The thing is aggressively, unapologetically Christmas red. Front and center is a gingerbread man, who should not be allowed within fifty feet of any holiday party, wearing a smug icing grin, gumdrop nipples, and has a peppermint swirl slapped right where his dignity should be. Above him, in mymom’s classicI-can-eyeball-the-spacinghandwriting, it reads:FROST MEin massive letters that draw all attention.
It’s obscene. It’s ridiculous. It’s unmistakably Mom’s. And the second I see Robyn trying—and failing—not to smile, it feels right in a way that hits me in the chest.
Having matching sweaters makes her more than my girlfriend. Wearing one of my mom’s sweaters is a claim. She’s family in that way only shared, awfully lovely traditions can make you. Well, except maybe that one other thing I want to get from Mom.
“I look ridiculous? You look worse,” she fires back, tugging hers straight, then grabbing my hand.
She tries lacing our fingers, but I want more, so I cup her face in my hands and drop a kiss on her lips. I keep my lips closed because although I don’t care about morning breath, she does, and then I press my forehead to hers.
“Thank you for being here,” I whisper, rubbing my nose against hers.
“Of course, Nate. I wouldn’t miss this.”
“But you did miss the holiday with your father to be with us.”
“And I’d do it again just to get this sweater.”
She loops an arm around my waist, and we gently rock.
“Maybe next year we can get our families together,” I say, a little tentative.
“I don’t know.” Her gaze shifts down. “Holidays with Dad are nothing like Rebecca’s crazy.” Robyn’s brow furrows, then she smiles. “Next year should be less crazy, though.”
I watch her features carefully, but with the tension gone, the crest between her eyes smooths. “I love your crazy,” I say, caressing her jaw with my thumb.
She’s right, though. I’d been all in on the idea of flying my mom out to meet her father this year… but she’s still buried in the tail end of her neurology residency. And that would be unnecessary stress.
Four more months, though. Then she’ll finally be on the other side of it—into fellowship or straight into attending life. Either way, it means a schedule where we actually get evenings together. Weekends. No more of Robyn being off when I have to work, or the other way around.A chance to breathe and be together more.
She squeezes my hand and beams up at me, excitement sparking in her eyes. “Come on.” She tugs me toward the door. “Your mom probably already has half the kitchen going.”
Hand in hand, we move past the glow-in-the-dark stars and the blueprint posters. My gaze catches sight of our hands, our matching sweaters, the way her thumb absentmindedly brushes the side of my finger. And it’s not the first time I feel with certainty that this iseverythingI want my future to be.
“Come on, boyfriend upgrade. Let’s go make your mom happy.”
We followthe smell of cinnamon, nutmeg, and sizzling butter. The living room glows with the white-and-gold lights Mom insists stay up well past New Year’s, and the kitchen’s warm enough that the windows fog at the edges. Mom’s already at the stove, red hair in a messy twist, gray streaks peeking through. Her Christmas apron is tied over a silver sweater I know well. The one with the Christmas tree folded onto itself and a speech bubble that reads:Bent out of shape? Just rub it straight!
“Finally,” Mom says without looking back. “Thought you two were hibernating up there.”
Robyn grins and steps into her space, bumping hips with her as she grabs the tongs to fuss with the bacon. “Thank you for the sweater, Mrs. Leight?—”
“Uh-uh.” Mom wags a wooden spoon at her. “You’re none of those unruly teens from my school, dear. Call me Rebecca. I’ve told you a million times.”
“Sorry, Rebecca.”
“Much better, dear.” Mom turns back to the pot, making sure her homemade syrup burns off the right amount of bourbon and keeps the right amount of cardamom—Christmassy, with a twist. “Robyn, leave the bacon alone and stir my syrup.”
I should’ve warned her Robyn can fucking burn air.
“Mom.” I butt in, taking the spoon before Robyn does. “Let me handle that so you can do your nog, yeah?”
Mom snorts. “You don’t get presents until we’re done eating breakfast and I’ve had at least two cups of nog. Nothing’s swayed me in thirty years, Nathan, and I won’t be swayed now.”
I hold up my hands. “I wasn’t?—”
“You absolutely were.” She narrows her eyes at me. “Every Christmas since you turned five, getting me distracted while you run off to snoop. Let me have my traditions.”
Robyn nudges me, siding with Mom… as always. “Yeah,Nathan, traditionsareChristmas.”
