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Patrick is staring at the boys near us, who have devolved into wrestling and are at risk of tipping over the nearest shelf. That would send ornaments and delicate glass figurines tumbling to the floor. Eyes flitting to me for a fraction of a distracted second, Patrick says, “Oh, yeah, right.”

“And I think we could get some garland or something, just for⁠—”

“Cami.” Patrick takes me by the biceps, staring into my eyes like we’re soldiers on the battlefield and not two adults willingly shopping together. “I just want to do whatever will get us out of here faster. I trust your discernment.”

“Oh,” I say, eyes widening in surprise. Sure, I thought he would cave, but not this fast. And I didn’t expect to get a compliment during the process. “Okay. Let’s get this done.”

Gesturing to an attendant, I ask them to bring one of their largest trees up to the front for me. I gather faux-incandescent bulbs—safe but cozy-looking—and drop them into the cart. Garland goes next, then tinsel and ornaments. Patrick’s gaze lingers on a pack of identical silver bulbs, but I reach for a variety of shapes, colors, and sizes, and he relents.

“You really, actually like Christmas, don’t you?” Patrick asks when we’re safely away from the decorations and waiting to check out our bulging cart.

I glance at him, noting the slightly glazed look in his eyes. I used to get like that, too, shopping with my mom during the holidays.

“Yeah,” I admit, fingers tightening on the cart’s handle. “Although I went through a teenage phase like anyone else.”

“What do you mean?”

Our eyes catch again. This time, his are more alive. It sends a chill over my arms, and I rub at them absently. Gentle beeps sound from the front of the line. We’ve got a while before we’ll make it up there, so I might as well tell him.

“Well, I told you that I grew up in a Christmas town, right?”

“Right.”

“I feel like pretty much every teenager goes through a period of disillusionment. I mean, I found out about Santa, and that was the first blow, but it was like the older I got, the more the shine came off of things. I saw some imbalances in labor—how hard my mother and grandmother worked to make things special versus the guys. Then I got a smartphone, got social media, and saw all these other Christmas mornings that were so much better than ours.”

Patrick nods, glances away. It makes me wonder if he was the kind of kid surrounded by gifts, opening thing after thing without even realizing how special that was. For me growing up, the “big” gift was usually something we all shared—a new gaming console or a foosball table. For the kids I saw online—teenagers—they got handfuls of “big” gifts, all to themselves. A new Xbox, expensive make-up, fancy dresses, vacations.

“Anyway, I was kind of a bummer a few Christmases in a row. My mom got tired of it, asked me what was going on with me. I told her that Christmas had lost its sparkle for me, that it wasn’t as good as I thought it was.”

I go quiet, remembering the moment in our quiet kitchen, first thing in the morning. Rather than going straight to the living room for gifts, I’d wandered into the kitchen to pour myself a black coffee. I didn’t actually like black coffee, but I thought drinking it without creamer made me more adult.

“So, what did she say?”

Startling slightly, I’m surprised to find Patrick still interested in what I’m saying. I clear my throat, tilt my head from side to side, and try to keep tears from my eyes as I recall it. “She told me that Christmas doesn’t just have sparkle. We give it sparkle. Believing in it is what makes it special. Winters are hard and cold, and someone a long time ago wanted something to look forward to, a bright spot right in the middle of it all. We choose to keep doing it—putting up the lights and getting together and helping the community—because we are the shining spot. The more of us there are, the brighter we can glow.”

“Wow,” Patrick says, as we near the front of the line. “Your mother sounds like a smart woman.”

There’s something in his voice that I can’t quite make out. Before I can push, dig and see why he sounds so sad saying it, the cashier is greeting me and asking if the big tree is for my order.

“Yes! Yes, it is!” I say, grinning widely at her as we quickly put all our new decorations up on the belt.

CHAPTER 11

PATRICK

The first store is bad enough that I’m genuinely shocked to find Cami punching in the navigation for a second, and a third. It’s not the spending that bothers me; I didn’t even look at the total when I was handing my card over.

It’s the time. The wandering around, drifting from aisle to aisle. Studying our options like it really matters what color ornaments we choose. It’s the strange feeling I get walking down the various aisles with her. Like we are a couple. Like I’m yet another man going into a store with his girl, just wanting to make her happy but loathing every minute I have to spend inside.

And I do want to make her happy.

Cami is doing me a huge favor by going through with this whole thing, and I understand how strange a request it was. I understand the risk here, too. If anyone finds out about this, Cami will either have to lie to them too, or tell them the truth about our situation. And I’m not sure which is worse.

My feet start to hurt, despite the fact that I’ve run half-marathons without feeling this kind of pain. I get a dull ache in the back of my head, and all the decorations start to blur together: gnomes with Santa hats. Red trucks with Christmas trees in the back. Reindeer and Santa’s sleigh and snowflakes. I start to identify the different color schemes—silver and blue in one section, red and green in another, an eclectic rainbow mix in yet another that Cami seems drawn to immediately.

She directs me through the stores. We dodge little kids and other people out buying their decorations once the shelves are a little too picked through to really call it a “choice.” Cami is patient and smiles at every person we see, even the ones on their phones, not paying attention to where they’re going, and not even saying sorry when they nearly dump a latte right onto Cami’s nice knit sweater.

As we shop, she tells me more about her family traditions.