Page 33 of Holidating
“Omigod,” I squeak, and he laughs.
“It’s two miles, tops, Abbster. I’m just teasing you. And we can turn around anytime you want.”
“Good to know.”
“Of course, then we’ll go skating,” he says.
“Uh-oh.”
“You’ll love it. I’ll bring hot chocolate.”
“Oooh. Okay!”
He laughs.
It’s a really good day.
No, it’s agreatday. We ski, we skate, and we hang out in the sunshine drinking cocoa. I feel like I’m on a vacation from my real life. There are no shifts at the bar, and there’s no homework.
There’s no grabby step-stepbrother.
That night’s dinner is another charcuterie fest in front of the fire, this one featuring—alongside the cheese—slices of ham and vegetables and dip.
“This is really decadent,” I gush, swirling a little glass of red wine that Weston has poured for me. I help myself to another French olive. I feel fat and happy staring into the fire.
“Save room for dessert,” Weston’s dad says. “I got a Bûche de Noël. But here’s a question—do you want to do presents tonight, or tomorrow morning? I’m happy to adhere to tradition, but you all seem to enjoy sleeping in.”
“We’re all here now, right?” Stevie says. “Let’s do it.”
“Sure, Dad,” Weston agrees, patting his stomach. “I need a spacer before dessert, anyway.” He pushes up, off the couch. “Let me get my stash of gifts.”
I get up too, retrieving a shopping bag that I’d hidden in the mud room.
Weston returns a couple of minutes later with three gifts: one for his dad, one for his brother, and a big squishy one with a gift tag in the shape of a polar bear. It saysAbbion it in red marker, with a smiley face.
And I know my reaction is dumb, because presents don't reallymatter. I'd give up presents forever if I could spend one more day with my mom. But just seeing my name in Weston's cheerful scrawl does something to me anyway. It gives me an unexpected zap of optimism. It reminds me that life can still deliver surprises when you least expect them.
Weston sits beside me and drapes an arm around my shoulders. “Merry Christmas, Abbster,” he murmurs. “Such as it is.”
Itismerry, though. I could be sitting alone in my apartment right now, shivering under the comforter because my landlady won't turn up the heat. But I’m here in front of this crackling fire with a cute guy who likes polar bear gift tags.
Life really could be worse.
Mr. Griggs has given each of his sons a pair of very pricey headphones for Christmas, and they are well-received. And both Weston and Stevie produce thoughtful presents for their dad, too, of the manly variety. Weston gives Mickey a leather fireproof glove for tending that wood stove we're sitting in front of. “So you can stop singeing off your arm hair," my fake boyfriend explains.
And Steve gives him a set of drafting pens from Japan. "It's what all the new kids are using," he says. "You might like them, old man."
Mickey smiles indulgently and gives his son a one-armed man hug.
Then the big moment arrives. I place my carefully wrapped gift in Weston's lap. “This is for you, Westie. I hope you like them.”
“I’m sure I will, baby. You know me so well.”
Across from us, Stevie actually rolls his eyes.
Damn Stevie. I've only got a few hours left of this holiday visit to convince him.
Meanwhile, Weston tears the paper off his gift like, well, an overgrown kid on Christmas Eve. And when he lifts the lid, he chuckles. "Cute, honey.” He lifts a pair of super soft black flannel sleep pants from the box. They're printed with an adorable white dog in profile, who’s wearing a cheery red collar.
