She gently places the ball back in the case, carefully putting the glass top back until it’s secure over the dark wood base. Finally, she looks at me with an expression I can only describe as regret. “After that…I don’t want to give you yours. I want a redo.”
“What? No way. Why?”
“Because…” She shoves the case in my face and stutters out, “Johnny Bench!”
I push the case away and roll my eyes. “Oh my God, just give me my gift.”
Slowly, as if she’s procrastinating, she places the case on her pillow and pulls a rectangular present from underneath her side of the bed. But instead of giving it to me, she picks idly at the big red bow stuck right in the center. I hold out my hands and motion for her to hand it over, and reluctantly, she does.
“It’s heavy,” I observe and bounce it up and down a few times while I try to guess what it could be.
“Careful. There could be a puppy inside,” she teases.
“If there’s a puppy shoved in here, we have a big problem.” She laughs, but it quickly fades as I tear through the paper. When I open the lid off the box, my breath catches. Green, gray, yellow, maroon…They’re books in all different colors and in different languages, but I instantly know what they are. Not books. Butabook.
“The Secret Garden?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
Alex nods and stares at the books as if it’s her first time seeing them, too. “I collected a few when I was in Europe.”
“Alex,” I exhale. Now it’s my turn to get teary. My favorite book in four different languages. They all appear used, too, worn and loved, my absolute favorite.
“I went to a lot of used bookstores,” she says, opening the cover of one and showing the handful of names of past owners scribbled in the top left corner.
I hug the books to my chest, holding them tight against my heart. “I love them.”
Alex scoffs. “I mean, it’s no Johnny Bench.”
“Shut up.” We share a smile, and I run my fingers over the worn cover of the top book. “These are stunning and amazing.”
“Hey,” Mason says from the doorway. “I think the moms want a picture of us by the tree.”
“Already?” Alex asks through a groan. “Okay, tell them we’ll be there in a few.”
Mason eyes us, his gaze shifting from the books in my lap to the discarded laptop still paused on the opening credits. “Do you want me to make hot chocolate for your annualAlienviewing?”
Despite still being full, the idea of hot chocolate to go with cookies sounds way too good to pass up. “Oh, yes, please. With peppermint?”
He narrows his eyes and drags his fingers through his new beard, making a show of giving my request serious consideration. “Only if you let me watch with you.”
“Only if you shave that dead animal off your face,” Alex fires back without missing a beat.
I bite back a smile. We’re both so used to seeing Mason baby-faced and clean-shaven that when we came home for winter break to see the shaggy and slightly uneven beard, well, it was rather unsettling.
“I’ll make homemade whipped cream.”
It’s not fair, really. Mason knows that Alex and I are suckers for the homemade topping. Alex and I exchange a look and at the same time say, “Deal.”
Satisfied, Mason leaves us alone, and I begrudgingly peel back the comforter and pout. “I was just getting warm and cozy.”
Alex pulls on a hoodie and slips the ball into the front pocket, careful to only touch the seams.
“You’re bringing the ball for family pictures?”
“Yeah, I want to show Mason right when the camera goes off. I want to forever memorialize the look of shock and jealousy.” Her laugh can only be described as a cackle, clearly pleased and amused with herself.
“You’re horrible.”
She bumps her shoulder to mine. “You love me.”
