Chapter 6
It’s pouring when I arrive on his doorstep for Christmas Eve two days later.
Maybe it’s fitting. After we went back to the house that night, we both bottled everything back in, and now I’m about to step into a deluge. The comfortable cadence of eight nights of Hanukkah is being replaced by a whole new scenario: Christmas on delicate eggshells.
At least I’m grateful I now know why it’s delicate.
Cal’s parents open the door—it’s so obvious who they are, cautious optimism lining their faces the way it does Cal’s. His mother is almost as tiny as I am, but his father has the same build as his son.
“You must be Miriam,” his mother says, holding her arms out, tentative. I move forward to give her a hug, and I can hear the relief in her breath. “I’m Judy, and this is Charles. It’s so lovely to have you here.”
“Thank you for inviting me,” I reply, stepping inside. Their house is immaculate. It’s not fussy, but it’s put together. There’s Christmas decor everywhere—wreaths on every door; a porcelain Santa village lining the entry table; poinsettias bursting from every pot.
Everything is pleasant. They take my coat, they offer me a drink; they’ve put out a little organized plate of cheese and crackers. I clock that my favorite cheese is on the tray and smile, knowing who must’ve asked for it.
And as soon as I think of him, I hear Cal coming just from the creak of the stairs. These old houses never let anyone move with stealth.
“I’m sorry, no one told me you were here,” he says as he lumbers his way down. He’s in a red-and-green Christmas-patterned sweater, his hair up in a matching scrunchie, his expression nervous. He’s, frankly, adorable. And a sharp reminder of everything he said couldn’t happen the other night.
“No, it’s okay,” I assure him. “Your dad’s already working on a drink; I’m great.”
“Your socks and shoes are soaked!”
I look down. “It’s fine,” I say, waving him away. “Don’t worry about it.”
He shakes his head and walks toward the living room. I follow him in and am immediately captivated. There are lights across every inch of the space, and in the center is a giant Christmas tree, laden with more ornaments than I’ve ever seen. Cal leans down and rifles through the presents.
“I don’t know a ton about Christmas,” I say, “but I’m pretty sure you don’t just get to scam whatever presents you want on Christmas Eve.” He snickers and stands up, holding out a small wrapped gift. “What’s this?” I ask.
“Nothing, it’s just a little thing for you.”
“You said no—”
“It’s really not a big deal.” He motions for me to open it, and I don’t want to argue.
I unwrap it, and inside are some cozy-looking socks with bells and candy canes on them and the words Fleece Navidad.
“My parents love Christmas socks,” Cal explains.
“They’ll have them tomorrow, so I got you some and I figured .
. .” He looks down at my wet feet. “Seemed like tonight might be a better time to open them.”
I squeeze his shoulder, too worried that if I try to hug him, I might find myself leaning into him again, even though he made himself extremely clear the other night. “Thank you.”
His mom pops in to tell us dinner is ready, so we follow her to the dining room.
At dinner I finally understand what Cal meant the other day when he said he was being a version of himself in front of me and my family.
Because I’m doing it too—I now see what it means to be the buffer who stands between someone and the family they just cannot be at ease with.
His family is quiet, with an understandable undercurrent of sadness, but they don’t understand at all what he needs.
They’re proverbially tiptoeing around him, hoping that politeness will get them through an evening filled with elephant-sized land mines.
It’s so sweet and well meaning, and yet it’s stifling.
So I’m the most positive, entertaining version of myself I’ve ever been.
I tell his parents about Nosh Sticks. I hype up the story about Cal and Ethan at Hanukkah on the Square to make it as dramatic as possible.
I insist they open my gift—an olive oil from a small vineyard in Tuscany with a new filtration technique that I’m obsessed with and can go into a ton of detail about.
And I watch as my enthusiasm loosens all three of them up, jars that needed a bit of extra force to wiggle open.
After dessert, I get up to go, but we’re confronted with a small problem. The rain has turned into a Charleston-style torrent, and the street outside is already flooded.
“You can’t go home in that, dear,” Judy says when she peeks out the window.
“It’s very sweet you’re both being so respectful when staying with your parents, but we’re all adults here, and you really should just stay over.
You’d be coming for Christmas morning anyway, so it’s a bit silly.
” She pats my hand, her affection already so apparent. “We’re so glad you’re in Cal’s life.”
It’s the first time I’ve felt a twinge of regret for this entire charade. Maybe I should’ve felt it last week, but I couldn’t wish for never meeting Cal. But this part—these two people who lost a beloved daughter-in-law and had to watch their son suffer—maybe this I should’ve considered.
But I guess now apparently karma is coming for me—it’s going to put me alone in a room with a man I’m falling for who can’t bring himself to want anything from me. Great.
I look over at Cal, who seems equally stunned by this realization. “I can still walk you home if you’d rather—” he starts, but his mom cuts him off.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” She grabs my hand and starts leading me upstairs.
I look back at Cal, who’s stone faced and of absolutely no help.
“Do you want pajamas? I guess you can wear a T-shirt of Cal’s .
. . But maybe it’ll be nice for the morning—I have some extra Christmas pajamas, actually, so that’ll be cute.
” She starts rifling through a drawer in her room, and I’m powerless to stop her.
Cal comes up behind me and whispers in my ear: “I really can walk you back if you need me to.”
But his mom finds what she’s looking for and beams as she hands over the pajamas. The contentment in her face is impossible to contradict.
“Thank you, Judy,” I say. “I appreciate it.”
I look over at Cal, who’s nodding, accepting our fate as reluctantly as I am. “Thanks, Mom,” he says. “Well, I guess we’ll go to bed then.”
I follow him across the hall and into a room that looks like it’s stuck in his college era, with prominently displayed football trophies and generic art his mom probably picked out twenty years ago.
Picture frames line his mantel, and my heart aches at seeing photos of teenage Cal with a beautiful young woman who must’ve eventually become his wife.
Of course it’s hard being back here when every inch of this house is filled with happy, youthful memories.
“I can sleep on the floor.”
I turn around and see Cal looking miserable in the doorway.
“I’m not letting you hurt your knee more,” I say. “It’s fine, we can share a bed. It’ll be . . .” I glance over at the bed in question and realize it’s a full size. I look back over at Cal, whose eyebrows are raised.
“I’m small,” I squeak out. “I’ll be fine.”
Cal sits down on his bed, laughing. “I’m not. And I probably won’t be.”
I cover my face with my hands. “I was wondering if this was the karma we get for lying.”
“We’ve got two religions covered, might as well throw in a third.”
“No Christmas-related metaphors to help us out?”
“I think Santa mostly gives coal. There’s no Christmas carol about lying to your parents and ending up having to share a bed with a woman you like but shouldn’t date,” he says with a chuckle.
“There’s a joke in here somewhere about the naughty list, but they all feel in bad taste.”
He throws a pillow at my head, and I burst out laughing.
“I’m going to go put on my pajamas in the bathroom,” he says, standing up. “Because I’m a gentleman.” He gives me a wink as he closes the door.
So much should’ve been awkward for us at so many moments this past week. But somehow we always seem to slide right past everything. We always seem to bring out the joy for each other.
I guess I’ll just have to appreciate it for the little Hanukkah/Christmas-crossover serendipity it was and let it be a memory that makes me smile.
I change and get into bed. He slides in a few minutes later and turns off the light.
He is comically large compared to the size of this bed. I’m on the edge, and we’re still grazing each other, our breathing loud in the silence of the night.
“This is absurd,” he finally says, rolling over. “If we try and politely not touch all night, one of us is going to fall off the bed.”
I laugh at the image. “Yeah, I’m not really saving your knee if you eventually hit the floor with it.”
“Is it okay if I—”
“Yes,” I breathe, and immediately relax into him, his arm coming around me and slotting my small frame into his.
It’s amazing how quickly I go from wide-awake tension to dreamy cocoon, his chin grazing the top of my head and my feet above his, totally ensconced in his warmth.
And before I fall asleep, I swear I hear him whisper, “Your laugh makes everything easier.”
I wake up to an empty bed and wish I didn’t feel so disappointed.
If I had to become an “only one bed” cliché, shouldn’t I at least get the advantage of waking up unknowingly wrapped around the person I not-so-secretly like?
If today is my last day fake-dating Cal, don’t I deserve a Christmas miracle of some kind?
I guess someone who celebrates Hanukkah should have expected as much.
I pad downstairs, self-conscious of showing up with my hair unkempt and having only Cal’s bar soap to wash my face.
But when I walk into the room, everyone turns and looks so happy to see me.
It’s the polar opposite of what happens in my house.
I’m lucky if anyone even notices I’m there.
But in the Durand house, I’m the guest of honor.
Judy fusses over me and tells me how adorable I look in her pajamas (I think she’s just happy to have another short person around).
Charles hops up to grab me a coffee and a pastry from the kitchen.
And Cal looks at me with so much affection I could burst. He’s looking at me like maybe he got to wake up unknowingly wrapped around the person he not-so-secretly-likes (but-refuses-to-give-himself-a-chance-to-be-happy-with).
I can’t stop myself from sitting down on the couch next to him.
“I got you something,” he says, handing over a small wrapped box.
“Another one?” I chide.
“I know, but you had eight days to make me love Hanukkah, and I only have two nights and a day.”
“Technically there are twelve days of Christmas,” Judy says, unsubtly. Cal rolls his eyes and hands over the gift.
I open it and immediately start laughing. It’s an ornament, but clearly a Hanukkah one, painted blue with a menorah on it. The best part, though, is that it’s in the shape of a turtle shell.
“I can’t hang this in my house with Shells seeing it!” I giggle. “Where did you even get this?”
“I went into the gift shop at the synagogue on Hasell Street,” he says, as though that’s a normal place for him to pop in, and my heart squeezes at the thought of him surrounded by menorahs and gossipy gift shop volunteer ladies.
“Shells will be fine—it’s not a real shell.
You can’t buy or sell turtle shells, I found out.
But loggerhead sea turtles are the designated reptile of South Carolina, so they feature on a lot of local handicrafts. ”
“How long did some old woman talk to you about Hanukkah ornaments and sea turtles?”
“At least twenty minutes,” he says, fighting to keep a straight face.
“‘Designated reptile’?”
“Twenty-eight states have them. And before you ask, yes, New York also does, and it is also a turtle.”
“She did not know that off the top of her head,” I say. It’s now impossible to stop myself from cracking up.
“She actually did, Miriam, because her friend Esther’s cousin Jeffrey Dinowitz is a Bronx assemblyman, and he involved elementary school students in choosing the common snapping turtle. He got it passed in 2006.”
I’m laughing so hard I can feel my eyes tearing up. “You know, eight nights of Hanukkah could not have given you a more Jewish experience than that conversation,” I sputter out.
“It was definitely up there with flying gelt.”
My laughter gives me an excuse to snuggle into him, letting myself get away with this one last day of pretending.
And it really is the perfect day. I guess I should’ve assumed with all its hype that Christmas would be fun.
I watch as Cal and his parents open more presents, and I’m touched that Charles and Judy have a couple for me too.
We watch a few Christmas movies on the couch.
Everyone helps Judy with prep for Christmas dinner, and then we eat it at four in the afternoon for reasons no one could explain other than “tradition.” (Which, listen, as a Jewish person, all you have to do is say “tradition,” and we accept it.)
When Cal walks me out at the end of the night, we both linger as we watch each other, so much to say and yet no words to make it better.
“Thank you for making Christmas happy for me again,” he says. His eyes are on my messy hair, and I can see his hand practically itching to push it back. I’m disappointed he doesn’t.
“Thank you for making Hanukkah more fun than it’s ever been.”
He pulls me into a hug, quick, like it’s against his better judgment. But then he holds on, breathing me in, everything unsaid hanging between us.
And as much as I want to argue against his stance, I know better than anyone that you can’t force people to change.
I reluctantly pull back and give him a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll see you around the neighborhood, Cal.”
And then I walk away, the holidays officially at an end.