“Alright,” he says, picking up his third Yorkshire pudding. “Favorite Christmas?”
I take a sip of wine, letting it sit in my mouth while I think. “Probably when Luke was with us. The year he lived with us as an exchange student was the only Christmas we actually spent at home. It snowed like crazy that year, and he and I went to Central Park and made a snowman together. We went ice skating, got cocoa, and my parents took us to the Christmas show at Radio City.”
“That sounds nice.”
“It was.” I pause, remembering the holiday while also trying to push back my emotions. “It was… it was the first Christmas I remember feeling like I had a brother. He still feels like my brother. What about you?”
“Mine was with Henry,” he says, voice soft. “I was fourteen. We didn’t have a lot that year. I knew money was tight and Mum was working extra shifts at the hospital, so I didn’t ask for anything, even though I needed new football boots. But on Christmas morning, I came downstairs and there they were, sitting under the tree. He had saved up and bought them for me, and then he spent the day following all our holiday traditions, so that even without Mum there, it was still Christmas. We made a roast dinner for just the two of us and watchedThe Muppet Christmas Carol. It was the best Christmas because it was so simple.” Oliver goes quiet, tracing the rim of his wine glass. “It was our last Christmas together.”
I reach across the table, placing my hand over his. We sit like that for a moment. No jokes. Just wine and candlelight.
And for the first time in a long time, Christmas doesn’t feel like yet another thing I’m surviving.
I try to insist on helping clean up, but Oliver shoos me out of the kitchen. I take my wine and walk around the living room, watching his life and career unfold in photos. I like how personal his apartment feels. It’s not an episode ofCribswhere his entire apartment is just a shrine to himself. There’s not a single photo of just him, and many of them have nothing to do with football.
Even his Christmas decorations are personal. Every ornament on his tree looks like he’s had it for years, or it’s been passed down to him. The lights on the tree cast the whole room in a warm, dreamy glow that makes everything feel more romantic.
Oliver disappears into the hallway for a second and comes back with both arms behind his back and a mischievous grin on his face.
“Okay. Ready for another English tradition?”
I narrow my eyes. “That sounds ominous.”
He laughs, pulling two bright red cardboard tubes from behind his back. “Christmas crackers.”
“Crackers? Oliver, Icannoteat any more food.”
“No,” he says, smile widening. “It’s not like that.”
“Oh, thank goodness.”
“They pop open, and inside there are little things like a crown, a joke, and a tiny gift.” He sits down beside me on the couch. “We’ll pull them together, okay?”
“Okay.”
We both hook fingers on the crackers and pull. They pop loudly, startling me into laughter. After a little puff of glittery smoke, a small plastic fish, a slip of paper, and a folded yellow paper crown tumble into my lap.
“Now, for the most important part,” Oliver says, unfolding the paper crown. He shifts closer, kneeling in front of me as he gently places the crown over my head. His fingers delicately graze my temple, brushing my hair back just enough to settle it into place. He looks at me for a long second.
“Perfect,” he murmurs, and somehow that paper crown feels heavier than gold.
“Now yours,” I say, reminding him he needs to put on festive, ridiculous headwear too.
He slips his crown on and smirks at me. “Good?”
“Perfect.”
“Now,” he says, leaning forward to grab a stack of DVDs from the table. “Welcome to the holiday movie portion of the evening. Take your pick.”
“Oh, I’m in charge?”
“Tonight, yeah.”
I take the stack and sift through the titles:Love Actually, Home Alone, It’s a Wonderful Life, White Christmas,andThe Holiday.
“This is a strong list,” I say, trying to buy myself time to make a decision as I weigh them like Olympic contenders.
I settle onIt’s a Wonderful Life. Oliver gets up to dim the lights and pour another bottle of wine, then sinks back down next to me on the couch. Idon’t know if it’s the wine or the food or the way he’s made an English Christmas just feel likemyChristmas, but my whole chest feels warm and full, and I can’t remember feeling like this on any holiday.
