Flower(47)

WE EAT DINNER BESIDE THE fire, baby potatoes and green beans and a cauliflower soup that tastes so amazing I keep closing my eyes with every bite, just to savor it. Until Tate points out my repeated eye-closing and everyone laughs.

We move into the living room and I steal a moment to send a text to Carlos, attaching the photo of Tate and me beside our tree, the snow like a halo around us. After a brief debate with myself, I send it to Grandma, too. Maybe it’s rubbing salt in a wound, given how we left things yesterday, but maybe she’ll see how happy we look and stop worrying quite so much.

Helen and Bill drink wine, and tell a few stories about what Tate was like as a child. Tate looks on, face stony, but I’m too amused to make them stop. This feels just like the perfect family life I always imagined. Christmas with my grandma and sister has always been a quiet affair, with Mia often preferring to spend the day with her friends or her boyfriend du jour. And when my mom was alive, holidays usually involved spending Christmas Eve sleeping on the couch of whatever guy she was dating at the time. The thought sobers me, and as the conversation drifts off, I stare into the fire, wondering if I’m somehow making the same mistakes that she did. But this is different, I tell myself. Tate isn’t like other guys.

“Well, Bill,” Helen says finally, setting her half-full glass of wine on the coffee table and standing up, “Tate and Charlotte might be used to waiting up for Santa, but we are not. Shall we call it a night?”

Bill swallows down the rest of his wine, patting Tate once on the shoulder before he rises and follows his wife into the kitchen, where they put things away and flick off the lights.

Once they’ve gone upstairs, Tate walks me to my room, touching a strand of my hair and circling it once around his finger before dropping his hand.

“I liked this day,” I tell him. “With you.”

His mouth edges into a smile. “I hope you get everything you want for Christmas tomorrow.”

“I’m pretty sure I already have,” I say.

I see the momentary struggle in his eyes. I want to touch him, pull him into my room with me. And his gaze says he might not be able to say no.

But then he clears his throat, resolve tightening the features of his face. “Good night, Charlotte.”

“Good night,” I respond, my voice barely above a whisper.

He leaves me in the doorway and moves down the hall. I watch until he slips into his bedroom and quietly shuts the door.

*

I should stay in my room.

I should go to sleep.

The house has fallen still, but my brain won’t turn off.

He’s all I can think about. The day has been too perfect, the heated kisses against the wall of that shed, and then his gentle kiss between the rows of trees, his touch telling me what he seems unable to say with words.

I cross the room twice, pacing, touching the window, leaving icy fingerprints against the glass. The snow continues to fall, making half moons on the sills of the window outside.

The rational, disciplined side of my brain tells me that just being here with him, in his house, is enough. We need to take it slow. His words ring in my ears. But why doesn’t it feel like enough—why is his touch never enough? My heart thumps against my rib cage, battling my mind.

I want him. I don’t care if it’s reckless, if it goes against everything he’s said, everything my grandma and sister warned me about. I need him in this moment.

I flip open the top of my suitcase and dig through the clothes inside. I find what I’m looking for: a short, lacy white dress. Tate bought it for me that day at Barneys and I’ve never worn it, and certainly never thought I’d have reason to on this trip. But I packed it anyway—I packed nearly everything in my closet, worried I’d be unprepared.

I undress, leaving my clothes on the floor, and slip carefully into the delicate dress. The fabric is pure silk and drapes over my skin like something made of air.

I pull on the black robe I brought as well—another gift from Tate—and tie the silky band around my waist.

I’m really doing this.

I leave the bedroom and tiptoe across the hardwood floor, my heart battering chaotically in my chest, unable to find a steady rhythm.

Then something moves ahead of me in the dark.

I freeze, holding the robe against my chest—afraid it’s one of his parents, up to grab a glass of water or late-night snack. But then the movement comes into focus, padding down the hall toward me: Rocco. When he reaches me, he lifts his head and sniffs my leg. I run a hand over his furry head, rubbing one of his ears, and his tail wags, thumping once against the wall. Then he turns, satisfied that I’m not an intruder, and ambles back to rest beside the living room fire.

It’s cold tonight, and goose bumps begin to rise up on my bare legs.

I stop outside of Tate’s door, my heart now a drum in my chest. There is sound on the other side—a guitar, I realize, playing faintly from inside. I lift my fist, resting it against the grain of the wood. I knock, once, then twice, but only gently. The guitar doesn’t stop playing and Tate doesn’t come to the door. My mouth trembles as my fingers grip the doorknob, pushing the door open.

Inside, there is a lamp switched on against one corner, a chair resting beside it. On the walls I can faintly make out posters: Led Zeppelin, Jimi Hendrix, and Michael Jackson. Several skateboards are lined up beneath the large bay window and on the dresser against the opposite wall are stacks of vinyl albums next to an old record player. Everything is organized and tidy—preserved by his mom after all these years.