OF ALL THE things I missed about Christmas in Carlton, being awoken at the crack of dawn by two overgrown children jumping on my bed like it’s a trampoline is not one of them. The inflexible wood creaks beneath their vigorous bouncing, and they must momentarily forget that the weight of them accounts for about ten of me; I go flying in the air so high I’m surprised I don’t crack a hole in the ceiling.
I swear to God, sometimes it’s hard to believe Cass and James are fully grown adults and not Sofia’s age.
It’s still dark outside but we trudge downstairs anyway, only barely avoiding a broken neck as we jostle each other on the staircase, the three of us clad in rumpled matching pajamas. Eyes bleary, I head to the kitchen while the boys harass whatever poor souls are in the living room. Making a beeline for the coffee machine already working overtime, I’m halfway through my first cup when my brain finally kicks into gear and I realize that, despite the early hour, the Silvas are already here.
No force in the world could stifle the laugh that bursts out of me when I catch sight of the man slumped over the kitchen counter, smothering a yawn with one large hand.
Matching obnoxious pajamas are a long-standing tradition in the Morgan-Hanlon household. Every year, they’re more ridiculous than the previous, and this year is no exception. When they were first dished out, I wanted to punch whoever chose the bright red onesies covered in a slightly terrifying reindeer pattern and scratchy tinsel, floppy antlers attached to the hood to complete the look. Now, as my gaze runs over the giant body somehow stuffed into one, I’m wondering where to send a thank you note.
“Don’t say a fucking word, querida,” Nick warns in a delightfully husky morning voice, antlers wobbling as he drops his head, cradling it in his palms.
“Wasn’t gonna.” I think the simple act of standing here, sipping my coffee and smirking, will rile him up sufficiently.
God, how can a man be hot and adorable at the same time?
Nick groans. “This is what I get for bringing you breakfast? Mockery?”
That perks me up more than any coffee could. “Breakfast?”
It’s then that I spot the Tupperware sitting on the counter beside him; I was too distracted by the scarlet humanoid reindeer to notice it before. Sidling over, I snatch it up and crack the lid, practically drooling when the scent of cinnamon and brown sugar wafts out. Oh, the wondrous glory that is rabanada—like if French toast and churros had a baby. I wholeheartedly gorged on it the last time we were here, singing its praise at the top of my lungs, and it clearly didn’t escape Nick’s notice.
Quickly glancing around to check we’re alone, I let myself simper like a smitten fool, attempting a kiss that I should’ve known could never be chaste. Nick holds me in place by the nape of my neck, kissing me hard and just long enough to fluster me entirely. When we separate after an entirely too risky length of time, it’s his turn to smirk.
A little in the name of Christmas, and a lot because I’m weak, I let us linger on the edge for a moment, staying in his grasp when he cups my cheek sweetly, leaning into his touch. Nick’s expression softens as he leans in again, stealing another soft peck. “You feeling better today?”
I nod, and it’s surprisingly truthful. Sleep might’ve been riddled with flashes of what was once a nightmarish reality but when I woke up this morning, I wasn’t as rattled as I had been when I went to bed. I can’t pinpoint why, exactly, but I reckon it has a lot to do with the man who sat by my side for who knows how long last night, his mere presence lightening the weight of my thoughts and making them a little less suffocating.
Mischief glimmers in Nick’s eyes as he runs a thumb along my bottom lip. “If you need a little distracting, I know a great make-out spot by the park.”
I laugh, tempting fate for a third time, kissing him again because I can’t help myself. “Duly noted.”
“I think you might’ve actually killed me,” I groan, slumping in my chair and resting my hands on my decidedly round stomach. Death by Christmas dinner; what a way to go. Since our Thanksgiving was oh-so-very American, Lynn handed over the reins to Ana for this holiday dinner and Jesus Christ, did she deliver. The dining room table is—or was before we demolished everything—a sea of Brazilian delicacies, none of which I can adequately pronounce, all of which I devour with gusto. I think I’ve gone up two sizes in the space of a single dinner, and I do not give a shit.
From across the table, Ana grins, unsympathetic to my strife as she slides more pavê in my direction. I’m incapable of refusing it so I literally remove myself from the situation; when Lynn starts gathering dishes and toting them off to the kitchen, I stand and help, despite the slight physical exertion making my full stomach heave.
Balancing my plates, plural, in one hand, I reach for Nick’s with the other—he managed to snag the seat right beside me, and it was as welcome a distraction as it was unwelcome. His ankle has been hooked around mine since we sat down, and he untangles it with a disgruntled huff that only I hear. And only I feel his fingertips brush the inside of my wrist as I take his plate from him, only I know that the innocent smile on his face, as if he has no idea that the simple touch sends my heart racing, is entirely fake.
He knows.
Resisting the urge to accidentally spill leftovers in his lap, or to accidentally plop myself in his lap, I join Lynn in the kitchen, stacking the dirty dishes next to the sink. “Need help?”
Lynn snickers, jerking her head back toward the dining room. “Ask the boys. They’re the ones cleaning this all up.”
I cast a glance at the unsuspecting men still seated at the table, chatting merrily, and then at the enormous mess we’ve all managed to make. Godspeed, boys.
Hopping up on the counter, I try very hard to listen to what Lynn’s saying and to not think about what happened the last time I was in this position. Vaguely, I recognize a question about enjoying my dad, so I nod and smile. “Thanks for inviting us. I know Dad loves being here too.”
“No thanks necessary, sweetie,” Lynn sighs, propping a hand on her hip, “this is your home. You’re always welcome here, you should know that.”
Her words tug at the guilt permanently laced through my heart, extra strong after last night’s turn of events. After everything I put them through, their lack of resentment still shocks me.
“I-” My voice breaks and I pause to clear my throat. “I never apologized for leaving like I did. I should’ve left a note, and I should’ve called. I wish I had but-”
“Amelia,” Lynn cuts me off, at my side in a flash, a soothing hand rubbing the length of my arm. “You don’t have to apologize for that or explain. You were hurting.”
“We were all hurting,” I protest. “Cass was hurting and I left him.” In the worst, most selfish way possible.
An earnest, solemn shadow falls over Lynn’s face. “I’m not going to lie and say that he wasn’t a mess when you left because he was.” I visibly deflate, my chest damn near cracking in half, but Lynn continues, rubbing comforting circles across my back. “But he understood why. Honestly, sweetie, it wasn’t a total shock. You were miserable here.”
I was. I was so freaking miserable, I didn’t know what to do with myself.
“None of that matters, Amelia.” The words are spoken so fiercely, I doubt anyone would dare challenge them. “All that matters is you came back.”
Despite the somber tone of conversation, I can’t help but huff a weak laugh. “Technically, your son dragged me back.”
“That’s my boy.”
Nick’s being weird.
All day, he’s been his regular, flirty self, flitting around happily snapping pictures with an ancient-looking camera, but from the moment we gathered in the living room to hand out presents, something changed. I might’ve thought it was pre-gift giving anxiety if I hadn’t added a rule to our list; no presents. A quick, definitive decision fuelled by me being the world’s worst gift giver, my empty bank account, and because we’ve been crossing lines left, right, and center lately. I thought instilling a rare boundary would help keep my brain on the straight, narrow, and relationshipless.
My gaze sporadically strays toward him as the room slowly fills with wrapping paper and words of gratitude, a dejected feeling settling in my chest as he pointedly avoids eye contact. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he looks nervous.
It’s when the pile of gifts beneath the intricately decorated tree dwindles to a couple that the puzzle pieces begin to slot into place. Everyone else is busy unwrapping or messing around with their new belongings; I’m the only one who notices Ana nudging her son and casting a pointed look at the small bundle. That’s when I realize it’s not nerves I sense; it’s awkwardness. Nick’s mom got me a present and he feels weird about it.
I try not to be hurt by his reluctance as he scoops up what looks like a wrapped box. Handing it to me silently, he gingerly sits beside me, his leg bouncing rapidly and jostling mine. I resist the urge to frown at his odd behaviour, smiling at Ana instead. “You didn’t have to get me anything.” Thank God I got something for her.
Ana waves me off with a scoff, looking the complete opposite to her son as the sound of ripping paper again echoes off the walls. When I lift the lid off an unlabelled box, my breath catches in my throat.
A pair of dark green boxing gloves sit neatly inside, a roll of hand wrap the same color tucked beside them. Underneath them, a Brazilian cookbook peeks through. Sitting prettily on top is a colorful woven bracelet.
“The book is from me and Sofia made the bracelet,” Ana explains, and I suck my bottom lip into my mouth with a sharp breath. “The gloves were Nico’s idea.”
Casting the man in question a sideways glance, I swear golden skin is tinted pink, and his nonchalant shrug is definitely stiff. “Now you can stop stealing my shit.”
Would it be weird to burst into tears? Definitely.
Do I want to anyway? Definitely, and I hope it’s not obvious as I gush my thanks to the Silva matriarch. The moment Sofia steals her attention again, I shuffle closer to Nick, my voice little more than a whisper as I remind him, “We agreed on no presents.”
“Did we?” is his droll reply. “I’m a terrible listener.”
He’s aiming for humorous but that weird edge in his voice and his mannerisms is still prominent. Clearing his throat quietly, he shifts, and then something else lands on my lap. When he offers no explanation, I quirk a confused brow at Nick. “You already gave me a present.”
“I did.”
“So this is?”
Full lips twitch. “Another one.”
If we weren’t trying to be discreet, I’d throttle him.
Instead, I settle for quipping snarkily, “Next time you decide to ignore the rules, can you at least tell me? That way I don’t look like a bitch when I don’t get you anything.”
“I can think of plenty ways for you to make it up to me,” Nick replies in a suggestive, thankfully quiet voice but I still catch a hint of nervous, his legs still shakes when it nudges mine. “Shut up and open it.”
“Romantic,” I mutter beneath my breath, doing what he says, though, because who can resist presents?
I can’t tell which of us is more uncomfortable as I peel back the wrapping but Nick goes completely still as small paperback is revealed. “Everyman,” I read the title aloud. It’s an old book, clearly tattered and worn from use. When I flip through, I note a bunch of scribbles in the margins, a myriad of highlighted quotes. One in particular catches my eye; I will go with thee and be thy guide, in thy most need to go by thy side.
It takes me longer than it should to clock why those words sound so familiar; it should be easy to recognize a quote I sleep on top of every night, etched on the skin covering Nick’s ribcage.
“It was my dad’s favorite book,” he explains, a definite tremor muddying his words. “And mine.”
Maybe this can be your favorite too, are the words written on the title page, and in a rare occasion, I’m stunned into silence.
He got me a book.
An important book that clearly means a lot to him, if his behaviour is anything to go by.
Shit.
I want to cry again and I’m not sure if it’s because this is so fucking sweet and thoughtful and meaningful or if it’s because in the entire year I was with Dylan—I hate that my mind goes there but it does—nothing he gave me or did for me ever made me feel quite like this.
I don’t know what to say. A simple ‘thanks’ feels decidedly hollow. So, I don’t say anything.
Resting back against the sofa cushions, I draw my knees up to my chest and let them lean to the side, acting as a barrier so no one sees when I slip the hand not tightly gripping my new book between Nick and me. I poke his thigh until he gets the hint, tangling his fingers with mine. When I look up at him, I hope my gaze conveys how much his gift means to me. When he looks down at me, I wonder what the hell those indecipherable emotions swirling in liquid gold mean.
If either of us were capable of paying attention to anything except each other, we would’ve noticed Ana watching our entire exchange with a smile.
