39. Nico
Adrian was waiting in front of his building, taking a puff from his vape as I turned the corner.
It was just starting to snow. He was wearing a grey wool coat that skimmed his calves and a dark green scarf.
With his pink hair, the effect was almost Christmas-y.
At his feet were several shopping bags bearing the Holt Renfrew logo.
He tucked his vape into his inner pocket when he spotted my car. I popped the trunk and he loaded his bags in next to mine before rounding to the passenger seat. Small droplets of water clung to his pink hair and he looked like a sugarplum fairy.
He leaned over the console to kiss me and he tasted like a crisp winter's morning and herbal sweet.
“Merry Christmas, Nicky.”
“Merry Christmas, Adrian.”
He slipped a small, silver wrapped package into my hand.
“Do you want me to open this now? I have something for you too but it's in the back.”
“I have something for you to unwrap in front of your family but this one is not suitable for family presents.”
I tore into the heavy paper and slipped the lid off a plain black box. Nestled inside a velvet cushion was a heavy gold keychain engraved with Nicky in script, attached to a small remote. I picked it up—it didn't look like a car remote. It only had three buttons: power, plus, and minus.
I glanced up, confused, and was taken aback by the look of pure want on Adrian's face.
“I'm sorry, I don't know what this is?”
“It's the remote to the vibrating butt plug I slipped in half an hour ago.” His voice was low, rough at the edges. “So my ass would be ready for you tonight. My end of the night Christmas present.”
“Holy shit.”
I gleefully pressed the power button and hit plus twice. Adrian gasped, his hand shooting out to grip my thigh, nails digging in through my jeans.
“Fuck—Nicky—”
“You're going to sit through Christmas dinner with my parents with this inside you?”
“That was the plan.” His breath was already uneven. “Though I'm starting to question my life choices.”
I hit plus again just to watch his eyes flutter shut.
“You're evil,” he breathed.
“You started it.”
I turned it off—merciful, for now—and pulled away from the curb. Adrian's hand stayed on my thigh the entire drive, grip tightening every time I hit a bump in the road.
◆◆◆
My parents' house was as warm and bright as a holiday postcard.
Garlands on the staircase. A tree that Margaux had helped decorate, which meant ornaments clustered heavily on the lower branches and a slightly bald patch near the top where her arms couldn't reach.
The smell of my mother's tourtière drifting from the kitchen.
My mother opened the door before we'd made it up the steps.
“Merry Christmas, maman.” I leaned down to hug her and she did the thing she always did—held my face in her hands for a few moments, studying me with quiet, searching eyes. Checking. Always checking.
“Merry Christmas, mon chou.” She smiled, seemingly satisfied with whatever she found, and kissed both my cheeks.
My father's hug was more perfunctory but no less warm. A firm squeeze, a clap on the back, and then he was stepping aside to let us in.
Adrian charmed them immediately.
He'd brought flowers for my mother—winter roses, elegant and understated—and a bottle of wine that made my father's eyebrows lift in appreciation.
“Mr. Fontaine. Mrs. Fontaine,” Adrian said smoothly. “Adrian Zhao. Pleased to meet you.”
As if anyone in Canada wouldn't recognize the pink haired figure skater with a face that regularly broke the internet. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from giggling.
My mother laughed. “Oh, absolutely not. We are not doing that.” She took the bouquet and leaned in to smell it, delighted. “Call us Dominic and Geneviève, please. If you call me Mrs. Fontaine I’m going to feel like my mother-in-law.”
My father’s mouth twitched—his version of a grin. “Dominic,” he echoed, offering his hand. “And thank you. That’s a good bottle.”
Adrian shook it, still smiling. “Dominic. Geneviève. Thank you for letting me intrude on your holiday.”
My mother's eyes softened in a way that made something in my chest unclench.
This was already going better than I'd hoped.
I'd worried she might be cold, protective—especially after Théo.
She had only learned about our relationship after it imploded, when I'd come home hollow eyed and unable to explain why I was falling apart.
She'd held me while I cried and asked careful questions until she pieced together that I'd been hiding our relationship for three years.
Someone I'd kept secret because her brother would freak out if he knew and I didn't want Renaud to nuke Théo's career just because he'd made the fatal error of falling for me.
I'd promised her then—no more hiding. She'd been cautiously encouraging when I started seeing Julien. Getting back on the proverbial horse. And then my overdose destroyed whatever fragile trust I'd rebuilt. Now she watched me with constant, careful worry.
But here was Adrian. Standing in my parents' foyer with flowers and wine and his pink hair and visible piercings, making no effort to be anything other than exactly who he was.
My mother reached out and squeezed Adrian’s shoulder. “If you're important to Nico, you're already family,” she said, decisive.
The relief that flooded through me must have shown on my face because Adrian caught my eye over her shoulder and smiled—soft, private, meant just for me.
Then a small thunderclap of footsteps on the stairs and Margaux came barrelling down in a frilly red dress and white tights, nearly wiping out on the landing before skidding to a halt in front of Adrian like she'd been launched from a cannon.
She looked up at him. Way up. Then her whole face split into a grin.
“Your hair is so pretty,” she said with the undisguised fascination of an eight year old. “Did it hurt to dye it?”
“Not at all. The pink is very gentle.”
“What about those?” She pointed at his ears. “Did those hurt?”
“A little pinch. Nothing too bad.”
Margaux turned to my mother, batting her eyelashes innocently. “Maman, can I get my ears pierced?”
“When you're twelve.”
“But—”
“Twelve, Margaux. We’ve had this discussion.”
Adrian caught my eye and grinned. I reached into my pocket, feeling the embossed buttons with my fingertips and clicking twice.
His composure flickered—just for a second, just enough for me to notice—before he smoothed it back into place. The look he shot me promised retribution.
Dinner was easier than I'd expected. Adrian asked my father about his golf game and listened attentively to a 15 minute explanation of a particularly difficult hole at his club.
He complimented my mother's cooking with such genuine enthusiasm that she insisted on sending him home with leftovers.
He let Margaux show him approximately four hundred photos of Captain on her tablet and made interested noises at all the right moments.
And every so often, when no one was looking, I'd slip my hand into my pocket.
Plus.
Adrian would go very still. His fork would pause halfway to his mouth. A flush would creep up the back of his neck.
Then I'd turn it down and watch the tension drain out of his shoulders. His exhale carefully controlled. I'd wait exactly long enough for him to relax. Take a sip of wine. Nod along to whatever my father was saying about the neighbourhood parking situation.
Then I'd press the button again.
It was the most fun I'd had at a family dinner in years.
◆◆◆
After dessert—b?che de Noel, my grandmother's recipe—we gathered in the living room for presents. Margaux tore through hers with the single minded focus of a child on Christmas, wrapping paper flying everywhere.
For Margaux, Adrian bought a new grooming kit for Captain and a top-of-the-line tennis racket that she immediately declared the best present ever.
My father opened a set of premium golf balls with a pleased nod.
My mother slipped on the cashmere lined leather gloves he had chosen and declared them perfect for her morning walks.
Then Adrian handed me a small red box with a matching bow.
“This is the appropriate for family one,” he said quietly, so only I would hear it. “Open it.”
I pulled off the ribbon and lifted the lid.
Inside, nestled against black velvet, was a Cartier Love bracelet. Gold. Simple. Elegant. Inlaid with small diamonds that caught the light from the Christmas tree.
The whole point of the Love bracelet was the key. It couldn’t be removed without one—and the person who gave it kept it. You’re mine. A promise locked in gold.
“I noticed you never wear jewelry,” Adrian said. His voice was carefully casual but I could hear the nervousness underneath. “I thought—if you were going to start—it should be something meaningful.”
I turned it over. On the inside, engraved in delicate script: Fall seven times, get up eight.
His words. His philosophy. The tattoo I'd traced so many times I'd memorized the shape of each letter.
“You don't have to wear it if it's not your thing—” He stopped. Swallowed. “I know you've been knocked down a lot. I just wanted you to have something that says the getting up part matters more. And that I'll be here for that part. If you want.”
My mother was watching us with an expression I couldn't quite read. My father had gone very still. Even Margaux had paused her investigation of her new tennis racket grip.
I held out my wrist.
“Put it on me.”
Adrian's hands were steady as he fastened the bracelet using the little key pendant to secure it to my wrist. When it was locked in place, he lifted my wrist to his mouth and pressed a kiss to the pulse point just below the gold.
“Merry Christmas, Nicky,” he said softly.
“Merry Christmas, Adrian.”
My mother smiled. My father cleared his throat and said something about brandy. Margaux announced that she wanted a pretty bracelet too. Adrian promised he would get her one for her birthday.
And I sat there with Adrian's gift on my wrist and his other gift turned off in my pocket—but I would definitely be using it effusively later.