Page 6 of Pining for You

“Ha, I can see that,” she says as two families wobble by with a gaggle of children between them in coordinated flannel.

“The matching outfits are… optional,” I say diplomatically. “Pretty good for the socials of your choice, though.” I gesture to a setup in the distance—a wooden cutout of Santa Claus and a few reindeer around a bench, where guests are encouraged to take photos and tag the farm. At the moment, it’s occupied by a set of triplets—the smallest is shrieking, his face the color of a holly berry. His mother dances with a stuffed narwhal behind the father, who is desperately trying to get a decent photo. “And priceless sibling bonding opportunities.”

“Speaking from experience?” she asks.

“Me?”

“Yeah. You have siblings too? Matching outfits and everything?”

“When we were kids,” I say, and immediately see the images in my mind’s eye. Photos Naomi still has in her wallet—faded and creased—me in Michelle’s lap, coordinated Santa and Frosty the Snowman pj’s, Michelle red-cheeked and grinning past the camera at Naomi while little toddler me just stared, dazed and delighted.

“Not so much these days,” I add, trying to ignore the pang in my heart.

“Because they don’t make matching pajamas big enough?”

“Ha, no, we just don’t talk anymore,” I say quickly, but then regret it, because that answer requires an explanation—one I don’t want to get into.

“Which… makes it tough to coordinate outfits, ha,” I say, attempting to keep it light and move things along.

Now I’m the one chewing my lip.

“Hm.” She seems to consider this, and maybe she’s picking up my tell, because she is definitely looking at my mouth now. “I guess communication can be hard, huh?”

“Seriously,” I say, and wow, this got real. “Which is precisely why I love Christmas!”

I straighten up and flash my customer service smile again; I never want to be the one bringing negative vibes—very un-Yuletide.

“Because… writing letters to Santa is easier than talking to people?” she asks.

I laugh, but it isn’t far from the truth, actually.

“Well, it’s definitely more fun sometimes,” I say. “But also because you get to tell people how you feel with gifts. Zero words required! If you prefer to avoid them.”

Or if, like me, you’re just terrible at using them, I think.

“I guess. If you can find the right gifts,” she says, kicking the dirt absently, her hands still in her pockets.

“Uh-oh, do I detect some gifter’s block?” I ask.

Her mouth pulls to one side, and then she blows a little air through her lips. I don’t know her, but I know this expression: the universal sign for stumped.

“Maybe,” she says. “Everyone in my family is so hard.”

“You’ve come to the right place,” I say. I crack my knuckles and roll my neck. Maybe I can’t be more chill, but this? This I can do.

For some people, gifting is an obligation, a chore, or a hassle. For me, it’s an Olympic sport. I don’t just plan. I train. I listen all year, keep extensive notes, and take great pride in knowing details about the people in my life: what they really love and want and need, even when they don’t say it out loud. Maybe especially when they don’t say it out loud.

She looks around at the fields and the trees, then back at me. I jab my two thumbs toward myself. “It just so happens that aside from assaulting strangers with hot beverages, gifting is my love language and well-documented specialty. Consider me your personal concierge of presents.”

“Okayyyy,” she says. “I’ll bite. I have literally no other ideas.”

“Let’s just start with what we know.”

She nods in the kid’s direction. He’s moved on to the next row of trees, where a brilliant red cardinal has taken up residence in a tall spruce.

“Well, he’s a total mystery now. I have to rely on what he used to say he liked, before…”

I wait, wondering if she’ll elaborate, but she doesn’t. Maybe she’s feeling what I was just a moment ago, not ready to share something that might not be so pleasant and festive, so I try to carry the conversational flag.