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Annalise:

My general pessimism?

Mackenzie:

No. You’ve just never experienced a Smith family Christmas. They’re magical.

Annalise:

Let me guess: you wake up in matching pajamas to a room full of presents and then sit down to a full turkey dinner wearing paper crowns?

Mackenzie:

We’re more of a sweatpants and old T-shirts kind of crew…but yeah, pretty much.

All of a sudden, I’m picturing him in sweatpants. Except he’s wearing no shirt, leaning back against the bed frame, that single lock of hair falling into his eyes as he types.

I begin to craft my next message in my head. What are you doing? What are you thinking about? Are you wearing a shirt? But before I actually text him, another message comes through.

Mackenzie:

Zee is back, and he’s wasted. We had to share a room tonight. He’s got someone with him, and I need to make sure she gets home.

I feel a zing of jealousy slice my stomach even though I have no official claim on him.

Mackenzie:

We are on the road tomorrow, but we’re in Rochester on Saturday. Maybe we can watch something together then?

My insides soften at the thought.

Annalise:

Sounds good

Mackenzie:

Good night Annalise

Annalise:

Good night Mackenzie

• • •

Saturday, we watch Romancing the Christmas Duke Two, then a few days later, combine my love of romance and murder with a Christmas-themed mystery aptly titled Mistletoe She Wrote. They’re the exact kinds of movies I love, but I find myself paying less and less attention to the plots and more and more attention to the text messages that accompany this new post-show ritual.

Mackenzie tells me about growing up in West Lake with his brothers and sister, who pranked, teased, and terrorized him daily but are still his best friends. I tell him about growing up in the city and the lackadaisical parenting that had me easily navigating the transit system like a pro by the time I was ten.

Our texts start to creep past our usual midnight-to-two texting window. One morning, while I’m at work, I get a pic of the world’s largest weathervane (Montague, Michigan), then later that afternoon, a picture of his new custom Nikes (express delivered from All the Other Kicks in Hamilton). I send back a shot of the amazing sour and spicy cold jelly noodles I splurge on for lunch, then the next morning, a photo of Nana’s Doughnuts’ new flavor of the month: sriracha peanut butter.

I have slowly morphed from a person who would turn off her phone at work and proudly declare “we are losing our humanity to screens” to someone who smiles every time a notification bubble appears.

So when I sit down for dinner on the second Thursday of November, my back wedged between the base of my couch and my feet shoved under the coffee table, my smile is wide when I look down and see that I have not one but two messages waiting to be read.

I click open the first. It’s from Koko. A pic of her arm holding out a beautiful vintage embroidered jacket. Scored this at the market, do you love? I heart her message and send back a smiley emoji and yes emphasized with three exclamation marks. The second text is from Mackenzie. It is also a picture. I click on it and zoom in.

It’s a selfie taken in what appears to be a dressing room mirror. He looks good. No, he looks great, and…