“You do?” My brows knit.
He lifts a small gift bag from the passenger seat and hands it to me. “It’s your Christmas present.”
I take it, running my fingers along the thin tissue paper poking out of the bag. “Why not wait until Solvang to give this to me?” Face scrunched, I tip my head up to him.
He rubs his nape. “I’m not coming.”
“But… You can’t miss Christmas?” My words come out rushed and strangled.
For the last four years, he’s joined us for the holidays. He’ll hide in the corner while my uncles and Dad argue about who gets to carve the turkey each Thanksgiving. He doesn’t fight my mom when she makes him help decorate cookies on Christmas Eve, even though he’s worse than me at frosting them. And he sneaks out of the house with Anker and I during our family’s Christmas Eve party to drink gingerbread hot chocolate from Mom’s nutcracker-shaped thermos as we stroll along Solvang’s main drag, taking in the Christmas lights.
It hurts to think about him not being there. To imagine him here, alone on Christmas. Unless….
“Did you decide to fly to Chicago to see your parents for Christmas?” My tone brightens at that idea.
“No… One of our doctors got the flu, so I’m staying back for coverage.”
“But you’ll miss Christmas.”
“You know Christmas happens everywhere. Even in Seal Beach,” he says wryly.
“Yeah, but you won’t be with me…” I clear my throat. “…I mean you won’t be with Anker and me. With us… We’ll miss you.”
“I’ll miss you too… I’m sorry,” he says softly.
“No…” I cringe. “I’m sorry. I’m being bratty. The hospital needs you, and knowing you, you’re doing this so that none of the other doctors sacrifice time with their families.”
He says nothing.
“Just as I thought.” Humor underscores my tut.
“Still sorry that I won’t be there,” he says.
“Me too, but I understand.” I offer a cheeky grin. “Hopefully, this gift makes up for it.”
“Hopefully.” His chuckle is warm. “Here. Let me take that so you can open it?” His hands swipe over mine, wrapped around my cane. His palm’s warmth makes it so easy for me to let go and give him the cane.
If only I could have done that last night. Just lean into my body’s normal reaction to Garrett, like a cozy sensation of sliding beneath blankets fresh out of the dryer. The warmth and fresh scent ensconcing you in safety.
“Thanks.” I release the cane to him.
As he folds my cane and places it at the base of the passenger seat, I dig into the bag and find a small envelope. Opening it, a large smile takes over my entire face. It’s a card, which isnormally difficult for me since I can’t read them without a video magnifier. This one, though, is braille. I run my fingertips across theMerry Christmasprinted in raised dots above a tactile shape of a Christmas tree on the front of the card. Inside is a personalized message that causes me to snort.
“May the season be bright and your butt be warm?”
“It felt fitting.” A boyish grin plays in his timbre. It’s sweet and endearing coming from this man who oozes virile confidence.
“This is adorable.”
“I found a woman online who makes tactile and braille items. She even has sweatshirts and tote bags. She worked with me to customize the card,” he says, almost bashful.
“This is so sweet,” I whisper, emotion thick in my throat.
I can’t think of the last time someone got me a braille card. Anker used to do those recorded audio message cards when we were teenagers but stopped as we got older. Braille cards aren’t readily available in the greeting card aisle, so it’s not unexpected not to get them. Most people just don’t give me cards, or if they do, they have to read it to me, or I take it home to look at it under my CCTV.
Slipping the card back into the bag, I pull out a pair of gloves. I run my fingers over their soft fabric.
“They’re running gloves,” he explains, taking my hand and running his finger along my palm. “From the now daily reminders to lotion my hands you’ve put on our shared calendar, I know how important hand maintenance is to you.”
