CHAPTER ELEVEN
Two Days Until Christmas
Sergei
What’s a man to do immediately after the object of his affection treats his cock like a carousel horse in the middle of his living room?
The only option is to spend the next four hours on the sofa with her, reading books in silence while combing and twisting the ends of her silky brown hair through my fingers.
Soon enough, she falls asleep, and I follow soon after.
I don’t sleep with other people and, until now, the thought of sharing my space so closely with someone else has repulsed me.
It’s always the same; one-sided small talk followed by hollow emotion and disappointing foreplay.
Disappointing for me because the feeling never changes to anything but lukewarm.
Disappointing for them because I leave once that fact is evident.
But the only constant in the universe is change. It’s inevitable. She is inevitable.
Because she’s the right one.
Little did I know that I would find the perfect mate by listening to Brett go on about TV shows with her best friend during their weekly phone calls.
Lutz thought he was doing one of us a favor, but he couldn’t have known I was already updating the building’s security system in preparation to close early before the storm hit so I could make it to the airport in time to pick up Barrett.
Like I said, I pay attention when people talk, especially about her.
I wake up periodically to Barrett’s steady breaths as she dozes against my chest. She’s dressed in my thermal again, this time with black leggings and pink wool socks.
The way her limbs are entangled with mine and the smell of her hair just beneath my nose are like a drug and I can’t get enough of a fix.
I can’t remember if I’ve ever felt like this.
Everything’s been so bland for so long, like a perpetual grey filter cast over the earth.
Eventually, Barrett’s silvery eyes open and she looks up at me with contentment.
I look back at her, savoring the dewy glow of her skin and the rich darkness of her hair framing her face.
And we stay like that for nearly an hour; silent, only speaking in soft touches and lingering stares, effortless exchanges that slowly burn beneath the surface.
Finally, Barrett reaches for my face and pulls my lips to hers.
As soon as I kiss her, her chest caves like she’s letting out a breath she’s been holding for years.
If I’m her air, then she’s my water, because kissing her is like taking a drink and not realizing you were dying of thirst. I like the silence with her.
It overflows where it was hollow before.
There’s a buzz across the room from her phone on the countertop.
She ignores it until it stops vibrating, only for it to start again a minute later.
She casts an irritated glance over her shoulder and then pushes up, kissing me once more before gingerly crossing the living room.
She squints at her illuminated screen and then immediately answers.
“Hi!” she squeaks before clearing her throat. “Yeah, I’m still here…I’m not sure yet…”
As she talks, she wanders toward the hall and then strolls back to the bedroom.
While she’s gone, I reach for my phone on the side table.
Seeing no calls or texts yet, I set it back down and debate whether to follow up on a search I’ve been conducting that’s rather…
time sensitive. It’s been a couple of days and I don’t have much time left.
After a few minutes, Barrett reappears, returning her phone to the counter on her way back to the sofa.
“It was my mom,” she explains, fidgeting with her sleeve as she sits down. “She asked if I have a flight out yet, since tomorrow’s Christmas Eve.” She says it with a hint of uneasiness. “Are the roads even clear yet?”
“They might be,” I reply.
Barrett doesn’t respond right away, only glances around the room.
“What are you doing for Christmas?” she finally asks.
“I told Brett I would go to their house. Same as I did last year.”
“You don't celebrate Christmas otherwise?”
“No.” I would leave it at that, but these particular holiday plans seem important to her. “My memories of Christmas were replaced by a strange place where the only thing I recognized was the smell of the pines in the forest.”
Her brow arches slightly. “You left Russia at Christmastime?”
I nod.
“OK, well, what about before that?”
“Before that…” I trail off, debating whether to continue. “Before that, Christmas was Christmas.” I clear my throat, not giving her a chance to ask more questions. “What's your family like?”
“My family?” Her voice hitches at the question. “Um…” She pauses, then smiles. “You would be overwhelmed. My family’s the type you have to escape every hour or so before you're overcome with spiked eggnog and suffocated with wrapping paper.”
“But you enjoy them,” I infer.
“Yes,” she nods. “It’s my favorite time of the year.” Her demeanor changes as she skips from one question to the next. “If you don’t go back to Vancouver for Christmas, do you visit your parents at other times of the year?”
“Yes. I go in the summer when it’s the hottest here.”
Barrett finally breaks into a smile. “I don’t like the heat, either. Maybe I should move further north.”
“Do you want to leave your home?”
“I…I didn’t used to. I don’t want to leave my family, of course, but things have gotten stressful. I don’t know.” She shrugs. “I don’t know if it’s a season or a sign.”
“Do you like it here?” I ask.
We both know what’s hanging in the thick silence, what’s transpired that’s also at odds with the world she plans on returning to.
“Yes,” Barrett sighs. “I do like it here. The mountains are beautiful, and Brett’s here…” She gives a faint smile. “And you’re here.”
The way she says it gnaws at my chest. Probably because it draws attention to the fact that I’m here and she’s planning on not being here.
“Why don’t you—” but she cuts herself off before she can finish.
“Why don’t I what?”
She gives a shake of her head, dismissing whatever thought is threatening to erupt. “What did you used to do for Christmas? Like, before…”
I lean back against the cushion, slinging my arm behind my head. “Well, first, you should know that Christmas is not on December 25th.”
“What do you mean?”
“In Russia, New Year’s Day is a much bigger holiday. Christmas is a few days later.”
“New Year’s,” she murmurs like she’s talking to herself.
“Think of it this way,” I continue, “in Russia, your Christmas tree would be a New Year tree.”
Barrett shakes the far-off look in her eye. “You must be some kind of religious, though,” she smiles, “you have St. Michael the Archangel slaying the devil tattooed across your back.”
“Yes.” I’m not sure how she knows this, but clearly, she does. “Mankind’s relationship with something bigger than himself is universal, as is the struggle between good and evil. Like Greek and Norse mythology, Judeo-Christian stories serve a higher purpose than merely religious control.”
Barrett waits a few moments before replying, a smile dancing behind her eyes.
“Fair enough. I think a lot of people forget that they have the same struggles and they’re more connected to one another than they realize.
” Then she lets out a sigh. “Alright, so what kinds of things did you do for New Year’s Day? ”
“We didn’t have a large house, but every New Year, it was packed with friends and neighbors for dinner.
My mother and her friends would cook and clean all day and we stayed up late into the next morning, eating and opening gifts.
A few days later, we’d go into town to the bookshop and I was allowed to pick out as many books as I wanted.
Then, on Christmas Eve, my mother would make a pot of solyanka, turn off the lights, and the entire house would be lit by candles.
It felt like a tiny cathedral in the woods.
And the rest of the night was spent reading, because everything had to be quiet. ”
“That sounds amazing. Is that why you like reading?”
“Probably.”
“Why did everyone have to be quiet?”
“When I was a child, I asked my mother that question. She just gave me this look and said, do you want to wake up Baby Jesus? So, I shut the hell up from then on.”
Barrett lets out a snort and covers her mouth to stifle her laugh. “So, that’s it?” she chuckles. “What would happen if you woke up Baby Jesus?”
“I don’t know,” I muse. “But my mother seemed very adamant even though nobody in my family grew up celebrating Christmas.” I pause with a smirk. “But I suspect my mother just wanted some peace and quiet after all the celebrations.”
“I can’t imagine you being loud, even as a child,” Barrett says with a shake of her head.
I shoot her a look through hooded eyes. “You don’t have to yell and scream to be a loud person.”
“That’s true.” Barrett’s eyes wander across the room to the window.
“Sergei,” she suddenly finds her voice again, “I'm very set in my ways.
I like my routines—not as much as Brett because she's a little extra, and I love that about her—but I like my space and I like the quiet until I want to talk to someone and then only for a little while because I talk all day as a therapist.”
She’s talking faster than normal, as if she’s trying to convince herself, rather than me, of what she’s saying.
To anyone else, it would seem she’s rattling off random facts, but I let her continue because I know that’s what she needs to do.
And once she’s finished, she just waits until I finally decide to break the silence.
“Then it's a good thing I don't always feel like talking to you, either, Printsessa.”