“In my mom’s defense, I told her I’d ask you last week, but time ran away from me.”
“I get it.” The more I scroll the more I see us there, in thoserooms—sleeping there, entertaining there, growing together there.
But then, I get scared for a whole new reason. At Penderton, we were in a bubble. Our relationship existed in a vacuum. As of today, we are citizens of the world. Yes, technically, I may still be a student come August, but I’ll be spending 85 percent of my time in a school classroom, not the lecture halls of Penderton. Whether we like it or not, an era of our lives is ending.
He places a hand on my thigh. “I think we should do it. While I apply for jobs, I think we should live together. You said you were feeling weird about the suite-style housing Penderton assigned you to with randoms.”
“I am.” The scariness of this step coils into anxiety. I wish we could stay as we are, right now. No differences. But, staring too hard at the water rippling around my feet in the pool, I suppose that’s not possible. Time marches forward. I need to pick up my knees and start moving, too.
“I think we should do it.” Patrick’s tone is convincing, and his palm is warm, nearly creating an impression where it sits on my knee like the permanent impression he’s already placed on my heart.
“But what about my housing deposit?” I ask.
“I’m sure they’ll refund you. We’ll figure it out.”
“I’ll be busy a lot with student teaching.”
“That’s fine by me. I’ll need to be focused on working on my portfolio and applying for jobs anyway.” He squeezes my leg. “Iwantus to do this.”
Hacking my way through the dark reservations that grow like weeds around me, I take Mrs. Hargrave’s advice. I choose to be agreeable and flexible. Even if it might upset Mom. Even if I’m not 100 percent certain it’s the right move for me. I’m 100 percent certain Patrick is the right man for me. And that’s enough. “Okay.”
“Okay?” His smile is so heartwarming that it quells my worry.
“Yeah. Okay.” I nod my head, pitching into him. My handsomeguy. My partner. This will be good. “It’ll be a brand-new adventure for us.”
“Okay!” he shouts, arms stretched to the sky. Leaning back, he grabs the half-drunk champagne bottle and swigs from it before offering it to me. “Now we have even more to celebrate! Let’s get drunk.”
I kiss him then say, “You don’t need to tell me twice.”
17THE MORNING AFTERQUINN
CHRISTMAS
Can you have a hangover from magic?
I shoot out of bed with a tension headache when I notice what time it is on the octagonal clock. That clock has followed me from my college dorm room to our first apartment and now to this house. This house that looks much dingier and shabbier since I saw the immaculate North Pole in all its storybook glory.
I did see the North Pole last night, didn’t I?
It couldn’t have all been some hyperrealistic dream.
Patrick is curled in the fetal position on the other side of the bed, snoring lightly and rhythmically like a white noise machine.
There are no hints of the portly, jolly man he was magicked into last night. No white whiskers sprouting out from his upper lip or enchanted cloak hanging in our doorless closet. (The door fell off in my hand when we moved in. It’s a whole thing.)
Instead of focusing on last night’s adventure, the repairs we may never get around to, or Patrick’s big admission about what went down at Carver & Associates, I set my mind on that uncooked ham hogging up the fridge.
It’s Christmas Day. At this point, it’s going to still be in the oven when the guests arrive, but my mother-in-law’s disappointment is a rickety rope bridge I can’t quite cross at this hour.
I throw on my robe and slippers and pad downstairs, feelinglike I did in college at the tail end of finals week, utterly drained. No amount of coffee in the world is going to be able to cure me of this or give me the amount of energy needed to prepare a Christmas-worthy feast.
When I enter the kitchen, I stop dead in my tracks.
“What in the love of Martha Stewart?” I ask myself. The kitchen has been transformed. Newly decorated, it’s almost unrecognizable.
It’s nothing like the luxuriousness of some of the kitchens we traipsed through last night while delivering gifts. The dated, faded wallpaper still needs replacing and that terrible oven still mocks me from across the room, but everything else is spotless and decked out to the nines.
The oval-shaped kitchen table has a red, patterned tablecloth draped across it with a runner down the middle and a decorative candle centerpiece. A sweet, vanilla bean fragrance floats on the air like someone was baking sugar cookies in here moments before I arrived. There are serving trays, bowls, and tongs set out on all the counters.
