I haven’t (and won’t) be mentioning to anyone that fifteen minutes ago I passed a blood clot the size of a small country and contemplated naming myself Queen of the Cursed Land, because that would mean my mother would want to take me to the hospital for a transfusion, and that’s neither a happy birthday nor a merry Christmas Eve experience.
If I was a friend speaking, I’d yell at them and tell them to go to the hospital. Chronic illness makes hypocrites out of us,
Slowly, we make our way to the living room. A soft, unusual glow—different from the room’s normally harsh white lights—meets us as we approach the corner.
“Close your eyes,” Cole whispers.
I flash him a skeptic glance.
“I’ve had to show you I trust you; can you do the same?” he asks, even softer.
“How long do you plan on using that card?” I ask, lowering my lids.
“As long as you’ll let me. I might change it up and use my Prince of Blood one too, who knows.”
I go to elbow him in the side but miss, winging the air instead.
He giggles, hooking an arm through mine and guiding me around the corner into the living room.
“Okay, on the count of three, open your eyes.”
“On three? Or after three?”
“On the count of three means on three, right?”
“Well, I mean that could be one interpretation, but is it like one, two, open my eyes, or three, and then open, you see?”
“No. Not really.”
“You really gotta be clear about these things in figure skating you know, if you jump on the third rotation when it’s supposed to be after, you fall on your face. I feel like you must have something similar in hockey.”
“I mean we do, but?—”
“Oh, like the penalty box. Do you get let outattwo minutes or two minutes and one second?”
“I think just two minutes, but that doesn’t have to do with?—”
“You think? You’re the captain of the team, how could you just think?—”
“Okay, you insufferable beautiful woman, just open your eyes,” Cole demands, his voice tight with frustration.
“Yes, daddy,” I say, because pain killers, revelations, and a surprise are a terrible combination for any socially awkward person. Not to mention the guy standing next to me doesn’t just look incredibly sexy but also smells it too, and when I closed my eyes I swear my sense of smell was heightened way too much to handle any of this properly.
When I crack my eyes open the soft glow of twinkling lights strung across hanging blankets winks at me, their light cascading down like curtains on either side of a canopy of sheets. Under the canopy is the family blow-up mattress we keep on hand for guests but has been used many times for flare up days, too. Pillows adorn the top of the bed, angled in a way so we have prime viewing of the seventy-five-inch television my father had to have to watch the Patriots in their heyday but has been rather sadly used as of late. The movieBridget Jones’s Diary, my favorite Christmas movie, is paused on the screen, waiting to be played.
On top of the mattress is a blanket I don’t recognize, with a plate of the monstrous chocolate chip cookies that must be Cole’s creation and two cups of hot cocoa piped with a mountain of whipped cream.
My mouth waters looking at the plate, even though I just had pancakes with chocolate chips in them too.
I’m a walking stereotype when it comes to chocolate on my period. It’s fine. This is fine.
Water threatens to leak out of my eyelids. Which might be another stereotype I fall into. “You did this for me?” I whisper.
“Happy Birthday, Natalie.” He presses another kiss to my cheek.
“I think this earned you a kiss on the lips, if you want it.” I sniff back the tears, because no one, no friend, no boyfriend, no blood relation, has ever done something so thoughtful, so sweet, and I swear I have a new understanding about the Grinch now because my heart is definitely growing three sizes today, every inch growing directly in Cole’s waiting hand.
You love him.The thought is absurd so I brush it away.
