets with swirly letters that spell out inspirational quotes.
Only this particular sign says:
Live, Laugh, Love
Don’t be a dick
“Oh!” Elizabeth squeaks, looking scandalized in a Jane Austen sort of way that I must say really suits her.
“Mother!” Alicia exclaims. “That’s… entirely inappropriate.”
“Thought it would look good on your bathroom wall,” Dot declares with a sniff, ignoring her daughter-in-law and staring right at Adam. “Sometimes we need a reminder when we’re doing our business.”
I smush my lips together in an effort to keep the laughter that’s currently bubbling in my chest from pouring out. Seb’s shoulders begin to shake and he tightens his grip on my hand.
This might be my favorite Christmas morning ever.
I’m so relaxed and content watching everyone else swap gifts that I let my hand sneak into Seb’s hair, running my fingers through it while my mother gifts my stepdad with a new watch, and then opens his gift of a gingham apron. Savage.
Alicia gives us all socks and gift cards—she was even sweet enough to include Seb—and my mom gifts me multiple self-help books. Different than the ones Jax threw in the trash last month because these are themed along the lines of “How to Make Your Husband Stay” and “Don’t Screw Up Your Marriage.” Which she must have run into the village to grab for me yesterday, because she literally didn’t know I was married until I turned up here with Seb.
I thank her with a grimace, shoving away the thought that I will have to tell my mother at some point down the road that my marriage is over, and Seb has, indeed, not stayed.
I’ll just blame the stupid book for giving me bad advice.
Sebastian and I didn’t discuss gifts—because I certainly wasn’t expecting him to buy anything for anyone, including me—so I am both shocked and gratified when he produces VIP tickets to a Cyclones game for everyone, earning heartfelt thanks from Mr. Plumlee, my dad, and Jax, and a half-excited, half-awkward thanks from Adam. He’s clearly right where we want him to be: in a pickle over whether to love Seb, the athlete, or hate Seb, the guy his ex leveled up with.
When we’re finished with the pile of gifts, I untangle my hand from Seb’s and lean back to stretch, like a cat. Next on today’s agenda is a Christmas brunch featuring Adam’s handmade confections, which, if history is anything to go by, he will drone on and on about for the entirety of the meal.
“Wait,” Dot says as we’re standing to head to the dining room. “There’s one more.”
At the base of the tree lies a long, thin envelope tied with a gold ribbon. Dot squints at it, then says, “It’s for Madelyn.”
I frown around the circle. Jax and I don’t exchange gifts, and I already have my pile of trusty books for the trash later. Or a nice festive bonfire.
My gaze lands on Adam, who’s looking back at me keenly. A cold shiver runs through me. Oh no, is this something else designed to embarrass me? A consolation gift for being the ex-at-Christmas?
But Adam blinks down at the envelope like he’s never seen it before.
I take it from Dot, slide my thumb along the edge to ease it open… and a key falls out.
Trying not to react—because I still don’t trust Adam’s intentions right now—I pull out the folded piece of paper inside.
Read the page.
Read it again.
It’s the deed to a commercial kitchen space. Rented for the next twelve months to a company called Maddie’s Creations.
“I… don’t understand.” I look at Seb, because I have to look at Seb. It has to be Seb.
He’s studying me like I’m a textbook that he’s trying to decipher.
“So you can grow your business,” he says simply, a question mark in his eyes.
“I don’t have a business.”
“You do now.” He nods at me gently. “I got Roger to register it. There’s tons of space to make whatever you want and it’s set up so you can film in there, too. For your social media audience.”
I’m staring at my husband like he’s speaking in Klingon, my mouth wide open. I can’t say anything. I’m worried that if a single squeak comes out of me, the floodgates will open and I will bawl like a baby.
Because Seb, in a few short weeks, understands me better than Adam ever did. And instead of making a “look at me, I’m so flashy” move with jewelry, he went for something infinitely better: he read my heart’s desire and made it happen… without me having to say a single word to him.
He just knew.
“Mads?” Seb prompts, looking almost nervous.
I can’t speak—the lump in my throat is too big. So instead, I throw myself into his arms.
He catches me and pulls me to him, wrapping me into his chest and holding me there, safe and sound. One big hand winds around my waist, and the other strokes my hair while I hiccup and drool over him like a blubbering baby.
“Thank you,” I cry into his chest, any embarrassment at my display being drowned by gratitude.
His hand tightens on the back of my neck, holding me ever closer.
Somewhere in the far, far distance, Dot applauds. “Now, THEY would get a sign that says ‘Live, Laugh, Love.’”
