26. Always?
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
always?
Christmas is my favorite holiday, always has been. Maybe it started because of presents when I was a kid—it definitely started because of presents when I was a kid—but it’s more now.
Winter is my favorite season, and not just because of snow and crackling fires.
It’s a time to be cozy and lazy, and when you find people being just a little bit nicer to each other.
It’s hot cocoa and warm mittens and noses pink from the cold.
It’s also when we get a new year. It’s arbitrary, sure, but it’s the time for starting over. And I love me a fresh start.
There’s something about the anticipation of counting down to a day that’s so enchanting and hopeful that has me delighted in a way few other things touch. Something about it all reminds me to be grateful for what I have, and that peace is priceless.
After breakfast with my parents on Christmas Day, I head out to the treehouse to meet Forrest like I do every year.
There’s a dusting of snow on the grass, enough to make the world feel just a little sparkly.
I linger for a moment, breathing in the distinct ozone smell of snow with pine that is never more perfect than on Christmas morning, before heading up the ladder to where Forrest is waiting for me.
“Were you admiring the Christmas magic,” he asks, but the way his voice doesn’t go up at the end tells me he knows the answer already. He’s leaning against the far wall, his long legs outstretched diagonally across the floor. We’ve gotten so big since the first time we met up here.
“It’s a distinct possibility,” I say, basking in the sheer joy of the day as I prop myself up beside Forrest, setting the gift bag I brought on my lap.
This is the best way we can both fit comfortably without folding ourselves like paper cranes, and in all the layers winter requires, that’s just not happening without cutting off circulation to all my limbs.
“Merry Christmas, Cam,” he says, bumping a leg against mine and dropping a card onto my thigh.
“Merry Christmas,” I say, giving Forrest his gift and tearing into the red envelope he gave me.
Inside is a flat card with a paper cutout of a chimney taped to the front.
For a handmade card, it’s surprisingly detailed.
Each brick is outlined with shading and coloring that makes me think I’ll feel the rough stone when I run my finger over it.
The background of the card shows the roof of a house, a whole neighborhood stretching beyond it, and it looks like I could step right into it.
Forrest has become quite the skilled artist over the last few years.
Out of the top of the chimney pokes a glittery Santa hat with a tiny pom-pom on the end.
When I touch it, it shifts, and I realize it’s removable, attached to a strip of paper with a collection of thin horizontal lines down the center of it, all different lengths.
Since our birthdays are right at the end of November, we have a rule that whatever we get each other for Christmas can’t cost more than twenty dollars.
Before high school, the rule was the gift had to be free, and even though we added a little budget once we both got our first part-time jobs, it feels a little like an unspoken challenge to stick to no-cost gifts.
This one, though, I can’t quite figure out. I look over at Forrest, perplexed. He gently takes my hand holding the Santa hat and turns it so the paper is sideways. Then he weasels his phone out of his pocket and opens the camera, holding the paper in front of the lens.
Oh.
The lines are like a song barcode that can be scanned. After a second, his music streaming app opens and “Little Drummer Boy” starts playing. It’s my favorite Christmas song.
“I made you a playlist,” Forrest explains. “This is the only Christmas song, but they’re all songs that make me think of you. Ones you’ve gotten stuck in my head or ones you insist on blasting in my car. Some that just… make me think of you.”
I take Forrest’s phone and look through the list he curated just for me, that telltale pressure building behind the bridge of my nose as I keep scrolling. It has everything, every side of me, every age of me, every part of me. I should feel exposed, but with Forrest, it feels safe.
“Forrest,” I start to thank him but my voice cracks, giving me away.
“Hey, Cam,” Forrest says, shifting so he can look at me. “Don’t cry.”
“It’s ok. They’re not sad tears,” I say, sniffing and raising a hand to wipe the wetness from my cheek so I’m not a total mess.
Forrest beats me to it, catching the drop with his thumb.
“You outdid yourself, Dane, that’s all.” I crack a smile as “The Thong Song” starts playing next.
I was with Forrest the first time I heard it, and I laughed so hard I snorted. Then we ended up in a cycle of laughing harder and harder until we were in physical pain with tears streaming down our faces.
“Your turn,” I say, flicking the outside of the reindeer-print bag I gave him.
“Um…” Forrest looks reasonably confused when he pulls out the sweatshirt I had rolled up inside.
It’s one of his that I’d stolen over a month ago. He’d been looking for it for weeks, while I did a very convincing impression of a clueless and sympathetic friend. It was plain and a little too big but always my favorite because it was the exact same shade of green as Forrest’s eyes.
“Are you using this holiday to return stolen property?” he asks with a lighthearted smile.
“Yes and no. Unroll it,” I instruct. I was careful to hide the present part on the inside when I bundled it up.
He does as he’s told, instantly spotting the change I made. He lifts the sleeve and slowly turns it over in his hand, revealing carefully stitched letters.
Hingley, Massachusetts
He runs a thumb over the cream-colored thread.
“Look inside,” I urge.
He flips the cuff inside out to reveal more.
Myrtle Street Treehouse
I also included the year he moved here and next year, when he’ll move away.
“You made this?” he asks, still looking at the little letters almost reverently.
“I did. I know they’re not perfect, but you should have seen the first try I practiced with.” I chuckle, remembering the illegible knots I’d made in the scrap of fabric.
We’ve talked a lot about college over the last few months as we’ve picked which schools to apply for—all the same ones.
We poured over countless websites, trying to select places that have the programs we both want—writing and design of some kind—and that are financially feasible.
It’s probably codependent, but we’re determined to stick together.
We just need the gods and admissions agents to get on board.
Then we’ll leave here together, go somewhere new, and be whoever we want to be. Together.
I’ll get to come back on breaks, but after Forrest starts school in the fall, his mom is going to sell the house and downsize to an apartment.
I think keeping up with the property by herself has been tough.
It’s also a lot of space for one person, even with Forrest coming back for summers.
I want him to know this place will always be his.
Ours.
“They are perfect,” Forrest argues. “Thank you.”
He wraps an arm around me, pulling me to his side until my head falls to his shoulder.
I close my eyes when I feel that rush in my chest that’s been happening around Forrest more and more lately.
I ignore it, but when I breathe in, I smell his body wash, spicy and deep.
Snow and pine don’t hold a candle to that.
There’s a quick honk downstairs. That’ll be Ashley telling Forrest it’s time to head over to their dad’s place for his portion of Christmas. But Forrest doesn’t make any move to leave.
“Don’t you have to go?” I ask, lifting my head to look at him. His eyes are closed.
“Just one more minute,” he murmurs, and I lean back into him.
It feels like Christmas magic.