“How’s the ranch, Lukey?” my older sister, Natalie, asks over the wild shouting of her kids in the background.
“It’s exhausting. I don’t know.” My ears perk at a loud crash, followed by Eira lovingly scolding her demon cat. With a small smile, I shake my head. “Lots of shit to get done, honestly. I should go.”
“Lucas, you’re not working on Christmas, are you?” Mom’s clearly taken aback.
“No, I just want to get back to myquietChristmas.” As if on cue, my one-year-old niece starts wailing.
“I hate knowing you’re alone,” my mom says at the same time Natalie calls me Scrooge.
My other sister, Ivy, cackles, and suddenly all three of my siblings are ganging up on me like we’re kids again. I love them, but nobody has ever been jealous of me when they find out I’m the only boy in this situation. Two older sisters, one younger. I got shit from all sides growing up.
It’s getting so out-of-hand, I’m considering hanging up when my dad chimes in—it's insane he’s even bothering to be in thesame room, instead of watching television in the basement—to tell them all to shut the fuck up. And a hush falls over everything.
“Seriously, Lucas.” Mom’s tone turns threatening. “Next year, I’m not leaving you a choice. You can’t keep doing Christmas all by yourself.”
Meanwhile, I have a beautiful woman wearing nothing but one of my T-shirts in my living room. If they knew, everyone would leave me the hell alone today. But they’d be down my throat tomorrow, and I can’t handle that.
“Anyway, I’m gonna go.” I hover the phone an inch from my face, waiting for the inevitable protesting from my mother, and silence from my sisters. At least they’re relatively honest about their desire for me to leave them to their gossip. “Love you all. Bye.”
I hang up before Mom has the chance to argue, then practically fucking skip downstairs to fully embrace Eira’s perfect, no-pants holiday.
Hours pass where neither one of us moves from the couch except for necessary bathroom and refreshment breaks. Mostly we talk about everything and nothing, and sometimes we simply exist in the same space without words. We fill our stomachs with cookies and squares and bars. Both of us are in my shirts, though the one she's wearing looks like a short dress.
When the sunset starts to weigh on the day, I push aside thoughts of Eira leaving in the morning—refusing to let that ruin our perfect evening. We’re illuminated by a small lamp next to the couch, and the twinkle of lights winding delicately through tree branches. They shimmer and change colours with a slow pulse, speckling her body in reds and greens.
“Oh, gosh.” Eira holds a flattened palm over her mouth, frantically trying to finish the bite of pastry in her mouth. “I almost forgot I have a present for you.”
Side-eyeing her with a healthy mix of curiosity and worry, I say, “A present? Anything you could’ve bought for me at the grocery store is something I don’t need, I can assure you.”
“Way to ruin the surprise. I thought you’d appreciate the novelty reindeer poop chocolates,” she shouts as she bounds up the stairs.
I toss a couple logs in the fire while she’s gone, shutting the cast iron door with a grating squeal that, unsurprisingly, makes Half-Pint hiss in my general direction. I hiss back at her, sticking my tongue out for extra emphasis.
“Did I just interrupt something?” Eira laughs from the doorway.
I hook a thumb toward the spawn of Satan curled up on a couch pillow Eira insisted I could afford to give up. “She started it.”
“Close your eyes.” Leaning against the door frame, she pops a hip with her hands tucked behind her back. Somehow even prettier than ever before with messy hair, no makeup, and my oversized Coors Banquet T-shirt.
“Yes, ma’am.” I do as I’m told.
From so close to me I can smell the lingering aroma of her body wash, she says, “Okay, open.”
And there I am. In the barn a couple days ago, shoeing an old bay mare—a retired barrel horse who loves working with little girls, in particular, because they constantly play with her mane.
I know it’s me and that Eira drew it, but it looks like it belongs on the wall of a massive art gallery.
“Eira, holy shit. I-I… I don’t even know what to…Wow.”
“I think it might be my favourite piece I’ve ever done.” She smiles down at it, pride radiating from her like sunlight.
“You should keep it then. Something for you to remember this week by.”
“No way. I made it specifically for you.” She delicately places it on my lap, both of us appreciating the fine details, right down to the hoof trimmings littering the cement floor and the sweat beading along my hairline. “Besides, I have…others.”
“This is by far the best gift ever, so thank you.” I reach out for her hand, wedging it in my calloused grip.
She smiles, slipping between my knees. “You’ve gotten a lot of shitty gifts then.”
