“You get to smash stuff!” someone calls.
“Stress relief,” Sara adds knowingly.
Liz looks back at the voucher, then at the note in her hand again. Her throat bobs as she swallows.
“This is—” She stops, breathes. “This is perfect.”
Her gaze meets mine, and an emotion fills her eyes that I can’t quite interpret. Understanding? I hope it is. I want her to know that I get her. That I see her.
That she’s perfect.
The next few gifts pass in a blur until my name is called.
I step forward, acutely aware of her watching me now.
My gift is soft and medium-sized, wrapped in black paper with a silver bow that looks faintly sarcastic. But that might just be my imagination.
I rip the paper open to reveal black knitted fabric covered by snowflakes stitched in uneven lines. There’s a cartoon Santa crossed out in red embroidery. Across the chest, bold white letters spell, I HATE CHRISTMAS (EXCEPT THE DAYS OFF).
The room loses it.
I stare at the sweater for a long second, then laugh. A deep, spontaneous laugh, one that I haven’t emitted in a long time, pours out of me.
I look at Liz.
She’s biting her lip, clearly braced for judgment.
“This,” I say, holding it up, “is the most accurate thing anyone has ever given me.”
Her shoulders sag in relief. “You don’t hate it?”
“I love it,” I correct. “It’s honest.”
She smiles, slow and brightly. I hold her gaze and can’t stop looking at her.
Around us, the party surges back into motion. People drift toward the bar again. Someone suggests shots.
Liz and I don’t move.
We stand there, the noise fading into a distant hum. I walk toward her until I’m right in front of her. A strand of hair has come loose, caressing her cheek. I force myself to not tuck it behind her air like I desperately want to. “Thank you,” I say instead.
“I didn’t know if it was too much,” she says quietly.
“It’s perfect,” I reply.
Her fingers curl around the gift certificate to the Wreck Room, and she nods, eyes shining. “So is this.”
The moment stretches.
I’m aware of too many things at once. The scent of pine from the tree.
The warmth of her presence.
The way her gaze flicks briefly to my mouth and back up.
I clear my throat. “I should—” I gesture vaguely. “Do the rounds.”
She immediately takes a step back and nods. “Of course.”
