I kiss Jo everywhere. My lips explore this beautiful woman, momentarily leaving her mouth to trail down her jawline, her neck, like it’s a map. One I could spend a lifetime learning by heart and never grow tired of.
A door clicks open down the hallway, interrupting us and breaking our trance as if a hypnotist has snapped their fingers. But because I can’t help myself, I pull her in for one more quick taste of her bottom lip.
“All right, kids, time for bed,” Jo yells, her voice breathless.
She casts one longing look to me, before disappearing down the hall to say good night. I adjust myself in my pants and head to the living room, sinking onto the couch to wait for her. Five quiet minutes pass before both kids shout in unison, “Good night, Tyler!”
Smiling, I call back, “Night, Jay. Night, Abs.”
I don’t know when she went from being Abby to Abs in my mind, but when it slipped out earlier, it felt natural. If Abby thought anything was weird about it, she didn’t let on.
At least ten minutes pass before Jo is back, arms full of boxes. Dozens of wrapped gifts already sit under the tree, but apparently Santa wasn’t quite finished.
“From Santa,” she whispers, with a wink.
“Ahh,” I reply. Now I remember how this is done. I’m rusty on holiday traditions with kids, but I recall my mom doing this very thing. Wrapping the gifts from her and my dad, while leaving Santa’s gifts unwrapped like he pulled them straight from his magical bag.
I help Jo lay them out, making one pile for Jay and one for Abby. Then she stuffs the stockings and places them beside each kid’s haul. Stepping back, her eyes do one last sweep over it all.
“Think you got them enough?” I ask, surveying the two mountains of gifts.
She turns to me with a grin. “It’s my first year having extra income. My Etsy shop’s been busy the last few weeks, and I couldn’t help myself. There’ve been years when the piles were maybe a third of this.” She pauses. “Hell…maybe even less. You think I went overboard?”
“Nah.” I shake my head. “It’ll be a great day for them.” Crossing the room to sit on the couch, I pat the cushion for her to join me, but she holds up a finger.
“One sec. Let me grab something from my room.”
Jo leaves only to return seconds later holding a square box wrapped in red and white paper. Setting it in my lap, she sits beside me, chewing the side of her thumbnail.
“What is it?” I hold the box to my ear giving it a shake.
Jo’s smile is secretive, but she gives me no hints. Carefully peeling back each fold of the wrapping paper, I come to a plain white box. I lift the lid and what I find has tears blurring my vision, my throat thick with raw emotion. Inside the box is abeautiful leather photo album with the wordsWho Needs Superman When You Can Have a Dad?
Knowing Jo’s troubled relationship with fathers and what it must have felt like having this made for me, I pull her to me and press my lips to her temple. My mouth opens to thank her, but I’m at a loss for words. Truly, there are none to express not only what this album means to me, but what this entire day has meant. Jo must sense how overwhelmed I am, because she leans in and flips to the first page.
With my heart in my throat, I listen while she explains what was happening when each photo was taken. Jo rests her head on my shoulder, and I flip through the album, quietly absorbing the images. There, on each page, are photos of Abby at every stage of life from a chubby baby, to a laughing toddler, growing up on the pages of this album. The final photo shows Abby at a school awards day from last year, standing proudly wearing several ribbons and medals. Closing the book, I carefully place it back in the box for safe keeping until I get back to the apartment where it will sit proudly on my coffee table.
“Jo,” I say after a prolonged silence, “I can’t thank you enough for this. You couldn’t have given me a better gift.”
Jo straightens and meets my eyes. “Now you’ll have a bit of her past. I know it’s not the same as being there, but it’s something.”
“No, it’s everything.” I tap the box in my lap. “Thank you for this.”
Her gifts from me are still sitting on the coffee table, and Jo digs into the smallest one, producing the bag of orange slices. Tearing it open, she plucks one out and pops it into her mouth, tilting the bag toward me.
“Want one?”
I shake my head, smiling when she grabs a second one for herself. “What’s the story with the orange slices?”
Jo’s eyes go soft and hazy like she’s looking to the past.
“Those are Mawmaw’s favorite candy. That jar”—she pointsher thumb toward the kitchen—“was hers. My entire life she kept it full of orange slices. She doesn’t eat them anymore. I think she’s forgotten them. So I eat them for her to keep the memory alive.” She pauses. “I can’t believe you noticed them.”
Could I tell her I notice everything without scaring her off? What would she say if I told her I love the way her bottom teeth are the tiniest bit crooked, and that imperfection makes her all the better. Or that I’ll never again smell peaches and vanilla without thinking of her, the way it clings to her skin and lingers in the air long after she’s gone.
Meeting her eyes, I thread my fingers with hers and speak from my heart. “Jo…I notice so much. More than you realize.”
Together, we set up a queen-size air mattress in her art room, then she hurries off to find some clothes I can sleep in. She’s much smaller than me, so I honestly have no idea what she thinks might fit.
