The main room is still dark, lit only by the soft gray light of pre-dawn filtering through the windows. Outside, Montana stretches endless and white in every direction, a postcard of a life I never thought I’d get to live.
But I’m not looking at the view.
I’m looking at the tree.
It’s hardly five feet tall. Some kind of pine Bastian and Kai cut down while I watched from the porch with a mug of hot chocolate. We decorated it with whatever we had at hand, which wasn’t much. Pinecones, ribbons from a chocolate box. I cut out some crude paper snowflakes—sticking my tongue out at Kai when he mocked my spectacular creations.
This tree is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
And beneath it, wrapped in actual wrapping paper with actual bows, are presents.
Presents.
My throat closes up.
I sink onto the shag rug near the tree, pulling my knees to my chest, and just…stare.
This is stupid.I’mbeing stupid.
I’m not five years old anymore. I shouldn’t be sitting here in the dark getting emotional over some boxes wrapped in shiny paper, like a kid who still believes in Santa.
Especially since kids like meneverbelieved in Santa.
Our ‘Christmases’ were indistinguishable from any other day—except your dad’s either tweaking so hard he’s been awake for three days straight and keeps talking to people who aren’t there, or he’s crashing so hard he can’t get off the couch and screams at you if you breathe too loud.
I always wondered why other kids at school had new shoes and backpacks in January while I wore the same too-tight sneakers with holes in the toes.
I got used to it. I stopped expecting anything. I told myself holidays were just some capitalist bullshit designed to make poor people feel worse about being poor.
And then I fell in love with two broken men who look at me likeI’mthe present.
Coincidentally, one of them is rich as fuck and apparently takes gift-givingveryseriously.
Now, here I am. Christmas morning with wrapped gifts under a real pine tree in a cabin in Montana.
I can’t believe this is actually happening.
That I actually have people who love me, and theybought me things, and wrapped them, and put them under a tree we decorated together while drinking eggnog and laughing at Kai’s truly terrible attempt at carol singing.
“Merry fucking Christmas,” I whisper to the empty room, my voice cracking on the last word.
I swipe at my stinging eyes, and pull Bastian’s shirt tighter around my body. The fabric is soft, like he’s worn it in just right. It’s one of my favorite things to steal from him.
The floorboards creak behind me.
“Couldn’t sleep?”
I don’t turn around. “Didn’t want to.”
Kai appears, sleep-rumpled and squinting, his hair a disaster of dirty blond tangles. He’s wearing only his boxer briefs, because Kai’s internal thermostat is broken.
“S’too early,” he mumbles, flopping down beside me on the rug and drawing his knees up.
We stare at the tree for a bit, his hand finding mine, squeezing. “Want some coffee?”
I can’t speak, or I’ll start crying, so I just shake my head.
He gives me a sleepy frown. “Hey! What’s wrong, Heavenly?”
