In the Middle of Somewhere (Middle of Somewhere, #1)(136)
I’M LYING in front of the fire, groaning, stuffed so full of Christmas brunch that I can barely move. I don’t even know how I’m going to be able to eat the roast chicken Rex is making for dinner. If I tip my head back a little, I can see the lights on the Christmas tree reflecting in the window, making it look like I’m surrounded by trees. Last night, Christmas Eve, Rex and I watched Little Women, which is one of Rex’s favorite Christmas movies—the 1933, Katherine Hepburn version, not, Rex explained, the 1949 one with Elizabeth Taylor. It was pretty good, actually, though I never cared for the novel. If one of my brothers burned the only existing manuscript of my book, he would be in a world of pain.
We watched because Rex told me how he and his mother used to have a set of Christmas movies they watched every year and how he hadn’t done it since she died. Their lineup was Little Women, Holiday Affair, It Happened on Fifth Avenue, and The Bishop’s Wife. He was shocked to hear that I’d never even heard of any of them except Little Women and hadn’t actually seen a single one. I made it about twenty minutes into Holiday Affair before falling asleep and drooling all over Rex, so we went to bed instead.
Now, Rex is in his workshop doing something mysterious that he wandered off to after brunch when I collapsed on the rug to try and digest. Presumably, it’s something to do with a Christmas present, since we’re about to exchange them.
I have Rex’s present hidden in the closet. I really wasn’t sure what to get him. Everything either seemed too generic—music, clothes—or so expensive I didn’t have a prayer of affording it. Like, probably there are some tools or something that he’d like for his workshop, but hell if I know what they would be even if I could afford them. I thought about something for the kitchen, but it’s pretty well stocked, and I wouldn’t know where to start there, either. I hope he likes what I finally landed on. I felt pretty good about it last week, but now I’m nervous it’s not a good idea.
I’m flying to Philly tomorrow to have Chanukah with Ginger and stay for a few days and I’ve been thinking about whether I should try and track down Colin. I’ve left a few more messages for him, but he hasn’t called back. I know it sounds sick, but, I mean, I would have heard about it if he killed himself, right? Someone would have found him and—
“Ready!” Rex saunters in with a wrapped box in his hands.
I groan, reaching out an arm toward him so he can help me up. He drops the box on the couch and smirks at me, then lies down beside me on the floor, leaning on one elbow so he can look at me.
“Do you think it’s possible to actually die from eating too much?” I ask.
“Yeah, probably,” he says, dropping a light kiss on my stomach and then lying back. I groan and flop over so I can bury my head in Rex’s neck. His arm comes around me and he lets out a warm rumble of contentment. Marilyn barks once, then comes over, turns in a circle, and lies down with us in front of the fire. I start to laugh, then clutch my stomach.
“What?”
“It’s just so goddamned picturesque,” I say, waving a hand at the Christmas tree, the snow falling outside the windows, and the dog curled up in her blue flannel bed in front of the roaring fire. Rex chuckles, his chest vibrating beneath me.
After I come out of my food coma, I go to the closet and get Rex’s gifts. I hesitate, then leave the second one in the closet for later.
“You go first,” Rex says when I join him on the couch. I’m suddenly really nervous that my brilliant gift isn’t actually brilliant after all.
“Okay,” I say, hesitating, “but you might not like it.”
“Okay,” Rex says very seriously. “Well, if I don’t like it I can pretty much guarantee that I’ll still like you a whole lot.”
I roll my eyes and shove the box at him, the wrapping this garish, 1970s-looking gold and green deer print that I found at Mr. Zoo’s. Rex untapes the paper and folds it neatly. He takes the lid off the box and holds up the thing on top. It’s a Christmas tree ornament of a dog that looks a lot like Marilyn.
“It’s to remember the night we first met,” I say, my cheeks burning at how sentimental this is. “I know it’s cheesy, but—”
Rex kisses me.
“Shut up,” he says. He strokes my cheek. “It’s great.”
He dangles the ornament in front of Marilyn, who merely lifts one ear and opens one eye, decides nothing that’s going on is worth her attention in the slightest, and snuffles back to sleep, turning to toast her other side equally in front of the fire.
Then Rex lifts a bunch of tissue paper out of the box and pulls out another, oddly shaped package wrapped in the same paper. I hold my breath as he struggles with my terrible wrapping job, looking at his face because I want to see his initial, unguarded reaction.
Rex’s mouth falls open.
“Oh my god,” he says, lifting out the vintage Marilyn Monroe ornaments. There’s one of her with her white dress blowing up from the scene in The Seven Year Itch, one surrounded by paste diamonds and feathers from Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend, and one that’s shaped like a regular ornament but has Norma Jean on one side and Marilyn on the other. Then he lifts out the last ornament. It’s of Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca.
“The Casablanca one isn’t vintage,” I say. “I just thought you might like it.”