She lands half-sprawled atop me, one knee between my legs—that was close—and her hands flattened against my chest. For a second I just stare at her, her pink-tinged nose scant inches from mine and her damp hair tumbling forward to graze my cheek.
“Ouch. Sorry,” she says, but she doesn’t move, and for a long moment I can’t bring myself to make her. My hands find her hips and just…rest there, our breath puffing in frozen clouds between our lips. Hers are lacquered in clear gloss. This close, she smells faintly of strawberries.
“Merry Christmas,” I say eventually, because it’s the first thing that pops into my mind.
“Christmukkah, this year,” she says, gesturing toward the massive menorah someone has erected opposite the Christmas tree.
“Right. Well, then, merry Christmukkah. Or happy Hanu-mas. Um.”
A faint shudder rolls through her body, and at last she pushes herself away, climbing unsteadily to her feet. It’s her turn to offer me a hand, but I wave it away; I’m not convinced my weight wouldn’t pull her off balance again and send us both crashing down. And this time, her knee might meet its painful target after all.
“Sorry,” she says again once we’re both upright, as I dust the fallen snow off my now-freezing ass.
“I’ll accept compensation in the form of donated practice room hours. Ten should do it.”
“Oh, you wish.” She holds out her hand, and she waits for me to take it.
It feels too easy, touching her like this. I should want to let go. I should skate away and leave her there for Cessy to deal with, since Cessy is the one who invited her.
But instead I wrap my hand around hers and gently tug her forward, and we skate side by side underneath the lights.
Six Days
Until Stockholm
14
Marigold
Ever since Jamie moved in here, the air between us has gone strange and electric. I’m hyperaware of his presence at all times. It’s like some part of me has become uniquely attuned to his particular resonance, a plucked violin string that shivers and thrums every time he looks at me.
When I wake up the next morning, I feel oddly hungover, even though I didn’t drink at all last night. I know it’s probably just that we were awake until late, but I still spend the first ten minutes curled up in bed with my phone, searchingmultiple sclerosis + fatigue, multiple sclerosis + tired morning, multiple sclerosis + exhausted, multiple sclerosis + hangover feeling.Eventually I fling my phone toward the foot of the bed and flop down against the pillow. I know logically what I’m doing. I’m scouring the Internet as though somewhere in the depths of my Google search results, I’ll find an article that saysYou, Marigold Gensler, will stop being able to play piano on X date.
Not everything is MS. I know that. My neurologist hastoldme that, more than once. But somehow it still feels like everything could be.
I finally drag myself out of bed and make myself get ready—which is a more involved process than it usually is. Normally I wouldn’t bother changing out of pajamas or putting on makeup in my own house. But Jamie’s here, and…well. Even if I didn’t have a raging crush on him, I’d want to look presentable.
He’s up already. He’s sitting at the kitchen counter, focused on his bowl of cereal and coffee mug; he doesn’t see me yet. It’s strange, getting this glimpse of him without his guard up. Jamie’s perfection always seemed effortless, before. But now the cracks are visible in the way his head tilts forward like it’s too heavy to hold upright, his spoon circling and circling his cereal bowl but never rising to his mouth.
The whole thing feels vulnerable. I wonder if this is how Jamie felt watching me the other night—like he had inserted himself into something intimate, a voyeur of my private life.
He notices me before I can decide whether to say something—announce my presence, so it doesn’t feel quite so much like I’ve been spying on him.
“Hey,” I say, because at least I can get the first word in.
“Hi. Morning. How did you sleep?”
Fucking terrible.“Great. What about you?”
“Fine.”
Cool. Back to small talk, I guess. I’m not sure why—or if—I expected anything different. He was probably more upset about the Phil thing than he let on. I wouldn’t blame him. It’d be very on-brand for us.
I get out the eggs and the milk, but it’s only when I’m dipping last night’s challah slices into the bowl that Jamie goes:
“Wait, you’re making French toast? Nobody told me French toast was an option.”
I arch my brows. “French toast was always an option. The bread and eggs were right there. You can help yourself.”
