“Read my lips instead: it’s Chrisgiving. Time to par-tay like it’s a fake holiday.”
I smile in spite of myself. My stomach’s been in knots for days. Last year at this time I’d been partying my face off, not bothering to crack a book, figuring I’d retained enough information from the few lectures I’d actually attended to earn a passing grade. I’d been wrong. But not nearly as wrong as I’d been a few months later, when I employed the same study strategy and came out with two failing grades to show for my non-efforts.
Crosbie kisses my cheek. “You okay?”
“Just nervous about exams.”
“You’re going to be fine. If I can pass, you can pass.”
“You don’t know that you passed.”
“There’s that supportive spirit I know and love.”
I laugh and take a sip of his wine. “Sorry.”
“No problem. It looks great in here. Who decorated?”
“Guess.”
“Mr. Chrisgiving?”
“Mm hmm.”
To be fair, it does look nice. A little over the top, maybe, but nice. We’ve got everything minus a Christmas tree, though Kellan drew one on the easel, strung lights and garland around the frame, and stuck presents underneath. There’s fake snow sprayed on the window, fairy lights line the perimeter of the entire apartment, and evergreen boughs hang along the television console. He’s added a leaf to the dining table so it’ll now seat six, we’d borrowed chairs from our neighbor so everyone can sit down without taking turns, and the white sheet is back to serve as a tablecloth, though the votive candles are thankfully absent.
Old Christmas carols play on a low volume, and with the scents of turkey and pine in the air, it really does feel like Chrisgiving.
“Are you looking forward to going home tomorrow?”
Crosbie shrugs. “Yeah. It’ll be nice to see my family. Not so nice not to see you until the New Year.”
“That’s what Skype is for.”
“I thought that’s what porn was for.”
I laugh and drink more wine. “Whatever works, pal.”
The doorbell rings and Marcela and I immediately lock eyes. “I’ll get it,” I announce, standing and hurrying down the stairs.
Despite her fur coat, Celestia is shivering on the front stoop. Nate’s not faring much better, clutching an umbrella overhead to protect them from the not-quite-rain but not-quite-snow that’s been spitting down all day, making the streets a slippery, treacherous mess.
“Come in, come in,” I urge, stepping back. “Welcome.”
Nate passes me a bottle of wine. “Burnham’s finest.”
“Thank you. Hi, Celestia.”
“Hi, Nora. It smells good in here.”
“It’s going to taste good in about ten minutes,” Kellan says from the top of the stairs, looking like a movie star. “Glad you guys could make it.”
Nate’s jaw twitches. “Glad to be here.”
“A triple date,” Kellan muses. “How rare.”
I make a face at him and he retreats as I lead Nate and Celestia to the living room. “Something to drink?” I offer. “There’s a bottle of white already open, or we could open this. And we’ve got beer.”
“What kind of white is it?” Celestia asks.
I draw a blank and turn around to read the bottle Marcela hands me. “Tell her it’s a no-fat, half-decaf nectar blend from the wilds of Papua New Guinea,” she whispers.
“Chardonnay,” I say instead, extending the bottle.
Celestia studies it and purses her lips. “Maybe I’ll just have Perrier.”
We all pause.
“We have tap water,” Kellan offers tentatively. “And ice?”
Marcela is glaring daggers at Nate, as though it’s his fault his girlfriend likes the finer things in life. Nate, in response, is glaring right back, seeing through the matching aprons for the charade this whole thing is.
“Maybe beer,” Celestia says. “Any type is fine.”
“I’ll have the same,” Nate adds.
I grab two bottles from the fridge and hand them over.
“Very festive,” Nate offers, nodding at the easel. “Your work, Nora?”
I choke a little on my wine. “Ah, no. Kellan drew it. And collected the branches.” I point at the greenery decorating the television console, desperate to draw attention away from the easel, despite the fact that it is quite literally lit up like a Christmas tree. Because beneath the drawing on the top page is the remaining page of the sex list. Kellan crossed out Red Corset like he’d done with the others, leaving only the remaining backpacker behind, but refuses to toss the list until her identity is officially confirmed.
“They’re pine boughs,” Kellan says, straddling one of the dining chairs and pointing at the console. “I like the scent.”
“It does smell great in here,” Celestia agrees.
Marcela pulls up a chair and crosses her legs, exposing miles of skin beneath her mini-skirt. “You said that already.”
“Did I?”
“Are those real gifts or did you just wrap up cereal boxes?” Crosbie asks, changing the subject and earning himself a very grateful hand squeeze.
“Fake,” Kellan says. “It’s too early to start shopping.”
“Christmas is a week away.”