I also can’t wait to give David his gift. I splurged on a gift certificate for dinner at Blue Hill at Stone Barns just outside the city after we saw it on an episode of Chef’s Table, his favorite Netflix series. I still can’t believe I spent that much on a single meal. For the $350-per-person price tag (excluding tip), we could each have sixty-six Shack Burgers or eighty-eight perfectly greasy square slices of Prince Street Pizza, but I know how happy this experience will make David. Admittedly, I went overboard in hopes that it might smooth over my missing Christmas with his family. I even snuck out to his favorite bakery yesterday afternoon for croissants under the guise of needing to call Finn. At least we can still have a perfect Christmas morning.
I’ve only made it to page five when David emerges from our bedroom, stretching his arms overhead as he autopilots to the coffee maker. “Merry Christmas!” I say from the couch.
“Morning,” he mumbles back. He’s cute when he’s sleepy, like a grumpy toddler. David doesn’t fully become human until after his first cup of coffee.
I read two more pages while he busies himself making coffee. When he finishes, he traces his steps back to the bedroom, mug in hand. I glance over to the coffee machine and notice he only made enough for himself.
Shit. He’s really mad. Last night, we had another not-quite-fight. One that has become all too familiar. “So you’re really not coming tomorrow?” he asked as I got dressed to go to Theo’s.
“I don’t know what else you want me to say.” We’ve had this conversation once a week for the past month and I’ve been perfectly clear: I can’t come to Christmas. Not this year, not Finn’s last. But he’s remained willfully obtuse, asking me again and again like the answer might suddenly be different. “But please come to Theo’s tonight, everyone would love to see you. Or I can stay here and we can order takeout and watch Christmas movies if you’d rather.” Couldn’t he see that I really am trying?
“I’ll just be the odd man out,” he said. He didn’t seem mad, exactly, just resigned.
As excited as I am for today, a small part of me is also looking forward to tomorrow so David and I can put this argument behind us and go back to normal.
Now I follow David into the bedroom, where I find him in the attached bathroom lathering his face with shaving cream. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” He doesn’t look at me as he answers. He stays focused on the task at hand, picking up his razor and sweeping it down one cheek.
“I thought we could do presents and breakfast before you go,” I try again.
“I’m late.”
“Is the baby mine?” I ask, trying to joke him out of his sour mood. He doesn’t even crack a smile. I look over my shoulder at the digital clock on the nightstand next to the rumpled bed. “It’s only seven forty-five,” I tell him.
“My mom’s making brunch. They want to eat at ten.”
“Oh,” I say, careful to mask my disappointment. “Maybe we can do presents tonight when you’re back. We’re doing a lunch thing, so I shouldn’t be late. What time do you think you’ll be home?”
“I don’t know. I might stay over.”
This is the first I’m hearing about this plan. “Oh, I didn’t realize.”
“I need to clear my head,” he says, dragging the razor more roughly down his chin. A prickle of blood blooms where he nicks himself. “Damnit!”
“What’s got your head so unclear?” I venture.
“Us.”
“Us?” I feel sick to my stomach. “What about us?”
“I think we should talk when I’m not in a hurry.”
Alarm bells go off in my head. Nothing good has ever followed someone saying they need to talk. A talk means breaking up. But we can’t break up. We have a lease together, we have concert tickets to see Maggie Rogers in March and a trip to Charleston planned in May. But most importantly, I love him. I trust him. He makes me feel safe. I think about trading confidences with him in the dark, wrapped in his arms in our bed. Me telling him that I’m afraid I wouldn’t be a good mother, not without parents of my own for so long. Him telling me that he’s scared he’s wasting his life in a job he doesn’t even like, just because it pays well. I couldn’t bear to lose him. I told him about my parents, and even though the memories were small, it felt huge to me. I don’t talk about my parents with anyone, not even with Finn.
I feel my heart rate pick up. I know he’s upset I’m not coming to Christmas, but I didn’t think we were in breakup territory.
“Let’s talk now,” I urge.
“I told you, I’m late.”
“You can’t drop that bomb on me and leave.” He must realize this will ruin my day, maybe multiple days if he’s not planning to come home tonight. “Are you trying to break up with me?”
“I don’t know, Hannah. I just don’t know what kind of future we can have if you won’t commit to this. To us.”
“I am committed,” I argue. “We have a joint checking account for household expenses, we co-own a set of dishware, I shared stories with you about my parents, about my past. You’re everything to me. How is that not commitment?”
He puts his razor down, bracing his hands on the edge of the vanity and stares at my reflection in the mirror, his eyes filled with hurt. “Then why are we spending Christmas apart? Do you realize that when you refused to come to mine, you never even invited me to yours? Wouldn’t that have been the obvious compromise?”
His comment takes me by surprise. I’d been so wrapped up in the planning, and in my worries about our Thanksgiving fight, that I didn’t even realize he was waiting for an invitation this whole month. “I mean, ordinarily, sure. But this is the last year of our tradition—”
“Right. I can have you when there are no better offers?” He huffs out an exasperated breath. “Honestly, I’m not sure you need me or even want me now that you have Finn back.”
“That’s not true!” My voice edges on a yell. How could he possibly think that?
“Like I said, I think this is a longer discussion.” He reaches a hand into the shower and turns on the tap. “Can you close the door? I’m getting in the shower,” he says like I’m a stranger he doesn’t want to see him naked.
After I close the door behind me, I run breathlessly to his sock drawer. When I open it, the only thing inside is socks. With shaking hands, I rifle through them in case the ring box is hidden beneath them or pushed to the back of the drawer, but it’s not there.
I turn on my heel and head back to the living room. I snatch the creamy gray envelope containing the Blue Hill gift certificate off the couch cushion and stash it in my work tote. I knew things weren’t great between us, but I didn’t realize they were this bad. It feels like everyone I love is slipping away from me.
eighteen
Finn
This year, December 25
There’s a light knock at the door. “Finn?” Theo calls from the hallway, “Are you awake? It’s Christmas.”
“I’m awake,” I reply, my voice still froggy from disuse. I’ve been awake for hours, too keyed up to sleep. I wish there were auspicious words to say to make sure today turns out perfectly, the way you say rabbit, rabbit on the first of the month for luck. After two dud Christmases in a row, I feel like I’ve been waiting three times as long for this day to roll around on the calendar.
“Do you want coffee?” Theo asks from the hallway.
“Yes, please.”