Priya loops her arm through Raj’s like they’re old pals, but she throws a concerned look over her shoulder toward me, assessing how I’m taking the news.
“Sorry, what were you saying?” Theo asks as he sits back down across from me.
“Oh, um, I think we should do New Year’s on your roof again.”
“Bloody brilliant! Absolutely.”
Theo gets up and claps me on the back before adding, “You should probably slow down on the drinks, you don’t look so good.” I nod, and he leaves to make his way to Raj at the bar. Once he’s gone, I collapse my head onto my forearms on the table. Now I’ll have to watch Theo kiss Raj at midnight. Perfect.
eleven
Hannah
This year, December 1
David and I are on our way home from the Union Square farmers’ market, his tote bag weighed down with stalks of Brussels sprouts, a bouquet of rainbow carrots, a carton of mushrooms, and a loaf of fresh sourdough. My only add was a bag of Martin’s hard pretzels, which have become a minor addiction in the five months we’ve lived together and I’ve been accompanying him to the greenmarket on Saturday mornings.
He’s telling me about the Melissa Clark coq au vin recipe from the New York Times cooking section he wants to try tonight when he interrupts himself. “Should we get one?” He points to a stand selling Christmas trees on the sidewalk of West Broadway.
We stop to survey the rows of trees, each wrapped in netting, so the only discernible difference is their height. “Didn’t you say you’ve always wanted a real tree?” he asks.
My heart flutters at his thoughtfulness. The way he always remembers my small comments. I did say that. I specifically said I wanted a tree from one of these sidewalk stands that pop up in late November and fill street corners with a sweet pine scent. At Orchard Street, there was no room for a tree. Our living room was like a game of furniture Tetris as we wedged in more and more sidewalk finds over the years: a pair of end tables Priya stripped and repainted, a vintage trunk, a tripod floor lamp. We set up a miniature artificial tree on the coffee table and made ornaments from back issues of Priya’s Us Weekly subscription and tubes of glitter glue. Last year’s tree-topper was a red carpet photo of Meryl Streep cut into a star shape.
“Okay, let’s do it,” I tell David. Maybe this can be our new Christmas tradition, something just for us.
* * *
? ? ?
?Half an hour and four blocks later, I have misgivings about the tree as the pine needles stab my bare fingers like actual needles. “Can we stop for a second?” I ask between pants. “I need to adjust my grip.”
“Do you want to switch sides?” He’s bearing the brunt of the weight with the trunk, but I have the spiky top half, which is impossible to get a solid grasp on.
“Uh, not really,” I say. “Why? Do you?”
“I think we should just power through the last two blocks. Get it over with,” he suggests.
“Are you saying we should attempt to jog with this behemoth? Because I was half considering leaving it on the sidewalk. I know the book is called A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, but I think this tree could have a pretty nice life on the sidewalks of lower Manhattan, too. We live in a good school district,” I pant.
“I can admit it’s possible I was wrong to suggest we get the biggest tree,” David says, his shoulders slumping forward slightly and his tote bag sliding down his arm.
My gut twists with guilt. “No. You were totally right!” I rush to tell him. “This is going to look amazing. Just wait until we get some lights on it. This was a great idea, truly.” I hook my fingers into the netting, letting it cut off my circulation.
“I’m ready,” I announce. “One . . . two . . . three . . . go.” I take off in an awkward trot that makes us look like we stole the thing.
* * *
? ? ?
?By the time we stagger out of the elevator we’re both sweating, and the tree has lost at least twenty percent of its needles. “What if it has a bald spot?” David wonders aloud as we carry it down the hallway to our apartment, leaving a trail of pine droppings in our wake.
“We’ll have to love it anyway because there’s no way I can repeat this heroic act of strength. I’m sure Amazon sells tree toupees.” We smile at each other with punch-drunk grins.
“Maybe we can get a second tree, a younger girlfriend to complete his midlife crisis,” he says between laughs.
David goes to set up the stand while I head for the half bath to minister to the tiny cuts on my fingers. There are no bandages in the medicine cabinet, but I know David keeps some in his sock drawer, ready to use with his black dress shoes that give him blisters.
In the sock drawer, there aren’t any Band-Aids, but there is a black velvet box nestled among his neatly organized selection of socks, all paired with their mates.
My heart rate ticks up.
This might not be what you think it is, I tell myself.
Even as a fluttery, nervous feeling takes up in my stomach, I cling to the idea that the box is a pair of cuff links or a Christmas gift for his mother. Maybe a nice pendant necklace or a pair of earrings. Just please don’t be a ring. I don’t feel ready for it to be a ring. I realize from years of rom-coms and women’s magazines packed with recipes for “engagement chicken”—a roast chicken to make for your boyfriend in hopes of conjuring this exact moment—that this isn’t the correct reaction. But it does shed some light on why things got so heated on Thanksgiving. Maybe it wasn’t about Christmas at all. Maybe it was because David already bought a ring.
After a glance toward the door to make sure David is occupied—he’s squatting in the corner of the living room trying to get the tree into the stand by himself—I flip open the lid to the box.
Inside is a pointy oval-shaped diamond on a simple gold band. The only thing I can think to compare the shape to is a vagina.
What the fuck?
For a second, my nervousness is replaced with sheer confusion. I’ve never been the type to fantasize about my dream engagement ring, but I’m positive this isn’t it. What about this ring reminds David of me? If I wasn’t sure David isn’t the cheating type, I might think the ring was meant for someone else.
Suddenly, my breath grows quick and shallow. Doesn’t he know me at all? How could he think this is the ring I’d want?
“Hannah? Can I get your help for a sec?” he yells from the living room. I clutch my chest as if he’d walked in on me wearing a wedding veil and waltzing with a photo of him. I pop the lid of the ring box closed and slam the drawer shut with my hip.