“Wouldn’t be Christmas without Gonzo narrating Dickens, I guess,” I conceded.
“Exactly.” Kelsey patted the cushion beside her. “Now get your ass over here before I start it without you.”
“Fine,” I said, dropping onto the couch beside her. “But if I hear one word about how Michael Caine was the only actor who took his Muppet role seriously, I’m putting onDie Hard.”
She curled into my side immediately, the same way she’d done for thousands of movie nights before. Head on my chest, arm draped across my stomach, legs tucked up beneath her. My arm went around her shoulders automatically, pulling her closer. Muscle memory. That, or maybe she’d just been made to fit there.
The opening credits rolled with Scrooge scowling his way through Victorian London as Muppets sang about what a prick he was. Kelsey nudged me when Rizzo and Gonzo showed up outside Scrooge’s counting house, doing their vaudeville routine. “This is your favorite part,” she murmured.
“My favorite part is when it’s over,” I lied.
She snorted, the sound vibrating through my chest. “You cried last time we watched it.”
“Did not.”
“Did too. When Tiny Tim died. I saw you.”
“Had something in my eye,” I muttered, but she was right. Something about that little puppet and his father’s grief always got me, especially after?—
I shut the thought down before it could take root. Not tonight.
My hand moved to her shoulder, fingers tracing absent circles. This had been my move since we were teenagers—the mindless touching that said I’m here without requiring words. She relaxed into it, her breaths evening out as the Ghost of Christmas Past appeared on screen in a beam of light.
“I love this part,” Kelsey whispered as the ghost took Scrooge back to see his younger self, before life had turned him hard and bitter. “When he remembers who he used to be.”
I studied Scrooge’s face—the wonder and pain of seeing his past self, of remembering the boy he’d been before everything went wrong. Maybe that was why Kelsey loved it. We’d both been different people once. Softer. Less broken. The kind of people who believed love was enough to fix anything.
Her hand had started moving under my shirt at some point, fingers tracing the line of hair on my stomach in lazy patterns that made it hard to focus on the movie. Not sexual, exactly. More like she needed to touch, to confirm I was solid and real beneath her palm.
I caught her hand, pressing it flat against my stomach, and she nuzzled against my chest. We stayed like that through the Ghost of Christmas Present—the spirit of generosity and abundance, showing Scrooge all the love and warmth he was missing by shutting himself away.
Then the third spirit appeared.
The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come—the silent, hooded figure that even the Muppets couldn’t make less ominous—pointing at a future Scrooge hadn’t chosen yet but was hurtling toward anyway.
On screen, Scrooge begged to know if these shadows were what would be, or what might be if he didn’t change his ways, and I couldn’t help but think about my own future.
What would my ghost show? More empty Christmases in this cabin, trying to pretend the half-decorated tree wasn’t a metaphor for my half-lived life? More nights buying Kelsey’s expensive shampoo just to breathe in the memory of her? More years of going through the motions while the best part of my life existed five hundred miles away, building a new future that didn’t include me?
Or worse—regret. The kind that ate you alive. The kind that came from having one last chance to say something real, to have the hard conversations, but choosing to stay silent. Letting her walk away again because I was too scared to admit I’d never stopped wanting her in every way that mattered.
Kelsey must have felt me tense because she shifted, turning to look up at me. “You okay?” she asked softly.
“Yeah.” The lie came automatically, but she saw through it.
On screen, Scrooge was promising to change, to honor Christmas in his heart and try to keep it all year round. But that was the thing about promises made in the dark—morning always came, reality always intruded, and most of us went back to being exactly who we were before.
Without a word, Kelsey moved, swinging one leg over to straddle my lap, the movie forgotten behind her.
“Hey,” she whispered, cupping my face between her palms. “Where’d you go?”
“Nowhere.” I gripped her hips, pulling her closer until there was no space between us. “Just thinking about what happens when?—”
She kissed me before I could finish, deep and desperate, like she could swallow the words before they poisoned the air between us.
When she pulled back, her lips were swollen, her breathing ragged.She kissed along my jaw, down to my throat, her teeth grazing a spot on my ear that made me groan.
“I’m gonna take care of you now,” she whispered against my skin. “Don’t think about tomorrow. Just be here with me tonight. Please.” The words came out in a rush, her cheeks darkening even in the firelight.
