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“I’m not saying it’s an invalid thing to want. Just that it’s something you’ve been fed, like an advertisement. So… okay, the goal of any good book cover, right, is to make someone think that what’s inside is going to be awesome. The cover stands in for the content of the book. It has to, because you can’t consume the whole book in an instant.
“But it’s silly to imagine that the cover is the same as what’s inside. It’s a signal telling you what kind of thing you might get. But not necessarily an accurate signal. It’s an advertisement, designed to speak to the audience that might be interested. It’s the same thing as your Christmas. Those picture-perfect images of a snowy cabin in the woods, roaring fire, a glowy Christmas tree with perfectly wrapped presents underneath, smiling happy family in sweaters, et cetera. It’s a fiction. A romanticization.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “A fiction, huh? Sounds just like Rex’s cabin to me. Well, okay, maybe not the perfectly wrapped presents part.”
Will barked out a laugh. “Yeah, okay, well, those fuckers. Sure. But I mean, they’re basically bucking for world’s biggest sappy romance, so.”
“Why are you so pissed off that they’re happy?”
“What? I’m not. I’m glad Rex is happy. Even if it is with the Prince of Poetry.” His nostrils flared at the mention of Daniel.
“No, seriously.”
“I’m being serious. I am seriously happy that Rex got what he wanted. It obviously wasn’t me, so I’m glad he found Mulligan.”
“You just sound pretty bitter is all. Is it because you and Rex don’t talk as much anymore?”
“Jesus, I’m not bitter. I expected that, anyway. It’s pretty much what happens. People get into relationships and all they care about is their partner. Same thing happened with my friend Morgan. We used to hang out all the time, then she met her husband and… that was it. Whatever.”
“You’re not friends anymore?” I’d never even heard him mention a Morgan. “That’s so sad.”
He shrugged. “People give up pieces of themselves to fit into their relationships. Compromise yourself to fit with another person enough, and pretty soon they’re the only person you fit with anymore.”
“That’s the most awful description of relationships I’ve ever heard!”
“Hey, kiddo, there’s only so much that can fit on a postcard.”
In the time it took me to come up with a response to that, Will finished the chicken tikka masala in my bowl and began scooping basmati rice out of the container and into his mouth using a piece of naan as a shovel. I gave up the rest of the food for lost and just pushed my bowl toward him so he could sop up the sauce with his rice.
Later, slaphappy and in a food coma from consuming an entire pumpkin pie that Will had pulled out of the freezer with relish and a wink, we put on Home Alone, which I hadn’t seen since I was a kid.
“This was my fantasy when I was a kid,” Will said. “To have the run of a mansion, eat pizza, and play with a shitload of toys.”
“Wouldn’t you have been lonely by yourself on Christmas?”
“Hell no. Bring it on. I’d rather have been alone instead of just—” He shook his head.
“Lonely?” I guessed.
“Whatever,” he murmured. “Move down.” And he positioned me where he wanted me, behind him on the couch so he could lean back against me. I was kind of squashed into the back cushions, but it felt perfect.
And so, so easy to almost believe that this was my real life. That Will and I would celebrate next Christmas together just like this, and the one after that.
“Hey, thanks,” I murmured into Will’s neck a few minutes later, after he’d settled on some old suspense thriller with Sandra Bullock that I’d seen bits and pieces of on TV as a kid. “For Christmas. And for letting me stay.”
At first I thought he wasn’t going to answer. He did that sometimes. Not to be mean, I had realized. But when he didn’t have anything to say. After a minute, though, he turned around to face me, the flicker of the television lighting his face dramatically. The sweep of his eyelashes cast a shadow, and the dip of his upper lip made me long to trace it with my tongue.
Then he kissed me. It wasn’t a kiss about lust or whim or chemistry. It was a kiss about Christmas and comfort and the pure joy of being here right now, on this couch with Will’s skin warm against mine as the snow blew against the window in a spray of icy crystals.
Will broke the kiss too soon, but didn’t turn away.
“So we’re basically, like, kissing now, huh?” I asked.
“Shh. We can kiss if we want to,” Will said, eyes still closed as if he were asserting a rule in some game that we had made up just for us.
