Page 39 of The Christmas Yes List

“Will you get one too?”

My heart thuds three more times while I process this.

A chuckle escapes my throat, a laugh of easing pressure.

“Because,” he says, looking down at my own black ensemble, “I didn’t want to interrupt you during your vainglorious dig at my clothes today, but you don’t exactly look the holly jolly cheery part yourself.”

I grin. “You think I don’t have sweaters with reindeer noses on them in my suitcase?”

“I’d wager a bet you don’t.”

He’s right. I may not look quite as stuffy as him, but I certainly don’t have anything that screams Christmas in my bag. “Fine,” I say. “Tell you what—I’ll let you find me the happiest sweater you can tomorrow, and you let me find you the same.”

“A holiday sweater swap,” he muses. “Good for the family photos.”

“Our families will thank us.”

“It’s only right.”

And so, roughly three seconds before a three-year-old tries (in vain) to yank open the passenger’s door and get her uncle’s attention, it’s agreed.

Tomorrow, at the respectable time of three o’clock, after hours of quality time with each of our families, I’ll be picking up James for our adventure.

And I couldn’t be more excited.

Chapter 4

So, on the bright side, today was quite possibly the best day I’ve had in at least three years. The only reason I will limit myself to three is because my memory isn’t that great. It very well could be more.

But the downside? The Christmas No List is not going too well. After a lengthy sit-down dinner with the family, a tour of our little bungalow house I lived in my entire childhood (during which I was informed about the new light switch dimmers and kitchen disposal with “four-stage multi-grind technology”), and a storm-in from Genie demanding a full explanation for the man I’d toted along from the airport, it’s well into the twilight hours before I have a chance to take a breath and go over the day at last.

I’m an analyzer. Not a very good analyzer, clearly, but I do draw comfort in unwinding at the end of the day and going back over what happened.

It helps me think (sometimes too much). It helps me formulate plans for the future (many of which, in the past, I’ve ignored). But most importantly, it helps me collect the scattered thoughts from all throughout the day and put them into organized piles.

I’ve been getting better at thinking just enough.

I’ve actively worked to formulate plans and follow through.

And now? Now it’s just a lovely time to sit back, relax, and go, What the heck just happened?

Few things have changed in my old bedroom since my high school days. The consistency isn’t quite mausoleum level—posters have been removed and the smell of fresh paint still tinges the nostrils courtesy of Mom’s hasty demand for Dad’s hasty project the second she got off the phone with me sixty hours ago. The walls are now the color of moss. A light moss. The sweet pea green is “therapeutic and grounding,” according to Mom’s deep research into the internet. Her words exactly.

A new and also moss-colored rug lies on the floor, deep and shag-like, the kind your toes sink into when you walk across the room. The desk, bed, and lamp are the same but have been polished ’til the whole room smells thickly of lemon solvent, and dear Mom went the extra mile for Christmas by placing not entirely coordinating but still entirely cheerful holiday decor about the little room. There are snowflake throw pillows on the bed. Red-and-black flannel throws on the chair. There’s even a tiny Christmas tree glowing on the bedside table.

She’s determined to make me feel better, and I’m grateful. I’m also sorry for how much heartache I’ve caused by skipping trips home over the years.

A stack of reads is on the nightstand beside me, ranging from the heavily highlighted self-help book that is currently occupying all my attention these days to a couple of hardcover Advent reads and Christmas novels Mom placed there earlier in the day. My journal sits atop the stack by my Bible, and it’s my journal I reach for now.

I go to the page where I documented my first win earlier today. Rub the eraser distractedly over my chin.

Now what exactly would count as a win for the day?

I flip through the day’s events, the questions I asked James and the answers he gave every time, and sigh.

I mean, it’s not as though I didn’t try. I should get some credit for that, shouldn’t I? It’s not like I can force a rejection.

Fifteen minutes of flipping back through the pages of Dr. Yelensky’s work and mulling over what’s fair versus what moves the needle of progress, and it’s decided.