At dinner I finally understand what Cal meant the other day when he said he was being a version of himself in front of me and my family. Because I’m doing it too—I now see what it means to be the buffer who stands between someone and the family they just cannot be at ease with. His family is quiet, with an understandable undercurrent of sadness, but they don’t understandat allwhat he needs. They’re proverbially tiptoeing around him, hoping that politeness will get them through an evening filled with elephant-sized land mines. It’s so sweet and well meaning, and yet it’s stifling.
So I’m the most positive, entertaining version of myself I’ve ever been. I tell his parents about Nosh Sticks. I hype up the story about Cal and Ethan at Hanukkah on the Square to make it as dramatic as possible. I insist they open my gift—an olive oil from a small vineyard in Tuscany with a new filtration technique that I’m obsessed with and can go into a ton of detail about.
And I watch as my enthusiasm loosens all three of them up, jars that needed a bit of extra force to wiggle open.
After dessert, I get up to go, but we’re confronted with a small problem. The rain has turned into a Charleston-style torrent, and the street outside is already flooded.
“You can’t go home in that, dear,” Judy says when she peeks out the window. “It’s very sweet you’re both being so respectful when staying with your parents, but we’re all adults here, and you really should just stay over. You’d be comingfor Christmas morning anyway, so it’s a bit silly.” She pats my hand, her affection already so apparent. “We’re so glad you’re in Cal’s life.”
It’s the first time I’ve felt a twinge of regret for this entire charade. Maybe Ishould’vefelt it last week, but I couldn’t wish for never meeting Cal. But this part—these two people who lost a beloved daughter-in-law and had to watch their son suffer—maybe this I should’ve considered.
But I guess now apparently karma is coming for me—it’s going to put me alone in a room with a man I’m falling for who can’t bring himself to want anything from me.Great.
I look over at Cal, who seems equally stunned by this realization. “I can still walk you home if you’d rather—” he starts, but his mom cuts him off.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” She grabs my hand and starts leading me upstairs. I look back at Cal, who’s stone faced and of absolutely no help. “Do you want pajamas? I guess you can wear a T-shirt of Cal’s ... But maybe it’ll be nice for the morning—I have some extra Christmas pajamas, actually, so that’ll be cute.” She starts rifling through a drawer in her room, and I’m powerless to stop her.
Cal comes up behind me and whispers in my ear: “I really can walk you back if you need me to.”
But his mom finds what she’s looking for and beams as she hands over the pajamas. The contentment in her face is impossible to contradict.
“Thank you, Judy,” I say. “I appreciate it.”
I look over at Cal, who’s nodding, accepting our fate as reluctantly as I am. “Thanks, Mom,” he says. “Well, I guess we’ll go to bed then.”
I follow him across the hall and into a room that looks like it’s stuck in his college era, with prominently displayed football trophies and generic art his mom probably picked outtwenty years ago. Picture frames line his mantel, and my heart aches at seeing photos of teenage Cal with a beautiful young woman who must’ve eventually become his wife. Ofcourseit’s hard being back here when every inch of this house is filled with happy, youthful memories.
“I can sleep on the floor.”
I turn around and see Cal looking miserable in the doorway.
“I’m not letting you hurt your knee more,” I say. “It’s fine, we can share a bed. It’ll be ...” I glance over at the bed in question and realize it’s a full size. I look back over at Cal, whose eyebrows are raised.
“I’m small,” I squeak out. “I’ll be fine.”
Cal sits down on his bed, laughing. “I’m not. And I probably won’t be.”
I cover my face with my hands. “I was wondering if this was the karma we get for lying.”
“We’ve got two religions covered, might as well throw in a third.”
“No Christmas-related metaphors to help us out?”
“I think Santa mostly gives coal. There’s no Christmas carol about lying to your parents and ending up having to share a bed with a woman you like but shouldn’t date,” he says with a chuckle.
“There’s a joke in here somewhere about the naughty list, but they all feel in bad taste.”
He throws a pillow at my head, and I burst out laughing.
“I’m going to go put on my pajamas in the bathroom,” he says, standing up. “Because I’m agentleman.” He gives me a wink as he closes the door.
So much should’ve been awkward for us at so many moments this past week. But somehow we always seem toslide right past everything. We always seem to bring out the joy for each other.
I guess I’ll just have to appreciate it for the little Hanukkah/Christmas-crossover serendipity it was and let it be a memory that makes me smile.
I change and get into bed. He slides in a few minutes later and turns off the light.
He is comically large compared to the size of this bed. I’m on the edge, and we’restillgrazing each other, our breathing loud in the silence of the night.
