“And then.” I say it like it’s a complete sentence. No promises. We’re hitting pause, and whatever will be will be. I pull my hand free from his to hug him tightly. We kiss, and what starts as a quick pressing of lips turns into something that rivals our kisses from last night. He pulls away first, glancing at his watch with a pained expression. “Go,” I say, moving past him to open the door. “Have a safe journey and we’ll talk soon.”
“Soon,” he promises. And with one final lingering kiss, he’s gone.
I close and lock the door. Lean against it. Wait for the tears to fall. When they don’t, I return to my bed, crawling in and feeling an odd sense of relief when Fiddlesticks joins me. She curls up beside me and that’s when the tears come. They’re not sobs like they were before, just gentle tears that don’t seem to want to stop. I drift in and out of sleep.
I have no idea how much time passes when Celia enters the room. She makes a quiet, distressed sound in the back of her throat and climbs onto my bed. We stare at each other wordlessly and then she lies down, facing me with Fiddlesticks between us.
“It’s going to be okay,” she whispers.
I try to smile. I’m sure it, paired with my bed head and puffy eyes are enough to give Celia nightmares for weeks, but she’s here. She doesn’t flinch, she doesn’t look away, she doesn’t leave. It’s hard to believe it right now, but deep down, I know she’s right: it’s going to be okay.
*****
Other than that first morning, I don’t have much time to wallow.
Bridget calls just after noon and says she’s coming to get Celia, Fiddlesticks, and me in an hour and we’re going to start celebrating Christmas early and keep celebrating for the next several days. I relay this message to Celia, dubious about her reaction. She simply smiles and says she’ll go pack a bag. Cue the waterworks yet again.
Christmas is a huge affair in the Higgins household. I’ve come to look forward to it every year because I know there’ll be lots of delicious food, free-flowing alcohol, presents, and general merriment. When I met Bridget six years ago and was basically adopted by her family, I was amazed to learn what Christmascouldbe—decorations and lights and magic and movies and music and warmth and love. So much love.
Christmases with my parents were always a small, quiet event. We marked the passing of the day with a few gifts and a nice meal. It was nothing like what my friends said their holiday celebrations were, and certainly nothing like what I saw on TV. My final Christmas with them was the last Christmas I celebrated until I met Bridget. My aunt and uncle didn’t observe the holiday at all. It was just another day of the year for them. Since they made me get a job as soon as I legally could, I always saved a portion of my paycheck each year to buy myself something I’d been wanting, plus donate to my favorite local charities.
Because of all this, my first Christmas with the Higgins’ was almost overwhelming. Marla knew my dad was Chinese, so she had taken the time to make a few Chinese side dishes as well as the turkey and all the regular trimmings. They’d had presents for me, and even a stocking with my name embroidered on it to match theirs. I’d had to excuse myself to go cry in the bathroom because I couldn’t handle the tsunami of emotions that flooded me.
Bridget had eventually come to find me. She’d apologized profusely for making me uncomfortable, but I’d interrupted her and told her I was overwhelmed, but in the best way possible. I’d only told her the bare minimum about my aunt and uncle before that. Sitting together on the side of her bathtub, I’d explained how cold they were and how they didn’t believe in expressions of love or affection.
“It’s all just hitting me in an unexpected way,” I’d told her. “I’m realizing all the things I missed over the years. Not just Christmas, but what it was like to have a loving, supportive family.”
“Well, you’re part of our family now. An honorary Higgins,” Bridget had said. “You can count on us and know you’ll always be loved.”
That was the best gift I’d ever received. I’ve spent every Christmas since with Bridget’s family, even last year, the first Christmas after Mr. Higgins died. My aunt and uncle had moved back to China earlier in the year, and after spending a fortune to ship a few small gifts to them, my aunt had sent them back, asking why I’d wasted my money. We’ve only spoken twice since then: once when she told me I should invite Celia to live with me, and again a few weeks later to make sure I had done it. That’s it. I have no intention of initiating contact, and I doubt I’ll hear from her anytime soon. I’ll always be grateful she took me in, but she and my uncle are a part of my past now.
“You’re missing all the best Jude Law parts.”
I blink hard, coming out of what feels like a heavy brain fog. I’m sitting on Bridget’s couch, between her and Marla. Celia is lounging in an armchair off to the side. The room is dark except for the glow from the TV and the colored lights on the Christmas tree. I look at Bridget; Fiddlesticks is curled in her lap, sleeping. My best friend tilts her head and gives me a funny little smile.
“You okay? You love this movie, but you’ve been zoning out.”
A glance at the TV shows Jude Law and Cameron Diaz frolicking through the grounds of the fancy restaurant where they just ate lunch. I smile, remembering the dozens of times Bridget and I have watchedThe Holidayover the years. “Just thinking,” I whisper. I shift closer to her and lean my head on her shoulder. “I’m so glad I’m here.” Movement catches my eye and I follow it to Celia, who’s watching us with an expression I can’t read. “So gladwe’rehere,” I amend, just loud enough for her to hear.
She smiles, and we all turn our attention back to the TV.
Later, my phone beeps with a message as I’m crawling into bed beside Bridget.
Just got to my sister’s. Christmas morning festivities will commence in a few hours, and I’m off to attempt sleep until then. Will call you later today—or tomorrow for you. Thinking of you. Merry Christmas, Ivy. xxx
I fire back a quick message, telling him I’m glad he arrived safely, I’m thinking of him too, and I’ll talk to him tomorrow. I end with my own wish for a ‘Happy Christmas’ and send a string of Xs and Os.
“Hugh?” Bridget is halfway reclined with her arm stretched toward the bedside lamp. I nod and she clicks it off, plunging us into darkness. “Wanna snuggle?” she asks and I laugh. “I promise not to imagine you’re David if you don’t imagine I’m Hugh.”
“Your breasts are much bigger than Hugh’s,” I joke. I turn off my phone and set it on the nightstand, then nestle into Bridget’s side. I do and don’t want to talk about Hugh. I’m afraid it’ll open the floodgates again and I want to enjoy my holiday, not spend it weepy and wallowing.
Bridget must sense this because she’s quiet. Normally she’d ask a question or tell me she’s here if I want to talk. Instead, she whispers, “Merry Christmas, Ivy. We’re going to have a great few days.”
I sigh and curl further into the warmth of her body. Her softness and sweet floral scent are such a contrast to Hugh. Surprisingly, instead of making me miss him, it just makes me love her more. “Merry Christmas, Bridge.”
