She loved the blush that moved over Sutton’s cheeks as she nudged her shoulder against Charlotte’s. They were sitting cuddled into each other on Sutton’s couch. The Christmas tree lights were on, casting the room in a dim but cozy glow. Sutton’s arm was draped over the back of the couch, de facto over Charlotte’s shoulders, with a blanket over both of them.
She wasn’t sure she’d ever felt more relaxed in her life, to be perfectly honest.
“This is a Spencer family favorite,” Sutton answered as she turned to look back at the television. “Every year, we would decorate the tree together, all of us. My mom wouldn’t let it happen until everyone was available. And on Christmas Eve, we would watch this, along with some other holiday movies, make our cookies, and sit in the living room with the tree lights on.”
“It sounds really lovely. To do those things with Lucy now,” she whispered back.
Sutton nodded, looking back at Charlotte with warm eyes. “It is. It really is.”
“Every Christmas that I can remember, I spent alone.” The words spilled from somewhere deep inside of her, unbidden. Maybe it was because of how comfortable she felt. How warm and safe and cozy, with Sutton pressed up against her side.
Sutton registered what she’d said, her eyes wide and confused. “EveryChristmas? Where were your parents? Brothers? Grandmother?”
Charlotte held her gaze for a few long moments, nearly falling into them, before she cleared her throat and shook her head, wanting to fidget her hands against the blanket but stopping herself. “Well, I wasn’ttrulyalone, I suppose. I always had a nanny and a maid in the house. But my parents liked to vacation—as a couple—during the holidays. And with William and Caleb both older than I am, as soon as they became teenagers, they didn’t like to be home for holiday breaks. They usually had other things to do. Invitations to ski with classmates in Aspen or go on a cruise with friends. My grandmother was always very busy.”
Charlotte could feel this kernel of discomfort unravel inside of her, at sharing these details, talking about these things thatdid not matter, or so she’d told herself for a very long time. It… it embarrassed her, being this vulnerable.
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt this way, if ever.
“It wasn’t a huge deal,” she pushed out, trying to work through that awful, squirmy feeling in her stomach. “It might have been different when I was very little, younger than five or six.” She didn’t have many memories of those times.
“What did you do, then? On Christmas?” Sutton asked, and her voice was so soft and so coaxing, as was her hand, which landed on Charlotte’s thigh and rubbed gently.
All of it in combination made Charlottewantto push through that terrible feeling in her stomach. To share more. To give more and to give it to Sutton, where she knew it would be safe.
“When I was younger, I would open presents with my nanny at the time. My parents’ chef would make a large dinner that I would eat. By the time I was a teenager, I stopped doing anything ‘special.’ I’d just take the time to relax from school, then work. I started spending more time with my grandmother or doing internships on holiday breaks.”
Sutton’s expression was so sad and sympathetic, Charlotte felt like it was undoing something inside of her, something old and long kept locked up, and her throat felt thick with it.
She couldn’t look away even as she admitted, “And it was never like this.” She gestured around the room, at the gingerbread houses on the counter—Sutton’s, which was pristine and beautifully decorated, and Lucy’s, which was hardly even formed into an actual house, because Sutton had explained that she had wanted to build it all by herself; at the Christmas tree, with homemade ornaments and unevenly strewn decorations; at the wall where Sutton had hung all of Lucy’s holiday artwork.
“When I stopped ‘celebrating Christmas,’ it didn’t feel like a loss of anything special,” Charlotte explained through the strange tightness in her chest. “There were no family memories or traditions that I was forgoing. Even the decorations we had were professionally done. It was so… sterile,” she decided on.
She dropped her gaze into her own lap as she bit at her cheek. “Most of my life was, I suppose.”
God, what was happening inside of her?
Talking about this felt meaningless and meaningful all in one. It felt important but also made her feel ridiculous.
But it was only when she was with Sutton that she really thought about these things. The moments she’d never experienced throughout her life. The unwavering love and the warmth and cherished childhood memories that Sutton held dear and wanted to pass on to her daughter.
Charlotte had none of them. And no one to pass them onto, even if she did.
Sutton’s hand came to rest on top of hers, and she hadn’t realized until that moment that she was white-knuckling the blanket on her lap.
She forced herself to relax and speak normally through the tightness in her throat. “It’s all—it’s silly,” she said, forcing a laugh. “Poor little rich girl story, really. My family arenotbad people. I’ve never gone without anything.”
Sutton’s warm hand didn’t move. She gently took Charlotte’s hand between both of her own.
“It’s not silly,” she said, her voice low and earnest and beseeching. “I’m glad I have you here with me tonight. And not just for me,” she murmured, gently rubbing Charlotte’s hand.
It was exactly the comfort Charlotte needed to turn and look at her.
To find Sutton staring at her, eyes intense and honest and socaring, and Charlotte…
She just loved her.
She just loved Sutton Spencer with everything inside of her.
