Page 66 of The Bright Side of Christmas
The people pleaser, who has been pushed back as of late, comes out and gives Adam what he needs—whatweneed—and I come around him, biting into his shoulder as stars burst behind my eyelids, and my body rocks against his. Tremors rack through my body as I come and come, and somewhere through it, I feel his hands go to my hips, lift and drop me a few times, fucking me hard and deep to get himself where he ends up. Finally, a deep groan leaves his chest, and he fills me, triggeringa second, smaller, though no less blissful, orgasm from me as he finishes coming inside.
“You know, I really think I’m starting to see the allure of the holiday spirit,” he murmurs as we both come down from our high.
I laugh the entire time we clean up.
TWENTY-THREE
“Thank you.”
The words are a whisper from the woman on my chest. It’s long after we left her family’s tree farm, after we lugged the tree into my house, and after we brought a box of extra ornaments and decorations over from her place.
After putting the tree in the stand, we hung all the round ornament balls and lights on it. We didn’t have a star for the top, but Wren told me she’d look for one that wasjust right, insisting that tree toppers had tospeakto you before you just threw one on top. We ordered in Chinese and then ate it in front of the glowing tree before she curled up into my chest.
“For the tree? It looks good, Birdie. I’m happy it’s here.” And despite my general dislike for the holidays and decorations, I realize then that I actually mean it. I like having them here —the calming, soft glow of the lights and the way they fill up the empty space. It’s a real tree, obviously, something my neat-freak parents never would have allowed, and I now realize what people mean when they say that they prefer real trees for the smell alone: my entire house now smells like pine.
But it’s not just the decorations. It’s the little nutcracker decoration she put in my living room, half her size, butsomething she said Ihad to havewhen she saw it in her family’s gift shop. It’s the homemade sugar cookies she grabbed from her freezer and baked after dinner with red and green sprinkles and the mulled cider candle that’s sitting on my coffee table.
It’s cozy and special, and after today, I further realize that despite her love for decorations and spreading joy, Christmas isn’t about commercialism for her. It’s about tiny moments like these with the people she cares about, making memories that will linger for years to come.
And I’m finding more and more; it’s growing on me.
Wren’s version of Christmas is growing on me.
With the dread of the season melting away, I’m starting to remember that I did, at some point, used to love the holidays, before they became a time for responsibilities and missed expectations, before they became a job and a burden.
“Really?” she asks, lifting her head, eyes wide and hopeful. I nod, and she smiles.
“I like the smell.”
That smile spreads into a pleased grin. “It smells like home to me. My parents’ place.”
“We didn’t do much for the holidays, but we had a tree. Nothing chaotic and surely not one covered in ornaments made by kids. They had a decorator come in and make one that was aesthetically pleasing, one that wouldn’t interrupt my mother’s decor. My parents were crazy neat freaks, so we had a fake tree to avoid needles dropping. I never really got the whole smell thing until now.”
There’s a beat of silence before Wren speaks.
“You don’t talk about them often,” she murmurs.
I shrug, trying to play it off. “We don’t talk much. There isn’t much to talk about.”
“What are they like?” she asks, shifting to put her hands on my chest, then propping her chin there and staring down my chest at me. “What’s your family like?”
“My family is nothing like yours,” I say with an embarrassed laugh. I remember having friends with close families growing up, ones who didn’t care about prestige or awards or clout, and always feeling embarrassed that my family was the way they were—are, really.
“I didn’t ask about my family, Adam. I asked about yours.” I stare at her, at her sweet, gentle eyes and the small tip of her lips. “I just want to know you more, Adam. You’re very mysterious.”
“Have you Googled me now that you know where to look?”
A blush blooms, and I know my answer.
“I promise I didn’t look at any tabloid articles, just Wikipedia?—”
“Read all you want, Wren. I have nothing to hide.” She gives me a look, silently reminding me that I am, in fact, hiding out in Holly Ridge. “Not from you, anyway.” Joy lights up her face, and I like seeing it there, so I begin telling her what she wants to hear. “My parents are well-known surgeons, very renowned in their respective fields. They wanted me to do the same. They got me into piano at a young age to improve my hand-eye coordination or some shit like that. Apparently, studies have linked piano playing with surgical skill.”
‘That’s interesting,” Wren says, her fingers tracing along mine with a reverence I’ve never felt before.
“Yeah, well, it backfired. I fell in love with it, with music. It turns out that where they had hoped I would be a great doctor, I was just really good at music. A prodigy of sorts. I picked up instruments fast, often mastering them within a few months.”
Her eyes go wide.“Instruments? Plural?”
