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Trimming the tree, as a matter of fact.
I was normally someone who did so on Black Friday, but made myself hold off for my mom.
We'd never actually decorated the tree together. Not in all my years. Back when I was a child, tree trimming was something sacred that Tilly and I did each year. After Tilly passed, we only had a tree if I was able to put one up. Alone.
I knew it was maybe a choice made simply to appease my sad, lonely inner child to want to force the tradition on her as an adult, but it was something I had been really looking forward to.
Somehow, though, I felt just as excited to be able to decorate with Crosby.
Maybe because I knew that Crosby—unlike my mother—would genuinely enjoy it, would help me squint-test the light placements, would discuss each unique ornament I had acquired over the years. He would even sing carols with me, watch I'll Be Home for Christmas with me, all the while teasing me about my childhood crush on Johnathan Taylor Thomas.
We could do all this without having to keep Lock trapped in my bedroom because my mother thought a dog could make you smell just by being in the same room with it.
In fact, I had texted him to remind him to bring along Lillybean so that Lock had someone to spend his time with as well.
I even bought them special giant treats for the occasion, knowing full-well that Lillybean would just nibble on hers, then let Lock eat hers as well as his. But, well, we all put on a little extra padding around the holidays, didn't we? Lock and I would have to add a couple longer weekend walks to our schedules come the new year. No biggie.
Feeling a warm sensation bloom across my chest at the knock at my door—and the fact that Lock clearly knew his girlfriend had arrived since he was face-down, butt-up by the door, his nose sniffing hard at the crack beneath while his tail wiggled wildly—I placed the second box of ornaments down on my counter, and made my way over toward the door.
Lillybean wasted no time. As soon as the door was open, she was charging inside in her candy cane printed sweater, hopping up on the couch, allowing herself to get sniffed all over by the eager and loving Lock.
"Happy First Day of Christmas!" I said, smile spreading as I looked back toward Crosby. "What's this?" I asked as he held out a silver and gold gift bag.
"Open it," he demanded, rocking back on the heels of his chocolate brown loafers.
Crosby always looked put together. He looked like those pictures I always used to see before I moved to the city. Of these guys in these well-fitted jeans, great shoes, neat medium-brown hair, wearing a perfectly tailored black peacoat.
I placed the bag back in his waiting hands, freeing mine to dig into the tissue paper, my fingers finding something soft, pulling it out to feel what was unmistakably a sweater.
Not just any sweater.
Oh, no.
It was a gaudy thing. Predominantly green with gold poinsettias, red bulbs, and a giant cactus draped in twinkle lights.
My gaze lifted, finding Crosby holding his jacket open, revealing an equally hideous lime green sweater with an image of Santa riding a bucking T-Rex.
"It's ugly sweater weather," he declared, green eyes bright, dancing.
And I was never so thankful to have someone like him in my life. Someone who was happy to make the absolute best of a bad situation, someone who never got his nose bent out of joint about being the backup plan, someone who always came to the rescue on a bad day, full of cheer and excitement.
He was one of the good ones, that was for sure.
I wasn't sure what I'd done to deserve him, but I was so glad to have him around, to be able to share this experience with him.
Who else brought you an ugly sweater to match his ugly sweater while you decorated your tree because your mom bailed on you?
"Go put it on," he demanded, moving inside, peeling off his coat, folding it and sticking it on the arm of the couch, careless about dog hair—another mark in his favor—making himself at home.
It wasn't much. Certainly not like his place. But he never seemed uncomfortable in my four-hundred square foot shoebox. The living room consisted of the couch tucked in at the left, a bit oversized because I knew it was going to be where I spent most of my time, watching TV that was mounted to the wall to save space.
About a foot away from the couch was the half-circle dining table and two chairs. Directly beside that was my kitchen that was, well, barely a kitchen at all. A small fridge, a small stove, a microwave, cupboards. I had about one square foot of counter space. It was not ideal, but I made do. Especially because I wasn't the biggest cook in the world. Crosby, who was, thought it was criminal, and gifted me a handmade cutting board contraption that was customized to fit my exact sink dimensions, giving me another foot or so of prep room should I need it.
