Chapter 44
Sasha
Aaron Kelly is trying to teach me how to string popcorn and I’m failing on purpose because his face when I eat another piece is the best thing I’ve seen all week.
“That’s the fourth handful.” He’s holding a needle and thread, cross-legged on the floor by the fireplace, a bowl of popcorn between us that’s half the size it was twenty minutes ago. “Sasha. We need this for the tree.”
“I’m quality testing.”
“You’ve quality tested a third of the bowl.”
“Some of them were stale.”
“None of them were stale. I made the popcorn an hour ago.”
I pop another piece into my mouth. He stares at me. His jaw does the thing — the clench that means he’s trying very hard not to laugh. I chew slowly. Maintain eye contact.
“I grew up in Siberia,” I remind him. “We didn’t have popcorn trees.”
“Popcorn garlands. And nobody had them in Siberia because you would have eaten them all before they made it onto the tree.”
“This is a fair point.”
He shakes his head. But the laugh breaks through — short, warm, his whole face softening.
He threads another kernel onto the needle and adds it to the string he’s been building.
It’s surprisingly long. He’s good at this — steady hands, even spacing, the kind of thing you get good at when you’ve done it every December since you were a kid.
The tree is in the corner of the living room by the big windows.
We bought it this morning from a lot in town — a fat blue spruce that the guy had to help us strap to the roof of Sasha’s truck.
Aaron carried it in by himself while I held the door and supervised, which he pointed out was not actually helping.
It’s half decorated. We found a box of basic ornaments at the hardware store in Windham — nothing special, red and gold balls, a strand of white lights, a tin star for the top. The lights are on, the star is up, and now we’re doing the popcorn because Aaron insisted.
“My mom used to let me and Caitlin do the popcorn while Sean and Colin did the lights,” he says, threading another kernel. “We’d sit on the floor in front of the fireplace just like this. My dad would put on a game and fall asleep in his chair by the second period.”
“And you ate the popcorn then too.”
“Mary was the one who ate it. She was five. She’d eat half the bowl and then cry because there wasn’t enough for the garland.”
“I like Mary already.”
He smiles. Ties off the end of the string and holds it up — a long, uneven loop of popcorn that looks exactly like something two people made on their living room floor with a sewing needle and too much enthusiasm.
“It’s crooked,” I say.
“It matches your bookshelf.”
I grab another handful of popcorn. He pulls the bowl away from me and puts it on his other side, out of reach. I lean across him to get it and he blocks me with his elbow and we wrestle for it, laughing, until I’m half on top of him and the bowl is tipped and popcorn is scattered across the rug.
“Look what you did,” he says.
“You started it.”
“You have a popcorn problem.”
“I have a boyfriend problem. He won’t share.”
He kisses me. Quick, his hand on the back of my neck, tasting like butter and salt. Then he pushes me off and starts picking popcorn out of the rug.
On the TV above the fireplace, a Canadian hockey game is playing on mute — the Fraser Valley Falcons at home, a Saturday night Pacific division matchup.
I’ve had it on all evening with the sound off, checking the score during commercials.
The Falcons are up 3–1 in the third. Their center — number 9, the blond — has two assists tonight.
His linemate on the left wing scored the second goal.
I’ve been following the Falcons since before I even started at Ashford University, when I was still back in Russia.
Because of Austin and Wyatt, the couple on the Falcons.
The couple that graduated from Ashford’s hockey program and were out about their relationship when they were on the team, never hiding it.
Aaron gets up to drape the garland on the tree.
He loops it carefully, spacing the strands between the lights, stepping back to check the effect.
The fireplace is throwing warm light across the room and the tree lights are blinking and outside the windows the sky is dark and the trees are dusted with fresh snow.
The house doesn’t look empty anymore. Not full, either — but getting there.
Our boots are in the mudroom. There are pots on the rack in the kitchen because Aaron bought them last weekend while I was at practice.
His copy of some organic chemistry textbook he’ll never need again is holding open the second guest room door because the latch sticks.
My father’s photo is on the mantel, leaned against the stone, still waiting for a nail.
“Your family gets here at noon tomorrow?” I say.
“My parents and Caitlin and Mary. Sean and Colin are doing Christmas with their in-laws this year.” He adjusts a section of garland that’s sagging. “Dad said he’d bring his famous Irish soda bread.”
“Is it actually famous?”
“In West Roxbury it is.”
“That’s a small sample size.”
“It’s a tight community.” He steps back. Looks at the tree. His hands are on his hips and his expression is the same one he wears when he’s evaluating a play — focused, critical, slightly dissatisfied with something only he can see. “Do you think the star is straight?”
I look at the star. It’s tilted about three degrees to the left. “It’s perfect.”
“It’s not perfect.”
“Aaron Kelly. It’s a Christmas tree, not a medical exam.”
He reaches up and nudges the star a fraction. It’s still tilted. He steps back. Frowns.
“Leave the star,” I say. “Talk to me about tomorrow.”
He drops his hands. Comes back to the couch and sits beside me, his knee touching mine. The fire pops. On TV, the Falcons win a faceoff in the offensive zone.
“It could go really well,” he says. “Or it could be incredibly awkward.”
“Those are the options.”
“My mom’s been texting me every day this week. She sent me a recipe for a green bean casserole she wants to make in our kitchen. She’s never been here and she’s already planning to use the oven.”
“That’s a good sign.”
“Or she’s nervous and this is how she deals with it. She cooks. When my dad was in chemo she made enough freezer meals for six months.” He picks at the seam of the couch cushion. “She’s trying. They’re all trying. My dad asked me on the phone if there’s anything Sasha doesn’t eat.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I told him you eat everything. And then he heard me yelling at you in the background for eating the popcorn off the tree while I was on the phone with him.” He bumps my shoulder. “He said I should have warned him you even eat Christmas decorations. And he laughed.”
“Your father laughed at a joke about me. This is progress.” I nod decisively.
“It is progress.” His voice is quieter now. “Two months ago he didn’t even want to hear me say your name on the phone. And now he’s asking about your dietary restrictions.”
“And the girls?”
Aaron says, “Caitlin’s excited. She’s been following us on social media since the car commercial. I think she’s more excited to meet you than to see me, honestly.” He pauses. “Mary’s sixteen. She’ll probably just want to know if we can tell her which college hockey players are straight.”
I put my hand on his knee. He covers it with his.
“Aaron.” I wait until he looks at me. “I want them to like me. You know that.”
“I know.”
“I’m not nervous. But I want you to know I take this seriously. Your family matters to you. So they matter to me.”
He’s quiet for a second. Then his hand tightens on mine.
“They’re going to love you,” he says. “My mom’s already planning to feed you. That means you’re in.”
His family loves him. They’re figuring out how to love all of him, and he’s letting them. That takes guts.
It makes me want to try harder with Olga.
“It’s going to be fine,” I say.
“You don’t know that.”
“I know your mother is bringing casserole ingredients to a house she’s never been to. That’s not a woman who’s planning to be awkward. That’s a woman who’s planning to feed us.”
His whole face softens. “You might be right.”
“I’m always right.”
“You’re really not.”
“Name one time.”
“The bookshelf.”
“The bookshelf is fine.”
“The bookshelf leans.”
“The floor is uneven. We’ve discussed this.”
His phone buzzes on the coffee table. He picks it up, reads the screen, and his eyebrows go up.
“Meghan,” he says.
“What does she say?”
He turns to me. Something in his expression has shifted — curious, alert. “She wants to know if we’re watching Wyatt and Austin play tonight. She says pay attention. Right now.”
I grab the remote and unmute the TV. Then I reach for Aaron and pull him against me, his back settling into my side, my arm around his shoulders.
The broadcast comes through mid-sentence — the announcer’s voice pitched high, excited, the crowd noise building underneath.
“— and folks, something is happening on the ice. The final buzzer has sounded, Falcons win it four to one, but Wyatt Tate is not leaving the ice. He’s skating toward center ice and — oh my. Oh my, ladies and gentlemen.”
The camera cuts wide. The arena is full — every seat, the crowd on their feet. The Falcons players are clustered near the bench, helmets off, watching. And at center ice, Wyatt Tate is on one knee.
“Holy shit,” I say.
Austin Nash is standing five feet away from him, still in full gear, his gloves already off, his hand over his mouth. The arena has gone from cheering to something else — a roar that’s building, a sound that knows what it’s witnessing.
“Wyatt Tate appears to be — yes, he’s reaching into his glove, he has something in his hand — ladies and gentlemen, I believe we are watching a proposal.”
I tighten my arm around Aaron. He’s not moving. His eyes are locked on the screen.
Tate holds up a small box. Even through the broadcast, even on a TV screen in a cabin in the Catskills, you can see his hands shaking. He’s grinning — that wide, reckless grin that I’ve seen in press photos, the one that reportedly gets him out of everything. Except now it’s shaking too.
Nash takes a step forward. Then another. The crowd is deafening. The camera zooms in and catches the moment Nash pulls his hand away from his mouth and we can see his face — shocked, crying, laughing, all of it at once.
“Austin Nash is — he’s nodding, folks. He’s saying yes. Austin Nash has said yes!”
Nash drops to his knees in front of Tate and grabs his face and kisses him, and the arena explodes. The Falcons pour off the bench, crashing into them, and the broadcast cuts to the crowd — people on their feet, people hugging strangers, a hand-painted sign in the upper deck that says FINALLY.
I look down at Aaron. His eyes are bright. He’s holding my hand so hard my knuckles are white.
On the screen, Tate has gotten to his feet and is holding Nash’s hand up — the one with the ring — and the arena lights are catching it, and twenty thousand people are screaming, and the two of them are standing at center ice in the life they built together, in front of everyone, hiding nothing.
“Sasha,” Aaron says. His voice is so steady and content it barely sounds like him.
“I know.”
“That could be us someday.”
I look at him. The firelight. The Christmas tree with its crooked star and its popcorn garland. The snow on the skylight upstairs and the empty guest rooms waiting for his family tomorrow. This house that I bought because I wanted something permanent with the person I love.
“Someday,” I say. I bring his hand to my mouth and press my lips to his knuckles. “Not yet. But someday.”
“He did it on the ice,” Aaron says. He’s watching the replay now — Tate pulling the ring from his glove, the crowd already losing it before Nash even sees what’s happening. “In front of twenty thousand people.”
“Of course he did. He’s a center. Centers are dramatic.”
“You’re a center.”
“Exactly. When I do it, it will be even more dramatic.”
Aaron’s head turns. “When?”
“I said what I said.” I don’t look at him. I keep my eyes on the screen where Tate and Nash are tangled up in their teammates, the ring catching light, the arena still roaring. “Not tonight. But someday. And it will be very dramatic and you will say yes.”
“What if I want to ask you first?”
“You’re welcome to try. I’ll be faster.”
He laughs. Quiet. His thumb is tracing circles on the back of my hand and his eyes are wet and he’s smiling, and I feel it everywhere.
He leans into me. My arm pulls him closer. On the TV, the broadcast is replaying the proposal from three different angles, and the announcers are talking over each other, and somewhere in Vancouver the ice is still wet and the crowd is still standing.
I pick up the remote and mute it again.
The fire pops. The tree lights blink. Aaron’s head is on my shoulder, his hand still in mine, and outside the windows the mountains are dark under fresh snow.
In May, he stood at a podium at Ashford w and told the whole world who he loves-me. Now we’re on a couch in the Catskills watching two other guys do their version of the same thing, and it doesn’t feel far away. It feels like something we could reach.
Aaron’s breathing has slowed. His weight is warm against my side.
I think he might be falling asleep, which is fine.
He won his last game before the holidays in his rookie season and drove ninety minutes and had sex under a skylight and spent the morning wrestling a Christmas tree through the front door. He’s earned it.
I reach over and turn off the lamp. The room goes dark except for the firelight and the tree and the faint glow of snow through the windows.
I close my eyes. Aaron’s hand is still in mine.
Tomorrow his family walks through that door. The house fills up with noise and casserole and the voices of people who are learning to love all of him.
But tonight it’s just us.
That’s all I need.