In A Holidaze(72)

“Guess I’m glad we got our first fight out of the way.”

I pull back in alarm. “That was our first fight?”

He looks similarly taken aback. “Did you think it was the end?”

“Uh, yeah? You basically said you didn’t know me at all.” I laugh incredulously, watching his eyes fill with a smile that slowly breaks and takes over his entire face. “What? Why are you laughing at me?”

“Because you’re right, I guess, but you gave up pretty easily after thirteen years.”

I shove him playfully, but he can’t go very far. “What was I supposed to think?”

“You’ve known me for twenty-six years! One day is a drop in the bucket.”

“We were only together for thirty-six hours! A day is, like, two-thirds of our romance.”

He laughs delightedly at this, and then the moment stills, and Andrew watches me with amused fondness. I start to fidget, defensiveness crawling up my neck.

“My parents don’t fight,” I remind him. “They nag, and are passive-aggressive, and after the one big fight they had, Dad moved out.”

“Okay, well, you’re going to learn how to manage conflict because smart people like us in relationships don’t agree with each other all the time. It’s science.”

“Is that what this is?” I ask, grinning. “A relationship?”

He is a meltingly sweet combination of amused and nervous. “I hope so?”

“Thirteen-to-twenty-six-year-old Mae is doing the Running Man in here right now.” I tap my temple.

His answering laugh slowly straightens. “So . . . are we . . . ?”

“That depends.” Pushing the words out feels like swallowing glass because it’s the real moment of truth. “Do you believe me?”

“About the wish?”

It’s been at once the most clarifying and bewildering experience of my lifetime, and as much as I love him, I’m not sure how I’d move forward with Andrew if he thought it was all a dream. “Yeah.”

“Of course I believe you.”

The tension in my shoulders crumples like wax paper. “And . . . you’re okay with . . . all of it?”

“Let me ask you this,” Andrew counters. “In this version of your Christmas, did your dad break a tooth on a cookie bar?”

“He sure did not.”

“And did Kennedy skin her knee?”

I see where he’s going with this, and grin. “Nope.”

“See? You knew about the sleeping bags in storage. You reassured Dad about the gin. You somehow got Benny to buy the cabin. And if I’d listened to you about Miso, I would still have my favorite terrible holiday sweater, wouldn’t I?”

“That’ll teach you to listen to your timetraveling . . .” My smile breaks, and I flounder as the rest of my sentence hangs like a ribbon in the wind.

Andrew’s eyes narrow with a knowing smirk. “My timetraveling what?”

And here, for just a breath, my confidence falters. With my hope buoyant enough to lift the cabin off its foundation, wouldn’t it just be perfect if the universe pulled the chair out from under me one last time?

But this time, I’m not going anywhere. “Your timetraveling girlfriend.”

Andrew’s smile lights up the inside of the closet. “Finally, Maisie. I thought you’d never ask.”





epilogue


SIX MONTHS LATER


“Oi,” Benny calls from the porch. “I could spot you a mile away.”

I don’t have to ask which of us he’s talking to. It definitely isn’t me, in a muted heather-gray tank top and faded cutoffs.

“Oh, yeah?” Andrew runs his hands down his obnoxious sweater. “Are you saying I wear it well?”

“You’re not sweltering?” Benny asks, and it’s so hot out, I swear I can see his voice cut through the wavy air.

Andrew shakes his head. “Perfectly comfortable.”

I glance at my boyfriend and witness the fine droplets of sweat pebbling on his brow in the ninety-degree heat. He’s still an adorable liar. I wouldn’t even hold his hand on our walk down the driveway, it’s too clammy. We all know he’ll sacrifice great personal comfort to make a point, and he’s decided his “thing” at the cabin is festive sweaters. Any holiday is worthy. His cornflower-blue, cherry-red, and pristine-white number is a loving ode to our founding fathers, I guess. I give him until lunch before he rips it off.

“Happy Fourth!” he calls out.

“Happy Fourth. Get up here.” Benny waves us on.

Gravel crunches under my sneakers as I jog toward the front steps and my favorite uncle. Our car is down on the main road, parked out of the way of the construction vehicles currently cluttering the driveway to the cabin—or The Hollow, as Benny has named it. I can already see the work that’s been put in; it’s astounding. The porch is new. The entire cabin has been repainted; it’s the same shade of brown with green shutters, but it’s impressive what a power wash and fresh coat of paint can do to a place. All of the windows have been replaced, the eaves rebuilt. New roof, new landscaping, and a screened-in side porch are underway on the western side of the house, facing the mountain. I’m dying to see what it looks like inside.