Page 53 of A Not-So Holiday Paradise

He nods, and I do not appreciate the skeptical look on his face. But then he points to the loveseat. “It’s because of the feet at the base,” he says. “That’s why it’s heavy. They’re pretty solid. The cushions are dense, too.”

I bend over to look at the bottom of the loveseat. Sure enough, it’s being held off the ground by four wooden cylinders, each roughly the size of two Roombas stacked on top of each other.

“Oh,” I say, nodding. “Right. That makes sense.” Then I look at him. “Are you going to help me?”

“I—yeah, I guess,” he says. He seems to realize fighting about this will get him nowhere.

Smart man.

“Great,” I say happily. “So what we want is the couch over here”—I point to the middle of the room—“and we’ll drape the blankets from the back of the couch over the table. The chairs will go on either side of the table. Got it?”

Beckett does in thirty seconds what I couldn’t do in five minutes. He gets the furniture moved, and then we drape the blankets strategically until we’re standing in front of a roughly made fort.

It’s nothing like the ones my family makes at Christmas every year, but it has its own kind of charm—especially since only two of us need to fit inside. O’Malley forts are a go-big-or-go-home affair, and we have more furniture and blankets in our house than Beckett has in this temporary little place.

“It’s not like at your house,” he says, echoing my thoughts.

“It’s perfect,” I say with a smile. It doesn’t need to be big or fancy. “Thanks for helping.”

He nods. “I assume we’re watching Christmas movies in there?”

“If that sounds good to you,” I say. I’m clinging to my Christmas traditions, and I’m clinging hard. Except…maybe I should ask him what he wants to do. “Unless you want to do something else?”

“It’s fine with me,” he says with a shrug. “Your family’s forts are one of my favorite parts of Christmas anyway. It’s not like my parents ever did much.”

I swallow, searching for words, but I can’t find any. “I’ll grab some snacks,” I say instead.

We reconvene inside the fort a few minutes later, and then we spend a lazy morning watching movies and eating the remainder of the Christmas cookies I packed, as well as stale pretzels and bread with butter and honey. It’s a hodge-podge potluck provided by Beckett’s sparse pantry, but something about the entire experience feels almost magical. I’m not sure why; our Christmas cactus is cute but not awe-inspiring, and there are no twinkly lights or Christmas carols playing in the background. Everything I would have listed if asked about what makes Christmas magical—none of those things are here.

It’s just me and Beckett in a blanket fort with some random snacks andWhite Christmasplaying on his laptop.

“I’ve always wanted to be a good dancer,” I sigh as I watch Vera-Ellen.

Beckett gives a little snort of laughter. “I’m not sure that’s in the cards for you,” he says. Then he turns to me. “But I will support you in all your dancing endeavors.” His voice is gentle, his eyes soft.

And how is this man even real? Yes, he’s grumpy on the outside, but he is pure marshmallow fluff on the inside. I’m just about to respond when an embarrassingly loud sound comes from my gurgling stomach.

He grins at me. “I guess the snacks aren’t cutting it?”

“I could use some lunch,” I admit.

“We’re limited on supplies, but I do have…hmm.” He gets on his hands and knees before crawling out of the fort. I follow, and by the time I make it out, he’s shuffling around in a kitchen cabinet.

“Got anything?” I say.

“I have canned soup,” he says, pulling out two cans and holding them up. “Tomato bisque.”

I nod, because I’m pretty suretomato bisqueis just a fancy way of sayingtomato soup,and I can get behind that. “Tomato bisque sounds perfect.”

We’re mostly quiet as we heat the soup, but it’s a nice sort of silence—the comfortable kind, where no one has to force conversation. We divide the soup into two bowls and then clear the blanket off the table and chairs, effectively dismantling over half of our fort.

We eat in silence until our new phone rings. Beckett has a mouth full of soup, so I answer it.

“Hello?”

“Molly?” It’s Wes’s voice.

“Hi,” I say, pulling the phone away from my ear and turning it on speaker so Beckett can participate in the conversation too. “How are you guys doing?”

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