Page 116 of Notes About Vodka

He replies with an answer that almost has me on the floor on my knees, “Because I was too busy falling in love with you and learning about you.”

“You are too sweet. Hey, can you hand me the cranberries?” I ask, glancing over my shoulder at him.

“Sure thing, my love.” He grins, reaching for the bag and tossing it to me with a little flourish.

The radio hums in the background with upbeat, jazzy tunes mixed with some Yung Gravy, and I find myselfhumming along as I chop vegetables for the salad. Val’s got his hands deep in a mixing bowl of stuffing, brows furrowed, but I can see the spark in his eyes. These moments together—cooking, laughing, enjoying each other—are exactly what I’d always hoped for.

Just then, Val’s voice cuts through, serious and soft. “Laura.”

I pause, knife poised mid-chop, and turn to face him. “Yeah? What’s up?”

He steps closer, his gaze warm but intense. “There’s something I need to ask you. I wanted to say it on your birthday, but…” He gives me a sly wink as he slowly goes to the floor on his knees. It reminds me of how much he’s apologized since this summer, mainly in the forms of kisses on my lips and I don’t mean the lips on my face, including the night of my birthday where he worshiped me from his knees for an eternity.

I grin, feeling my cheeks flush, but in my excitement, I forget about the knife in my hand. Suddenly, a sharp pain zings through my finger. I gasp, the knife clattering onto the cutting board as I clutch my hand, a trickle of blood already sliding down my finger.

“Oh, my God, Laura!” Val’s back on his feet and at my side in a flash, his face a mix of worry and panic.

I try to play it off, laughing shakily. “Oh, come on, it’s just a cut. Little super glue, good as new.” But then a wave of nausea hits me when I look at the finger. I might be fine with other people’s blood, but mine is another story.

Val takes one look and shakes his head. “Uh, Laura, sweetheart… This isn’t a super glue situation. You need stitches.”

He wraps my finger gently in a clean kitchen towel, applying pressure, his hand steady and firm against mine. “Hold this above your head, okay, and keep the pressure, yes,just like this Laura. Come on, let’s get you to the ER,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument.

We hurry down to the street, and the trip to the hospital feels like a blur, the bustling New York streets whizzing past as Val keeps glancing at me next to him in his Speed6, making sure I’m okay.

I lean against him, pain and adrenaline mixing into an odd, woozy daze.

At the ER, they take me in quickly, and Val never once lets go of my good hand. He strokes his thumb along my skin while the doctor examines the cut, and I focus on his touch, drawing comfort from it.

“This is pretty deep,” the doctor says, prepping to stitch me up. “You’ll need about seven stitches.”

As soon as the doctor leaves Val uses his phone to snap a picture of me with my bandaged finger up and a smirk on my face, and he immediately sends it to our friends with a message in the group chat we started months ago:

Val: So… uh, Laura decided to spice things up a little for Christmas. Got an interesting gift this evening. We’re officially postponing dinner tonight. You all are welcome tomorrow to eat leftovers and help me watch over my ‘patient.’

Not two seconds later, my phone pings.

Skipper: That’s a level of commitment to hosting I can appreciate. Laura, for real? Didn’t I teach you how to handle a knife.

Skipper: See you tomorrow! Try not to slice anything else in the meantime.

Rhea: Classic Laura, needing to add drama to her holiday! We’ll be over to inspect those stitches, nurse Val!

Val chuckles, typing back.

Val: She’s under strict supervision, don’t worry. Tomorrow, bring appetite and first aid supplies, just in case.

When the doctor finally begins, I keep my gaze fixed on Val. He gives me a small, reassuring smile and squeezes my hand, making everything feel a little less scary.

When it’s all done, the doctor wraps my finger up, gives us a list of care instructions, and sends us on our way. Val thanks them with a look of relief, and we head back to the apartment, now a bit late and with Christmas dinner postponed.

The next day, as promised, our friends trickle in, each arrival bringing a burst of laughter and excitement. Skipper is first, striding in with a giant container of mashed potatoes and a bag of rolls, declaring he’s on “potato watch,” and making sure no one leaves without a carb overload.

“Look at you, just walking in and taking over like you live here,” I joke, nudging him.

“Somebody’s gotta make sure these spuds get eaten,” he grins, and plops himself on the couch, already reaching for the remote. He knows where everything is in our place, so he’s at home before Val or I even offer him anything.

Rhea and Amelia show up next, Rhea carrying a bouquet of sunflowers she insists is her “healing gift,” and Amelia balancing a pumpkin pie that she guards like it’s a crown jewel.

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