Chapter 25
Jack
Twenty Four Weeks
“This is fucked up.”
“Oh come on, it’s festive!”
Abby and I stand side by side in her bathroom, my face in the mirror reflecting a miserable grimace while hers radiates the joy of the Christmas season.
The reason for our antithetical expressions is found twelve inches below eye-level in the form of matching reindeer sweaters. Complete with light up noses.
Bah humbug.
“Abby, you cannot expect me to wear this,” I plead, finding her emerald eyes in the reflection only to see her pressing her lips tightly together in an effort not to laugh.
“What’s worse, these or the Minion suits?” she chokes out, slowly losing the fight against her giggles.
“You know what, I’ll wear the minion costumes again next year if you let me take this off right now.”
“Absolutely not,” she sings, turning on her heel and flouncing out of the bathroom.
“Abby, they’re going to eat me alive,” I call out desperately, trailing behind her while she gathers a tray of cookies and a gift wrapped with the utmost precision. “They still send me random Minion memes. I’ll never live this down.”
“Lucky you have nearly two decades worth of dirt on them,” she says, completely unbothered by my plight. “Hurry up, we’re going to be late.”
“And if I say no?”
She huffs before turning to face me. To my horror, her lower lip begins trembling and her eyes well with tears.
Shit.
“Hey, don’t cry, pretty girl,” I cry in alarm. “If it means that much to you, of course I’ll wear it.”
In an instant, her face shifts into a look of satisfaction, and she casually wipes the tears from her eyes.
“You faker,” I say accusingly.
“I love when that works,” she sighs. “Now grab your gift, and the eggnog if you would, please.”
Muttering under my breath, I go to the fridge to retrieve both the traditional eggnog and the eggnog vodka before grabbing my gift off of the coffee table. Unlike hers, mine is shoved in a bag from the Dollar General, which is stuffed with rainbow tissue paper (they were out of Christmas wrapping).
When I begrudgingly join her in the entryway, she reaches for the doorknob, then pauses.
“Did you forget something?” I ask.
“No, but,” she says, her fingers drumming nervously on the edge of the cookie plate. “You keep calling me that, and I don’t know if you mean it, or if you’re just trying to be nice.”
“Calling you what?”
“‘Pretty girl.’”
I freeze, paralyzed from the shock of the question. It’s the last thing I expected her to bring up. Honestly, it’s the last thing I expected her to notice. But more overwhelming than the shock is the indignation at the thought that she thinks I don’t mean it.
“Of course I mean it,” I say emphatically.
“How many times do I have to tell you that? I mean, come on, look at you. You’re the only person I know that looks equally pretty in a Minions costume and a fancy dress and a reindeer sweater.
You’re a vision, Abs. All day, every day, ever since I’ve known you. ”
Her cheeks flush, her expression unreadable.
“If it makes you uncomfortable, I can stop,” I say quickly. “It honestly just slips out, I don’t even know when it started.”
“The night you came home from the bar,” she says softly, picking at the plastic wrap covering the frosted sugar cookies. “When you woke me up from the couch.”
My stomach lurches in a mixture of dread and thrill.
She remembers the exact moment.
"It doesn't make me uncomfortable," she continues, still not meeting my eye. "It's nice to feel seen. To be seen as something other than a widow or a baby incubator. It helps me remember that I'm a real person, that I'm not just the sum of all the tragedies of the last six months."
"You are very much a real person," I say, stepping up close to her, wishing more than anything that our hands weren't full right now. "I see you, Abby. And I don't see tragedy, or a monolith, or any of the other things your brain is trying to tell you that you are—I just see my pretty girl."
Her breath hitches, and I hold mine in tandem, waiting for her response. Did I push it too far by calling her my pretty girl?
"For what it's worth," she says, her tone taking a playful edge. "I don't see you as a minion or a reindeer."
"Oh yeah?" I chuckle, deciding in a split second to crack open a door I've kept closed shut. "What do you see, then?"
She pauses, her eyes searching my face like I'm the one holding the answer.
"I just see my Jack Robbit."
Hers.
No nickname on the planet has ever sounded better.
***
"Aw, Jacky boy," Ellie cries when she rips the rainbow tissue paper out of the bag to reveal her gift. "It's beautiful. Where did you find it?"
She holds up the antique painting of an iris, showing it off to a chorus of "oohs" and "awws."
"Granny frequents antique shops," I say with a shrug, groaning when she plants a kiss on my cheek with a dramatic flourish. "Which means I frequent antique shops."
"That feels like cheating," David says crossly.
"No, that feels like someone who pays attention," Griffin laughs. "Great job, man."
"Okay, Abby is next," Ellie says, clapping her hands excitedly. "Who had Abby?"
"Okay, let me say something," David says, keeping his gift out of Abby's reach. "I thought we were doing gag gifts. I didn't know you guys were showing up with sentimental shit."
"What gave you that impression?" Ellie scoffs. "It's Secret Santa, not White Elephant."
"Gag gifts are the only kind he knows how to give," I say in a patronizing tone, which gets me a swift middle finger from David.
"I don't care," Abby huffs, her hands stretched in front of her, grasping at nothing. "Gimme, gimme, gimme."
David begrudgingly hands her the box, burying his face in his hands when she snatches it from him. She takes the lid off the box, chokes, and immediately slams it back down. Her head whips toward David, mouth hanging open and face turning bright red.
"David Romero, what the hell is wrong with you?" she gasps.
"I'm sorry," he groans, the sound muffled through his fingers. "I really thought we were doing jokes."
"What's the joke here?"
"You know, from a few months ago when Jack—"
"STOP TALKING," she shouts, so loudly we all jump.
"What did he get you?" Ellie yells, ripping the box away from Abby and taking the lid off again. Like Abby, she quickly replaces the top, cheeks turning a startling shade of pink. "David, have you lost your mind?"
Griffin and I make eye contact, grinning wickedly before rushing the girls and stealing the box before they realize what's happening.
We ignore the overlapping protests, removing the lid and chucking it clear across the room.
Griffin hoots loudly, rolling off the edge of the chair and onto the floor, gripping his stomach as he laughs harder than I've ever seen before.
I, on the other hand, find absolutely nothing funny about the situation.
Inside the box lays another box, bright purple with the words "Sex Toys For Moms" printed across the top in white.
Below the words is a photo of an enormous purple vibrator, bookended with the words "Moms Deserve Orgasms Too" scrawled in a fancy cursive along the bottom of the box.
"What," I say slowly, too shocked to care about the way my own cheeks are flaming, "Is wrong with you?"
"I thought it was a funny callback," he moans, his face distraught. "You know, from when—"
"STOP TALKING," me, Ellie, and Abby shout again in unison, and Griffin is instantly up in arms.
"What the hell? Is there something everyone knows except for me?" he says accusingly, rounding on Ellie.
"It's not my secret to tell," she says, patting him on the cheek. "You'll have to ask Abby permission."
"Okay but what if Jack says no?" I interject. "What about Jack's permission?"
"Don't care, didn't ask," Griffin says, waving me off without taking his eyes off of Ellie. "Abby, can Ellie please tell me?"
"I guess," she sighs, her face still crimson. "But not now. Later. Please."
"Excellent," Griffin cackles as I swear under my breath.
"I was going to make a joke about an upgrade," David says quietly, looking (rightfully) ashamed. "I'm sorry Abby, I wasn't trying to do anything malicious. I'll get you three genuine gifts to make up for it."
She shakes her head, smiling at him, "No take backsies, David. But I will take three additional gifts, thank you very much."
He grins sheepishly, shoulders relaxing once he realizes no one is actually mad at him.
"You'll have to let us know—"
"Do not finish that sentence," I growl, everyone's eyes widening in surprise at the harshness in my tone.
"I was just kidding," he says nervously.
"Sorry," I say, dragging my hand down my face and attempting to regain my composure. "That just caught me off guard. I don't know what I was expecting, but it wasn't—"
"A bright purple sex toy?" Abby snickers. "Jack Robbit, you prude."
I shoot her a warning glare, but instantly relax at the joy on her face. David might be an idiot, but how can I be mad at something making Abby smile this bright?
"I'm not a prude," I mutter, crossing my arms over the LED reindeer nose in faux annoyance.
The rest of the gifts are boring in comparison—a coffee mug with the new company logo for Griffin, a Lego set for David, and an updated car emergency kit for me.
"You realize I have all this shit at work right?" I ask Griffin.
"That's for you to keep in your Jeep for when one of us calls you instead of 911," he says through a mouthful of cookie.
"Please do not do that," I say flatly as everyone else laughs.
We clean up the wrapping paper, arguing the entire time about what should be saved, what can be trashed, and who is taking what food items home, before ending the night with hugs, kisses, and echoed 'Merry Christmases'.
In what's becoming a habit (and one of my favorite things), Abby and I cross the street arm in arm, returning to the house that feels increasingly more like a home every day.
"Hey, wait," I say softly, catching her wrist before she retreats to her room for the night. "I got you something."
"Jack," she scolds, scowling. "We were only supposed to get something for the name we picked."
"I couldn't help it," I reply. "I saw it and I thought of you. Let me go grab it."
I reach behind the couch-bed, which I'd pulled forward about six inches to fit, and retrieve the delicately wrapped present from the gap.
"I knew that couch moved," she hisses. "I've been tripping over it all week."
"Sorry, pretty girl," I say, not sorry one bit. "Here, open this."
"But I don't have anything for you," she whines, her lower lip jutting out.
"I don't care," I laugh. "I didn't get it so you'd get something for me in return. Please, open it."
She narrows her eyes at me, but gives in to my request, untying the ribbon Granny wrapped so beautifully around the box. After what feels like an eternity, she finally opens the box, gasping softly at the contents inside.
"Jack, this is beautiful," she whispers, lifting the gift from the box. Holding the hook up high with her fingers, a dozen pieces of thin string, all different lengths, unfurl from a wooden hoop, each with a pale yellow fabric butterfly attached to the end. "Where did you find this?"
"The same store I found Ellie's painting," I murmur. "I saw it and remembered you saying how much you like watching the butterflies when the flowers bloom during spring. I thought Little One might like them, too."
Her gaze stays fixed on the antique baby mobile, mesmerized by the butterflies fluttering slightly in the stream of warm air from the ceiling vent.
"Merry Christmas, pretty girl," I say, stepping up close behind her and reaching around to spin the mobile. "Do you like it?"
She watches it spin for a few more moments before gently placing it back in the box and turning to look at me.
"I love it, Jack," she says, eyes sparkling with tears. "Thank you."
"Hey," I say, wiping a tear off her cheek. "I didn't mean to make you cry."
"Happy tears," she says with a watery chuckle. "This is the best gift anyone has given me. How do you always know exactly what I want, even before I do?"
"I don't know," I shrug. "I pay attention, I guess."
It's the easiest thing in the world to pay attention to you.
"I love you, Jack Robbit," she says, wrapping her arms around my waist. "Merry Christmas."
"I love you, too," I say simply in return. Because I can't tell her what I really want to say, what I'm really feeling in this moment.
Which is that the only thing I want for Christmas is to never have to let her go.