He clears his throat and raises an eyebrow.
I grimace and give a tentative push with my toes. The mattress springs squeak, but nothing terrible happens. I stare at my socked feet and push a little harder this time, my heels coming off the slippery fabric, skidding a little. I bend my knees and try a bit more, glancing up warily, as though I’m in any danger of hitting the ceiling.
I’m not.
I inhale and tell myself I’m only going to do this once, just one big jump to show Crosbie that I can, even though by now I think he knows it.
I jump.
Nothing breaks.
I plant my feet and wait, fully expecting the mattress to come tumbling down or a neighbor to pound on the door, but it doesn’t happen. I jump again and the mattress squeaks, but everything holds firm. I jump again, and again, and again, and when I look up Crosbie is smiling as he watches, sexy and amused and somehow knowing.
I brace a hand against the wall as I stop, the mattress wobbly under my feet, my breath a little unsteady as I curl a finger in Crosbie’s direction. “Come on,” I say. “Your turn.”
“I’ve already had a turn.”
“I just want to see that you know how to have fun,” I say. “Isn’t that what you said to me?”
“Did I?”
“Mm hmm.”
“And what did you say?”
“I was like, ‘Okay, great idea.’”
He laughs. “I’ve already built this thing twice. I’m not building it a third time. Get down here.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so.” He bends to collect his jacket from the floor, and my stomach sinks. Oh.
But then he pulls out the flat red box from his coat pocket and turns to face me, exhaling carefully. “You know what else I realized?” he asks quietly.
I step down off the mattress but don’t cross the four feet that separate us. “What?”
“That we saw each other on Labor Day, Veteran’s Day, Halloween, Chrisgiving, and now New Year’s. But not Christmas.”
I stare at the box he must have retrieved from the kitchen. “I know.”
“I got you this. I put it under your pillow, but then…”
“I know.”
“I thought a lot about it recently. I mean, fuck, I thought a lot about it since we met. I was really worried that I was in love with someone who was in love with someone else.”
“I’m not in love with Kellan.”
“I know.”
“I—You do?”
“Yeah. A hundred and fourteen texts, remember?”
“That sounds like an awful lot. But if you don’t think it’s stalkerish or creepy, then okay.”
“You helped me study,” he says, trailing a finger around the edge of the box. “You gave me free snacks at the coffee shop. You pretended not to know about that Hustler in my pillowcase.”
“What’s Hustler?”
“You acted impressed by my magic tricks.”
“They are impressive.”
“And you helped me paint over that bathroom wall. Like the choices I made last year, the ones I regret, were okay. Because that’s what happens in college. You make mistakes. And you learn from them.”
I nod, hopeful and afraid of it.
“Some people streak down Main Street and get arrested,” Crosbie adds as an afterthought, “but those are the really messed up ones.”
“You were doing so well.”
He smiles and studies the box. “What time is it?”
I check my watch. “Eleven forty-nine.”
He sighs. “Do you want to wait eleven minutes for this so it’s really perfect timing?”
I shake my head fervently. “I don’t want to wait.”
He extends the box. “Merry Christmas, Nora.”
“Oh, what is this?”
He laughs, embarrassed, and steps on my toes, lightly. “Just open it.”
Of course I already know what it is, but still my breath catches when I lift the lid to see the dainty gold necklace inside, the tiny book charm, the careful etching on the front.
“Did you put it on?” Crosbie asks, hooking a finger under the chain and lifting it out. “When you found it?”
I shake my head, unable to speak as he fiddles to open the clasp, then carefully fastens it around my neck. The gold book dangles into the V-neck of my sweater, and we both glance down as he strokes his thumb over the letters carved on the front.
“What do you think?” he murmurs. “Did I choose right?”
I nod mutely.
“Did you?”
Finally the words do come. “There was never a choice,” I say, reaching up a hand to touch his face, the hair curled around the bottom of his ear, the tendon in his neck.
His smile widens and he dips his head to kiss me, but I push him back. “Hang on a second.”
He freezes. “Seriously?”
“Yeah.” I jog out of the room and retrieve his gift from where I’d stashed it behind a chair in the living room. When I come back he stares at the wrapped box, about the size of a board game, and slowly accepts it. It’s dented in one corner and there’s a tear in the paper and part of it’s wet.
“What’s this?”
“Your Christmas present. I hid it in your car before everything, but then…”
He studies me, then looks back at the box, curling his finger beneath the folded edge of the paper.