“This is absurd,” he finally says, rolling over. “If we try and politely not touch all night, one of us is going to fall off the bed.”
I laugh at the image. “Yeah, I’m not really saving your knee if you eventually hit the floor with it.”
“Is it okay if I—”
“Yes,” I breathe, and immediately relax into him, his arm coming around me and slotting my small frame into his.
It’s amazing how quickly I go from wide-awake tension to dreamy cocoon, his chin grazing the top of my head and my feet above his, totally ensconced in his warmth.
And before I fall asleep, I swear I hear him whisper, “Your laugh makes everything easier.”
I wake up to an empty bed and wish I didn’t feel so disappointed. If I had to become an “only one bed” cliché, shouldn’t I at least get the advantage of waking up unknowingly wrapped around the person I not-so-secretly like? If today is my last day fake-dating Cal, don’t I deserve a Christmas miracle of some kind?
I guess someone who celebrates Hanukkah should have expected as much.
I pad downstairs, self-conscious of showing up with my hair unkempt and having only Cal’s bar soap to wash my face.
But when I walk into the room, everyone turns and looks so happy to see me. It’s the polar opposite of what happens in my house. I’m lucky if anyone even notices I’m there. But in the Durand house, I’m the guest of honor. Judy fusses over me and tells me how adorable I look in her pajamas (I think she’s just happy to have another short person around). Charles hops up to grab me a coffee and a pastry from the kitchen. And Cal looks at me with so much affection I could burst. He’s looking at me like maybehegot to wake up unknowingly wrapped around the person he not-so-secretly-likes (but-refuses-to-give-himself-a-chance-to-be-happy-with). I can’t stop myself from sitting down on the couch next to him.
“I got you something,” he says, handing over a small wrapped box.
“Another one?” I chide.
“I know, but you had eight days to make me love Hanukkah, and I only have two nights and a day.”
“Technically there are twelve days of Christmas,” Judy says, unsubtly. Cal rolls his eyes and hands over the gift.
I open it and immediately start laughing. It’s an ornament, but clearly a Hanukkah one, painted blue with a menorah on it. The best part, though, is that it’s in the shape of a turtle shell.
“I can’t hang this in my house with Shellsseeing it!” I giggle. “Where did you even get this?”
“I went into the gift shop at the synagogue on Hasell Street,” he says, as though that’s a normal place for him to pop in, and my heart squeezes at the thought of him surrounded by menorahs and gossipy gift shop volunteer ladies. “Shells will be fine—it’s not arealshell. You can’t buy or sellturtle shells, I found out. But loggerhead sea turtles are the designated reptile of South Carolina, so they feature on a lot of local handicrafts.”
“How long did some old woman talk to you about Hanukkah ornaments and sea turtles?”
“At least twenty minutes,” he says, fighting to keep a straight face.
“‘Designated reptile’?”
“Twenty-eight states have them. And before you ask, yes, New York also does, and it isalsoa turtle.”
“She did not know that off the top of her head,” I say. It’s now impossible to stop myself from cracking up.
“She actually did, Miriam, because her friend Esther’s cousin Jeffrey Dinowitz is a Bronx assemblyman, and he involved elementary school students in choosing the common snapping turtle. He got it passed in 2006.”
I’m laughing so hard I can feel my eyes tearing up. “You know, eight nights of Hanukkah could not have given you a more Jewish experience than that conversation,” I sputter out.
“It was definitely up there with flying gelt.”
My laughter gives me an excuse to snuggle into him, letting myself get away with this one last day of pretending.
And it really is the perfect day. I guess I should’ve assumed with all its hype that Christmas would be fun. I watch as Cal and his parents open more presents, and I’m touched that Charles and Judy have a couple for me too. We watch a few Christmas movies on the couch. Everyone helps Judy with prep for Christmas dinner, and then we eat it at four in the afternoon for reasons no one could explain other than “tradition.” (Which, listen, as a Jewish person, all you have to do is say “tradition,” and we accept it.)
When Cal walks me out at the end of the night, we both linger as we watch each other, so much to say and yet no words to make it better.
“Thank you for making Christmas happy for me again,” he says. His eyes are on my messy hair, and I can see his hand practically itching to push it back. I’m disappointed he doesn’t.
“Thank you for making Hanukkah more fun than it’s ever been.”
