I consider letting it go to voicemail.But Victoria Castellano is nothing if not persistent, and ignoring her only delays the inevitable.I answer, keeping my voice neutral.
“Mom.”
“Alexander.”Her tone is pleasant but pointed, the way it always is when she’s displeased.“Where are you?”
“Traveling.”
“Traveling.”She repeats the word like it’s a foreign concept.“Your assistant doesn’t know where you are.She says you’re ‘unavailable for the holidays.’What does that mean?”
I weave around a family taking photos in front of the massive Christmas tree in the town square.“It means I’m unavailable.”
“It’s Christmas, sweetheart.We should spend it together as a family.I thought you were in Hawaii, but when I called the resort?—”
“Stop looking for me.”The words come out sharper than I intended.I soften my tone.“I’m fine, Mom.I just needed some time away.”
A group of carolers has set up near the gazebo, their voices lifting in harmony as they sing “Silent Night.”The sound is pure and sweet, carrying across the square.
“Where are you?”My mother’s voice shifts, curious now.“Are those carolers?”
I don’t answer immediately, watching the carolers as they transition into “Deck the Halls.”Families gather around them, children bundled in bright coats, parents holding steaming cups from the nearby coffee cart.The scene is so picture-perfect it almost hurts.
“Mom, do you need something from me?”
“Christmas is for family, Alexander.”Her voice holds that particular note of disappointment she’s perfected over the years.“You should be here with us.”
The words settle over me, heavy and uncomfortable.Christmas is for family.Carol said almost the exact same thing the other morning, her eyes bright as she watched Bob and me hanging lights together.But when Carol said it, it felt genuine, like an invitation, not an obligation.
Why does it feel so different coming from my own mother?
“I’m spending Christmas with my girlfriend’s family,” I say, the words firm and final.“I’ll see you on New Year’s.”
“Girlfriend?What?Alexander, wait?—”
I end the call.
For a moment, I just stand there, staring at my phone.Then I say the word again, testing it out loud in the cold air.“Girlfriend.”My mood lifts immediately, a smile tugging at my lips despite myself.Girlfriend.I like how it sounds.I like how it feels when attached to Olivia.
When it comes to Olivia, I like it all.The way she fits against me when we sleep, her body curling into mine like she’s been doing it for years instead of days.The soft sound of her breathing in the darkness.The way her hair spreads across my chest in the morning, dark waves that smell like vanilla and cinnamon.
I’ve always considered myself a patient man, but with Olivia, it’s hard to keep my hands off her.It’s been three days, and I’ve tried to take things slow.But when she presses against me in her sleep, her legs tangled with mine, I want nothing more than to slide my hand between her legs, and?—
She’s started to let down her guard in bed.Her initial discomfort of sharing the bed with me is gone.I wonder if she’s realized she seeks me out when we’re in bed, even when she’s on the edge of drifting off.I’ve made sure to move carefully with her, pushing her in some aspects and holding back in others.It’s a gentle tug of war where I gently pull her towards me, and her feet slide in the mud as she moves closer.
I wonder if she’s catching on.She’s too smart not to, but then again, she might not want to acknowledge it.I can see it in the way she looks at me sometimes, like she’s trying to figure out if this is real or still part of the act.In the way she hesitates before pulling away when I touch her.In the small moments when she lets herself lean into me instead of maintaining distance.
That’s fine.It’s easier to sneak closer while she’s keeping her eyes shut.I’ve waited six years for her.What’s a few more weeks?
I pocket my phone and continue down Main Street, my destination clear in my mind.
The storefront for Evergreen & Co.Holiday Designs sits between a pottery shop and a bakery, its windows decorated with miniature Christmas trees and twinkling lights.A wreath made of silver bells hangs on the door, chiming softly as I push it open.
The interior is controlled chaos.
People rush between desks laden with fabric swatches, sketches, and what appears to be an entire forest’s worth of pine garland.Phones ring constantly.A woman in her twenties argues with someone on speakerphone about the difference between “champagne” and “gold” while simultaneously pinning ribbon samples to a board.Christmas music plays from somewhere; Bing Crosby crooning about a white Christmas.
I stop a young man carrying an armload of what look like table runners.“I have an appointment with Tessa Maddox.”
He nearly drops everything.His eyes go wide, his mouth falling open as he chokes out, “Today?”
