He reaches under the tree and pulls out a lumpy, badly wrapped package. The paper is wrinkled, and there’s way too much tape. My heart blossoms.
“Is that—?” I start.
“Wrapping presents is not my spiritual gift,” he warns. “Judge the contents, not the packaging.”
He hands it to me, and I tear into it with entirely too much enthusiasm. Inside is a thick, soft hoodie, dark green, with the wordsPlant Whispererprinted in white across the front, and a little line drawing of a leafy pot.
I burst out laughing. “Oh my God.”
“So, the neighbors know what they’re dealing with,” he says. “Also, there’s a second part.”
He reaches again and pulls out a small pot with a tiny, determined-looking sprout in it.
“This is Fernie,” he says.
“Fernie?”
“It’s a fern,” he says. “I thought we could test the hoodie’s accuracy.”
My chest aches in the best possible way. I set the pot carefully on the coffee table and pull the hoodie over my head immediately, laughing when it swallows me.
“It’s perfect,” I say, voice muffled. “And so warm. I love him. And Fernie.”
“You haven’t even sung to him yet,” he says. “Give it time.”
I point at him. “You are absolutely naming the next plant. I’m not letting you have all the glory.”
He grins, then his expression shifts, a flicker of something more serious passing through.
“Okay,” he says. “My turn.”
My fingers suddenly feel clumsy as I reach under the tree for the wooden box. It’s small. Old. Smoothed from years of handling. I found it at the same thrift shop where I bought the compass, like the universe is running a clearance sale on metaphors.
“Before you say anything,” I say, suddenly nervous. “This is not a proposal.”
His brows shoot up. “Okay…”
“I mean,” I blurt, “I would say yes if you ever did, I’m just not…this isn’t…that, this is….”
“Mara.” His voice is gentle. “Breathe.”
I inhale sharply, cheeks burning. “Right. Yes. Breathing. Good plan.”
He smiles, patiently, and takes the box from me when I hold it out.
“What is it?” he asks.
“Open it,” I say, tucking my cold hands between my knees.
He lifts the lid. Inside, nestled on a little square of dark blue fabric, are the letters.
“Our letters,” he says softly.
Not all of them. Some are in a drawer, some in a safe place at the old apartment. But these, his first one, my first one, the one where he told me he’d be out by Christmas, the one where I told him I’d say yes if he came, these sit together.
“I thought they deserved a proper home,” I say quietly. “Somewhere we could keep them. Somewhere we could… add new ones if we want.”
He looks up at me. “We talk every day,” he says. “We live together.”
