Page 68 of Minted

The bar for me on gift giving has gotten stupid high, and now it’s giving me anxiety.

To make matters worse, society has these expectations you have to think about. If you spend too much money, you’ve crossed a line. That means I need to find things people want, even if they don’t know they want them. Or I have to locate things they can’t find. But, it still needs to be something that will matter to them and show that I care. Add in that, for the first time in my life, I really, really like someone, and I’m basically a basketcase at the thought of finding her the perfect gift.

The first Christmas I spent with Seren and Dave, after they got married, I found out that Barbara liked books. Classic literature’s her favorite, though she reads enough that sometimes she even reads total junk, like horse shifter romance or even stranger, dragon shifter romance. I cannot, for the life of me, understand why a woman would want to date someone who could turn into an animal or creature, but that’s not the craziest thing I don’t understand about women, so. . .

It took me three weeks to find a first edition of Jane Eyre. It was worth it, though, because Barbara was delighted. Seren glared at me quite a lot for upstaging her—at least, until she opened her Miyabi knife set. I was actually a little worried that I’d outshone her and then armed her with very sharp cutlery, but her glee at getting the knives overpowered her irritation.

She went and carved up some figs for tarts instead of my face, so we were all happy. I know Barbara well enough to have some decent ideas, but one thing about which I know almost nothing: preteen girls. And I definitely don’t want to show up Barbara, so in my zeal to see Barbara over the holidays, I’ve found myself in a bit of a sticky situation.

I spend three days shopping, but I’m still not sure I’ve struck the right tone. Barbara canceled on me for the last two holiday parties on her calendar, and I’m trying not to read too much into that, but I may have lost some ground in the past week. She keeps blowing me off, and I want to give her space to be a mother, but I don’t want to back off so much that she forgets about me.

I need to come in clutch with the perfect gifts. I’m walking past store after store, agonizing a bit, when Oliver has had enough, apparently. We’re just outside of Tiffany’s when he stops, like a donkey pulling against its lead, jutting out his jaw.

“I’m going back to the office,” he says. “You know, that place where we used to actually do meaningful work? Before we spent all our time pining and shopping and pining more?”

“I have employees,” I say. “Even when I’m not there, stuff’s still getting done. You used to get mad at me for micromanaging.”

“This is going nowhere, though.” He sighs. “You’ve already spent a tremendous amount of money. Are you thinking there will be something in one of these places that just reaches out and grabs you. Buy me for Barbara?” He shakes his head in disgust. “Because that’s not going to happen.”

But as he’s ranting, I look over his shoulder, and I see a sign inside the store behind him. It’s huge. It’s lovely. And it says, “For the Love of your Lifetime.”

My lifetime. Not my life. My entire lifetime.

That’s it.

It’s like the sign is reminding me of something that I knew I wanted, but I wasn’t sure exactly how to get—I should buy Barbara an engagement ring. I don’t just want to give her something great that convinces her to date me. I’ve known her for fifteen years, for heaven’s sake.

I want to marry her.

If pop culture has taught me anything, it’s that if I like it, which I do, then I better put a whopping huge ring on it. Otherwise some idiot like James or that Davis guy will grab her before I can.

And I do like her. I love her.

“You can go back,” I say.

“No.” Oliver follows the line of my vision and then grabs my shoulder. “You’re not even dating, man. You cannot propose to her. You said it yourself—she’s spooky. You will scare her off.”

“I think I know her better than you do.” I yank myself free and walk toward Tiffany’s. “You’ve only met her twice.”

“A dozen times at least,” Oliver says, “but believe me. If you think this is the way to go, then I do know her better. She just got divorced.”

The entire store’s drowning in holiday lights, holly berries, snowmen, and fake-snow topped stuff. “No.” I’m absolutely positive. “This is it. I’m going to buy the very nicest ring in this store, and she’s going to say yes, and by New Years, I’ll be engaged.” I’m beaming even wider than the stupid clerk who’s probably getting a BMW downpayment as his commission as I buy a beautiful, cushion-cut solitaire, with a delicately braided band that looks like an actual work of art. “The stone’s flawless, right?”

The cashier nods.

“Because this girl is flawless. The stone has to match.”

And when I walk out, ignoring Oliver’s stupid histrionics the entire way, I’m finally ready for Christmas Eve. The caterers and the decorator leave about an hour before the girls are set to arrive—Lucky has been beside herself, so it’s good she’ll have a bit to recover. I take her for a walk outside—no snow. No snowmen for the girls, but that’s out of my control.

“Alright, girl.” Once we get back inside, I sit down and let Lucky practically lick my face off. “Get all that manic energy out, because when they get here, I can’t have you mauling our guests. Tonight has to go perfectly, or—”

The doorbell rings. Twelve minutes early—could that be them already?

It is.

I can’t help beaming just a little as I swing the door wide open.

“You’re in a coat,” Barbara says. “Were you going out?”

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