Chapter 47
Chapter forty-seven
Teddy
The living room looks like the North Pole exploded.
Wrapping paper is everywhere. Bows have been ripped off with the kind of primal chaos you only see in nature documentaries.
Two nutcrackers give me identical judgmental stares from either side of the fireplace.
One is missing a hand. I don’t know what happened, but I respect him for surviving it.
I’ve seen these decorations before, back at Thanksgiving, but now they’ve gone full holiday boss level, like the North Pole got a Pinterest account and no adult supervision. I half-expect to be offered cocoa by an animatronic Mrs. Claus.
Even with the over-the-top holiday décor, Christmas so far has been quiet. Cozy. Just the four of us lounging, with cinnamon rolls and coffee, laughter coming in soft waves.
And Helen.
She’s sitting next to me on the floor, hair tangled, cheeks pink from warmth and smiling. Her parents are on the couch, sipping from matching mugs that say Naughty and Nice. Her mom is Naughty. Her dad is Nice. Not sure if I agree with those labels, but whatever.
Even though Christmas hasn’t been loud or flashy, something about this moment feels huge. Like maybe, without meaning to, I’ve stumbled into something I didn’t even realize I wanted.
There are only a couple of presents left.
“Saved the best for last.” Helen hands me a small, square box wrapped in navy paper with tiny gold stars. The wrapping job is impeccable with crisp corners, perfect tape alignment, the kind of thing that screams I have a label maker, and I’m not afraid to use it.
I hold it up and raise an eyebrow. “Is this going to explode glitter in my face?”
She smirks. “Only if you’ve been naughty.” She waggles her brows at me in a very suggestive way.
From the couch, her dad clears his throat loudly. I give him my most innocent look. He glares back.
I tear into the paper with far less grace than it deserves and lift the lid.
Inside is a keychain. At first glance, it’s simple, a tiny surfboard carved from polished wood, but then I see what’s painted on the back in neat block letters that I recognize as Helen’s handwriting.
Still standing.
For a second, I can’t speak. Which, if you know me, is rare enough to qualify as a Christmas miracle.
Helen’s voice is soft beside me. “I saw it at this little shop near the beach and, I don’t know, it made me think of you. I added the words. After everything this year, what you survived, you’re still here. Still standing. I didn’t want you to ever forget how far you’ve come.”
I swallow the lump in my throat and run my thumb over each letter. I’ve never wanted to kiss someone more in all my life.
Instead, I slide the keychain into my palm and say, “Careful, Helen. Keep giving me gifts like this, I’m gonna end up at all your Christmases.”
Helen leans in, her voice low, just for me. “Maybe I’d like that.”
My heart stalls. It’s not even beating. She’s killed me with kindness. I press a hand to my chest. “Great. I’m flatlining. Again.”
Helen rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling.
I reach behind the couch and pull out a box. My wrapping job is, um, let’s call it abstract. The paper is wrinkled, there’s a rip on one corner, I used duct tape, but it’s what’s inside that counts. Right?
Helen opens it and laughs. That soft, delighted sound that makes my heart do weird things.
It’s a ballerina snow globe.
She lifts it gently, gives it a shake, and glitter swirls around the tiny dancer frozen mid-arabesque. “It’s beautiful.”
“It reminded me of you,” I say. “Delicate. Graceful. But look—” I tap the globe. “It’s plastic, not glass. Tough. Resilient. The kind that doesn’t shatter when it falls.”
She goes still, blinking at me like I just said something important without meaning to.
Silence stretches out, a beat too long.
I panic a little, sure I got it all wrong. I should have bought her something more expensive, fancier. Something that came in an actual box, with a warranty. I’m kicking myself hard enough to get mental bruises, but Helen launches forward and throws her arms around me, nearly knocking me flat.
“I love it,” she breathes against my neck, her voice thick. The globe is still clutched in her hand, held tight to her chest like it’s something precious. “It’s perfect.”
I lean in, my lips brushing her ear, and whisper, “Just like you.”
She shivers, and I swear I can feel her heart stutter against mine. Her breath catches. Slowly, she pulls back just far enough to meet my eyes. There’s something vulnerable in her expression, something open and real, and I know she feels it too. This thing between us.
Her gaze drops to my mouth, then slides back up.
For a second, we both lean in. The moment stretches, charged, like a held breath, but then she remembers.
Her eyes flick to the couch, where her parents are sipping coffee and pretending very hard not to notice what’s happening on the floor in front of them.
Helen bites her bottom lip and lets out a soft laugh.
“Later,” she whispers, her nose brushing mine.
I grin, heart thudding, already counting down the seconds. “Promise?”
She nods, cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling. So beautiful and, just like that, I’m done for. Totally, hopelessly gone.
Her dad grunts and stands. “Teddy, I got you something.” Surprised is an understatement. I roll away from Helen and go to meet him in the middle of the room, where he hands me a small gift bag. “It’s nothing big, but it’s practical,” he says without any change in his expression.
It’s a Swiss army knife. Engraved.
“Theodore Wright,” I read aloud, and then turn it over. “Semper Paratus.”
“Always ready,” he says. “That’s the Coast Guard motto, isn’t it?”
It is.
I swallow hard, nod, and manage to croak out, “Thank you, sir.”
He claps me once on the back with enough force to shake my spine. “Don’t cut off a finger.”
“If I do, your daughter can sew it back on.”
“Indeed she can.” He walks back to the couch to sit next to his wife, who beams at him like he just negotiated world peace.
Helen disappears for a second, then returns holding a large gift bag. Not the usual size, the kind you need both arms to carry. She sets it gently in front of her mom, then sits back down beside me, her hands wringing in her lap.
“This one’s from me and Dad,” she says softly.
Her mom raises a curious eyebrow, then reaches into the bag and pulls out a small potted rose bush. It’s dormant, the bare branches spindly and edged with thorns.
Helen clears her throat, her voice quiet but steady. “We know it doesn’t look like much right now, but roses lose their leaves in winter. When the time is right, they bloom again. Not the same as before, but still beautiful. Still growing.”
For a second, no one says anything. Her mom just stares down at the plant, fingers brushing the edges of a leaf like it might crumble if she held it too tightly.
Helen speaks gently. “We thought it might be nice to have something for the garden you planted out back. Something that blooms year after year. Pink roses are your favorite. That’s what this one is, a soft pink with scalloped petals.”
Her mom presses a hand to her heart. “I love it,” she says. “It’s a beautiful gift.”
Phillip puts his hand on his wife’s shoulder and holds it there.
I clear my throat, trying not to sound like I’m feeling all the feelings I’m definitely feeling. “I can help plant it,” I offer. “Back by the kitchen window maybe, where the sun hits in the morning.”
Her mom looks up at me with a warm, grateful expression. “That would be wonderful, Teddy. Thank you.”
“Great,” I say. “I’ll make sure it gets the best spot.”
Helen leans against me, her shoulder brushing mine, as we sit surrounded by the aftermath of Christmas.
Wrapping paper, twinkling lights, and something deeper.
No one says much, but it doesn’t matter.
Some moments don’t need words. They’re meant to be felt, to be quietly cherished, before they slip away.