He throws a flannel blanket over us, and I curl up, draping my legs over his. He wraps an arm around me like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
The movie begins, and even just the first few notes of the score hit me with a sad nostalgia. I’ve watched this movie every year since I was a kid, in whatever city my parents had me in for the holidays. Every hotel room always had it on. I’d sit there, takeout in my lap, pretending I didn’t care, but I’d cry every time.
It wasn’t even just about George Bailey and everything he learned. I’d cry because of Mary. I’d cry because someone saw her—really saw her—and thought she was worth the moon. Because when George looks at her like she’s the only person in the world, I would wonder if I’d ever feel that. If someone would ever look at me like that.
And now I have the weight of Oliver’s arm around me. When George shouts, “What is it you want, Mary? You want the moon? Just say the word and I’ll throw a lasso around it and pull it down,” something in me twists. I glance up at Oliver, and he’s looking right at me, and I swear I can see the moon in his eyes.
When George reaches the bridge, broken and desperate, I feel Oliver go completely still. He doesn’t say a word, but he doesn’t have to. I know what it means for him—to have that belief that the world would be better without him, that the world took the wrong brother.
I reach for his hand, sliding my fingers between his. His thumb brushes along my knuckles, and we sit like that for the rest of the movie.
When it ends, and the screen fades to black with “Auld Lang Syne” playing, Oliver looks over at me.
“Good choice,” he says, voice quiet.
I stare over at my bag, knowing what’s hidden inside. It’s time. I know it is. Wrapped under the weight of his arm, with the ghost of that movie still in the air, I know this is the right moment.
I untangle myself gently, stand up, and head over to my bag. He watches me curiously, but doesn’t say anything. I pull out a small package, wrapped in green paper and tied with a gold bow, and sit back down next to him. I can hear my heart hammering in my ears.
“I, um…” I swallow. “I have something for you.”
Oliver blinks. “You got me a Christmas present?”
I nod, suddenly shy. “I did.”
He sits up straighter and smiles. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know,” I say. “I wanted to.”
He stands up and walks over toward his Christmas tree, picking up a small wrapped gift.
“If I had known we were exchanging gifts,” he teases, voice low and playful as he hands it to me.
I smile, already feeling the warmth in my chest rushing to my face. “Afterthatdinner? You didn’t have to—”
“Just open it.”
The red paper is shiny. I take my time opening it, mostly because Oliver used an extraordinary amount of tape for such a small box.
Inside the box, a delicate gold necklace glints back at me. Hanging from the fine chain is a small silhouette of the London Eye.
My breath catches in my throat as my fingers tremble a little. “Oliver…”
“I wanted you to have a reminder of a time you faced something that scared you and did it anyway,” he says, watching me carefully. “And also, to remind you that no one gets to make you feel small.”
My heart is so full I can barely form words.
“Oliver, I…”
“May I?” he asks gently, reaching for the necklace.
I nod, turning away from him and pulling my hair into my hand. His fingers are warm as they trace the back of my neck. He latches the clasp and the pendant rests right against my collarbone.
“Thank you, Oliver.” I turn and look at him, and I know right then—this is the most seen I’ve ever felt. It might be a necklace, but it feels like Oliver just gave me the moon.
“Okay,” he says with a smile. “My turn.”
He picks up the present like it’s fragile, like it already means something before he’s even opened it.
