“Okay,” I assure her. “I can do that.”
“Okay.” She steps away. I watch her collect herself, watch her shove something down and then re-energize, looking more like the confident Georgia I know. I’m not sure I’m afan of her coping mechanisms, but it’s not my place. “Okay. Let me just fix my makeup, and then let’s go.”
“No problem.”
She disappears into the bathroom, and I take a moment to shoot off a text to my immediate family members. Then I become a tornado of cleaning, throwing dishes and cooking utensils in her dishwasher and wiping down counters. I make organized piles of wrapping paper and tissue and put them on her coffee table, picking up the scissors and scotch tape. I grab her White Elephant gift.
I notice a photo on the mantle of her living room. It’s a selfie, of a younger Georgia, with who I assume to be her mother and father. They are all wearing identical grins.
“Aren’t they beautiful?” Georgia asks from behind me.
I smile, turning around and gathering her into my arms. “You really take after them.” I kiss the top of my forehead.
She gives me a small smile at that. “My mom was obsessed with wrapping presents. She would always make sure her gift wrap was on point.”
I hold up her White Elephant gift, a colorful explosion of red and green and gold and glitter and ribbon, so at odds with the neatly wrapped, monochromatic silver present I have in the trunk of the car. “I think she’d be proud of you, then.”
On the drive over, Georgia is fidgety and subdued. I hate it.
“Ask me a question. Make me tell you a story,” I command.
She smiles then, thinking. “Am I the first girl you’re bringing home to meet your family?”
Christ. Talk about unhealthy coping mechanisms. But upon further thought, I decide I can be honest with her. “Actually… yes. You are.”
“Really? Why?”
“I don’t…” I let out a breath. “I’ve never really had any serious relationships. Only casual things.”
“Why do you think that is?”
“What are you, my therapist, now?” I smile over at her.
She laughs. “You said to make you tell me a story.”
“Well… I think they’ve never really worked out because of my career. I have a grueling schedule, as you know. You do too. Early mornings and late nights. All without the impressive salary to make up for it.”
She nods. “Not to mention the sheer fucking exhaustion when you finally get home.”
“Right. No mental, physical, or emotional capacity to do much of anything.”
“Except fucking.”
I bark a laugh. “Except fucking.” I reach over the console to take her hand. “It is really nice though, Georgia, besides all the fucking, to have someone to come home to that I can just…bewith. Whether it’s companionable silence or funny comments or watching trashy television… I don’t know. It’s nice to come home and not be the one who has all the answers. You just…you get it.”
She squeezes my hand. “I get it.”
We drive up to my Tita’s house, beautiful in the way some suburban houses can be. The wraparound porch has a meticulously decorated Christmas tree in the corner, glowing with an array of ornaments. Lights wrap around the white columns; the porch railings adorned with garlands of pine and holly and red ribbon. Christmas lights drench both floors—strings of multicolored bulbs outline the roof and windows, while icicle lights dangle from the eaves.
“What are those?” Georgia asks, pointing to the star-shaped lanterns hanging in the windows, all flashing multicolored lights. “They’re beautiful.”
“Those areparols. They’re traditional Filipino ornaments for Christmas. They’re usually made with lapiz—a type of shell.”
“Cool.”
No one comes running out of the house to attack Georgia this time, thankfully. It seems as if my family read my text. Together we walk up the driveway, our warm breaths puffing in the cold air.
It’s still really,reallyloud, with the sound of laughter and yelling and singing audible from the driveway. I turn to Georgia, who is unnaturally quiet. “Do you want to have some sort of signal? If it gets to be too much? We can leave whenever you want, or take a break.”
