No, it's not.
***
"Hey, I'm home," Jack says softly, kneeling next to the bed where I've been in and out of sleep since I got home from Aaron's parents' house. "How was your Christmas?"
"Bad," I whimper, my face crumpling as the dam finally bursts, tears streaming down my face. "Really bad."
"I know," he says, climbing in next to me and pulling me into his arms. "And I'm so sorry."
He holds me until I've cried myself out completely, and for a long time after. Taking a deep breath, I finally sit up, running my hands down my face to clear the tears before wiping my nose on my sleeve.
"Ugh, sorry, that's gross," I say, my voice full of disgust.
"You're the farthest thing from gross, pretty girl," he says, handing me the tissue box from the side table.
I go into the bathroom, blowing my nose loudly then splashing my face with water from the sink. My reflection in the mirror is puffy and splotchy, but I feel much fresher. Jack is still in my bed when I get back, and I lay next to him on my side, looking up at his face.
"When I was younger, Dad would make a blanket fort every year on Christmas night, and we'd sleep under the Christmas tree lights," I say. "I never slept with a nightlight, even when I was really little. But for some reason the light from the tree never bothered me."
He doesn't say anything, just scoots down onto his side until we're eye-level.
"It was always my favorite night of the year," I add softly, pausing for a moment. "I don't know why I'm telling you that."
"I'm glad you did," he says, reaching up to brush the unruly curls out of my face. "I like learning things about you. Thank you for sharing that with me."
"I don't know if I've ever told anyone that before," I muse. "I can't remember if I ever even told Aaron."
He stares deeply into my eyes for a moment before abruptly getting out of bed.
"Come on," he says, yanking the covers off of us both and hoisting the quilt and duvet over his shoulder.
"Where are we going?" I ask, bewildered by the sudden determination in his actions.
"Come on," he repeats, marching from the room without another word.
I follow him to the living room, where he begins spreading out every blanket he can find on top of the couch bed.
"What are you doing?" I ask with a laugh.
"Well you're not sleeping on the floor at six months pregnant," he says, grunting with the effort of throwing the duvet on top of the mound of fabric. "So this will have to do."
"What on earth are you talking about?"
"We are having a sleepover," he declares. "Blanket fort and Christmas lights and all."
"Jack Robbit, you don't have to do that," I say, my heart close to bursting at the thoughtfulness of the gesture. "I didn't bring it up as a hint, I was just thinking about it."
"I want to," he says with a shrug. "It sounded nice, I want to experience it for myself."
He flops down onto his creation, beckoning me to join him. I crawl across the mattress until we're close enough to touch, burrowing under the top layer of blanket and pulling the covers up to my chin.
"I know it was a bad Christmas," he says quietly. "I wanted to try doing something to make it better, even just a little."
"Thank you," I whisper, lacing my fingers through his. "It's not so bad now."
"Merry Christmas, pretty girl," he says, leaning over to kiss my temple before settling into his pillow.
"Merry Christmas, Jacky boy," I say back, keeping my eyes on the sparkling lights until they're too heavy to keep open, falling into one of the most peaceful nights of sleep I've had in months.
