I wander through the kitchen, awestruck, and into the dining room, where never-before-seen tables stand with equally new Christmas-themed dining sets laid out in front of each non-wobbly chair. Beside every plate is shined golden cutlery and right above are priceless crystal glasses.
Our previously defunct fireplace is a roaring hearth that sends lapping waves of heat throughout the room. The rinky-dink Target tree I’d put up forlornly all by my lonesome has vanished. In its place stands a real, fragrant spruce so beautiful and impeccably decorated that it must’ve been stolen from the set of a Hallmark Christmas film. Either from relief or happiness, tears spring up into my eyes.
Taking it in, I sit down in the nearest chair and notice a tiny, folded card standing up on its own.
Dear Patrick and Quinn,
Merry Christmas! While you were out delivering gifts, we had our elves fly here and prepare your Christmas Day celebration. Consider all the decorations, foods, and fixes our gifts to you both for your heroic work.
Magically yours,
The Council of Priors
P.S. We look forward to hearing your response, either way, this evening.
I take a deep breath as my heartbeat slows to a steady rap.
“It was all real,” I whisper to myself.
I can’t tell if this is reassuring or breakdown-inducing.
On one hand, I don’t think Patrick and I have had fun like last night in a long time. We were laughing and chugging glasses of milk and feeding each other cookies like we were judges on the Food Network. Even the less-than-ideal parts—nearly getting bitten by that rottweiler and plentiful chimney-less houses—were solvable riddles on our ridiculous quest.
On the other hand, Patrick not telling me he got fired is still a high-flying red flag. We never used to keep things from each other, especially not something as important as losing your job. While I’m sure it was hard and I can only imagine how distraught he was, I wish he had confided in me and let me comfort him. Isn’t that what a husband is supposed to do? He didn’t even give me a chance to be there for him.
Despite it all, we have a massive choice to make. This trumps moving in together, getting married, and buying our house. This means leaving behind our lives, our families, for a full year, to what? Play dress-up and make toys at the Earth’s northernmost tip? Preposterous.
Only, it isn’t.
Last night, I could tell from Patrick’s questions to the Council of Priors that his interest was more than piqued by the offer. Hesounded genuinely excited by the prospect. I can’t tell if the gurgling in my stomach right now is from nerves, anxiety, or a lack of breakfast.
On that note, I make my way to the fridge. I shove aside the cooked green beans, the finished ham, and a dozen other dishes I would not have had the time to prepare myself. I grab a yogurt from the back, a spoon from a drawer, and read over the reheating instructions on a handy card left in perfect cursive by one of the elves.
A half hour later, I have to practically peel Patrick out of bed. I shower for longer than normal, relishing in the spray even if the water pressure leaves a lot to be desired. At the closet, I ponder over what to wear.
In college, I experimented a lot with my wardrobe.
Piece by piece, year by year, comment by comment, I disposed of those remnants of experimentation. Those remnants ofme,really.
It started with Mrs. Hargrave commenting on a pair of costume pearls I wore to Mr. Hargrave’s sixtieth-birthday party at a homey Italian restaurant in New Brunswick. I was coming out of the restroom when I overheard: “Does he need to be wearing those fake pearls? Uncle Luke and Aunt Aggie won’t shut up about them. This dinner is supposed to be about your father.”
“I’ll talk to him,” Patrick had said in the mollifying tone he often used with his mother. It was deeper than his normal speaking voice. I often wondered if he realized he was code-switching around his parents the way he sometimes did with Uber drivers or particularly bro-y bartenders.
That night, I wanted to say something. The heated bubbling inside my chest told me Ihadto say something.
Instead, I pivoted, unclasped the magnetic necklace, and dropped it in the trash in the bathroom before returning to the table.
Patrick gave me a funny look, his mouth full of spaghetti. After he swallowed, he asked, “What happened to your necklace?”
“It broke,” I lied. “How are the meatballs?”
We never spoke of it again.
Then, I became a teacher, which is essentially like putting yourself in front of the Fashion Police twenty-four seven, except nobody is an arbiter of taste, they’re all concerned about the dress code. About “the students.”
So even though my hands are reaching for the silky red blouse with the tie around the neck and the sheer, puffy sleeves that Veronica gifted me, I put on my family-approved Christmas outfit, which consists of a cable-knit sweater and constrictive slacks.
While I’m fixing myself in the mirror, there’s a knock at the front door. Downstairs, I don’t even need to look through the peephole to know who it is.
