I remember, but I don’t say anything because I could listen to the low rumble of his voice forever. I glance up at him, knowing that even if I miraculously live to be one hundred, I’ll remember him exactly like this: long eyelashes, stubble on his chin, hair unruly.
“The pitcher threw a perfect ball. Hard, fast, straight down the middle. My dream pitch. And I struck out looking. Didn’t even swing.” He laughs a little, his eyes still on the wooden beams above us.
“What made you think about that?”
“A couple of things, I guess. I told myself that I’d never again strike out looking. Given the opportunity, I’m gonna swing. Every time. Drives my coach crazy. He’s always telling me I need more patience.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. And I was embarrassed. Couldn’t even look any of the guys in the eye in the locker room after the game. I was determined to bolt out of there and spend the rest of the weekend hiding in my room.”
“I know the feeling.”
“Yeah, except you were waiting for me outside the locker room with our bikes. We rode to Val Vista Lakes, scaled the wall, and swam in the clubhouse pool until the security guard chased us away.”
I grin at the memory. It was after Ivy but before Ruby, only a couple of weeks before the carnival. He splashed and tackled me into the pool, his hands on my waist without a second thought. I thought I’d die from the contact. It was the perfect spring night, and I was still drunk off the heady rush of first love. I hadn’t yet grown to resent him for loving everyone but me.
“That was a good night.”
“The best,” he agrees. “You saved me from a lonely night in my room. I’m here to do the same for you.”
“I can’t.” No way. I cannot face his family. It’s late enough that they must know something’s wrong with me. The thought of Fitz explaining my panic attack is too awful and embarrassing.
“You can.” He places a finger under my chin and nudges my eyes up. My gaze halts on his mouth before finally finding his eyes. They’re unreadable.
I slouch deeper under the covers. Fitz grabs the blankets with his hand and whisks them off the bed. “Stay if you want, but I revoke your blanket privileges.”
“That’s not fair!”
“My house. My rules.”
“Fine. I don’t need blankets anyway,” I grumble as I reach for the plate of cinnamon rolls.
“On second thought—” He snatches them out of my grasp and holds them above his head. “Your cinnamon roll privileges have also been revoked.”
I kick my heels against the bed. “I’m starving.”
“Good. Come upstairs.”
We scowl at each other for a full ten seconds before I give in. I groan and crawl off the bed. “Fine. You win.”
“Merry Christmas, indeed.” He chucks the blankets down the hall with a wide grin and bounds up the stairs three at a time.
* * *
Mom and I do Christmas like this: We wake up and immediately open our presents. Because it’s just the two of us and we have no money, this takes approximately four minutes. We spend the rest of the day lying around with Christmas movies playing in the background and enjoying our presents.
Fitz’s family is not like my family. First, they eat a giant breakfast including eggs, bacon, hash browns, and canned cinnamon rolls. After breakfast is the annual reading of the Christmas story from the Bible. They did these things while I hid and slept, and by the time Fitz and I make our grand entrance, Gray is lying on his stomach, chin on his hands, practically salivating at the giant pile of presents.
“Hey, buddy!” Fitz scoops him up and tosses him in the air. “You excited?”
“Santa came!” Gray cheers.
“Where are the Santa presents?” I look around the room, searching for a toy for Gray.
“Right here. I’m gonna open this one first! Can I, Mom? Please can I now? Fitz’s friend is done barfing now.”
“All right, all right. You’ve been patient. You can start.”
“That’s from Santa?” I whisper to Fitz. “Why is it wrapped?”
“What do you mean? Santa always wraps presents.”
“Not at my house.”
“No offense, but your Santa is wrong.”
We stare at each other in disbelief until Gray shrieks with delight when he sees the toy garbage truck, complete with trash cans and a working lift. Everyone in the family oohs and aahs and comments on it, and I assume it’s because Gray is three and they’re humoring him, but no. This is how they do Christmas. They take turns opening presents, and every member of the family watches. It makes the whole thing last forever.
“Thanks, Fitz; thanks, Paige!” Jane says as she pulls on a pair of black-and-white fingerless gloves. “These will be perfect for when I’m writing!”
After multiple family members thank me for gifts that I didn’t purchase, it’s clear that Fitz included my name on all his gifts. And if I wasn’t so distracted by the shrinking pile of presents under the tree, I’d be touched by his thoughtfulness. As it is, I’m freaking out. I glance under the tree approximately every five seconds, but nothing. Noelle catches my eye and shakes her head, confirming that she hasn’t found the letter either. I refuse to accept that it’s gone. It has to be here. Except the pile under the tree continues to dwindle, and the letter never materializes.
Structure breaks down eventually. Whit helps Gray assemble his new Hot Wheels track from Santa while Meg tries to soothe an extremely fussy baby. Darcy and Mr. Wilding are involved in a lively debate about health care and Mrs. Wilding cleans up stray wrapping paper while Jane lies on the couch with a new book.
“Ready to open your present?” Fitz says, drawing my attention back to him. I turn so we’re facing each other, both sitting cross-legged on the ground, knees touching. My automatic response is to inch back, but I don’t. I let my knees rest against his as my entire focus zeroes in on that contact.
“You first.” I thrust his present into his hands.
He tears the small box open. “A baseball?”
“My turn for a story. Do you remember the district championship game last year?”
“Yeah.”
“You made that out at third and won the game.”
A slow smile appears as he looks back at the ball in his hands. “This is the ball?”
“That’s the ball.”
“But how’d you get it? They told me I couldn’t have it!”
“I know.” I can’t help but match his grin.
“Do I want to know what you did?”
“Don’t ask,” I laugh. After the game, I heard him ask if he could keep it. The district’s official stance is that they don’t give balls to the players for funding reasons. So, I waited until the coach wasn’t looking, and I took it. Technically it’s not stealing because I left a five-dollar bill in its place.
“It’s perfect. Thank you. Now it’s your turn.” He hands me the last present under the tree.
I break the gold ribbon with my finger and gently tear the green paper. Inside is a small black box, the kind used to hold a diamond bracelet in Fitz’s rom-coms.
My breath catches.