by A. D. Ryan
Well, if we’re going to be forced to sit in the same vicinity, who am I to argue?
When given the go-ahead, Ethan and Hayley tear through the stack of presents under the tree, handing them out to each of us and then sitting with their own stack of gifts. Now, most families tear through their gifts all at once, but it’s tradition in the Michaels’ home to have one person go at a time. It’s only fair, and this way everyone gets thanked properly and no one runs the risk of insulting the thought behind the gift.
Going from youngest to oldest, we spend the next hour and a bit opening presents. Ethan gets a couple of games for his new Nintendo and a fishing pole and lures—one guess as to whom that’s from. Hayley, being seventeen, receives clothes, clothes, and more clothes. She’s more than happy with this, which, being a girl, I totally get.
Carla and the kids bought me a new iPod—Dad must have told them I dropped my last one in a puddle just outside my apartment a few months back, which is why I have been using my phone. Yup, I’ve got butterfingers. I’ve come to accept these little flaws with a semblance of humility. When I open the gift from Dad, I’m more than a little surprised that he hasn’t gotten me my usual Visa gift card. Instead, he’s splurged and gotten me a new MacBook.
“Dad,” I say, looking wide-eyed between him and my extravagant gift. “This is awesome. Thanks.”
Dad shrugs like it’s no big deal—when in truth, I know it is. “Well, you said your other laptop was crapping out,” he explains. “Figured I’d do a little research and get you a new one. You need it for school and all, so it was more than practical.”
Owen leans over, still keeping a safe distance between us, and taps my arm. “When he says he ‘did a little research,’ what he really means is he called me and asked for my opinion.”
I laugh, because I really should have suspected this; my dad is the biggest technophobe on the planet. “Well, thank you for steering him toward the Apple store, then.”
My last gift is from Owen: a gift card. Now, I know Owen, and I know how he feels about giving gift cards as gifts. “They’re too impersonal,” he always says. So, when I open this, I figure he’s only trying to keep everyone from suspecting anything.
“I know it’s not much,” he says of the hundred-dollar gift card, “but I figured you could maybe go shopping for clothes or books or…whatever you’re into these days.”
The left side of my mouth twitches up into a smirk, because there’s only one thing I’m really into, and I already know I’ll be spending my money on something that will make us both extremely happy.
Victoria’s Secret, here I come.
I notice a little piece of paper poking out from the sleeve and pull it out. It’s the activation receipt, and scrawled on the top is a little note from Owen that reads: Your real present is back in the city. Upon reading this, my jaw threatens to fall open, but I control the urge, biting down on my lower lip for a second.
“It’s great,” I tell him. “Thank you. I think I know exactly what I’m going to buy with it.”
Owen looks pleased with himself, but I’m not sure if it’s because of the gift card, or because I know he saw me read his little note. Probably both.
Carla’s next in line to open her gifts, and she’s more than a little ecstatic to receive the high-end mixer she’d wanted from Dad and me, and Owen gets her a new juicer since her old one is apparently on its last leg.
Dad’s up next, opening the envelope from Owen. Inside is a brochure and information about a week-long fishing expedition this spring. Dad’s eyes light up like…well, like a kid on Christmas morning, suffice it to say. Carla gets Dad all new fishing gear, and I give him a new cell phone because the it’s time he lives in the present. He assures me he loves it, but I can tell he’s a little frightened by the newness of the technology. I’ll get him hooked on apps soon enough, though. He doesn’t stand a chance.
When Owen’s up to open his gifts, I’m reminded for the first time in a while that he’s actually a few months older than my dad. Other people might find this fact disturbing, but not me; I’d already made peace with our age difference. This is just one more inconsequential (to me) thing I’d neglected to remember, is all.
Because I’d also wanted to keep from putting more than the “average” amount of thought into my public gift for Owen, I’d decided to stick to a Blu-ray box set of the Star Wars movies. Sure, he has them on DVD, but he just got a new high-def flat screen a couple months ago and Dad and Carla went together and bought him a new Blu-ray player, so I figured I’d upgrade them for him. Naturally, he loves it all.
Now that presents are done, I get up and head to the kitchen to check on the turkey. Dinner isn’t for another five hours, but I want to be sure the turkey’s on track. When I return to the living room, Dad’s playing with his new phone while Owen explains a few things about it, Hayley’s texting someone, probably telling them about everything she got, and Ethan is playing his handheld game system while Carla reads the manual for her new mixer. I decide to join them all, and I open the box to my new laptop. It’s a thing of beauty, and I immediately power it up.
A couple hours go by when there’s a knock at the door, surprising me a little until Dad explains that he invited Julia and Stephen back for dinner tonight. They join us in the living room, and Julia cozies up beside me to check out my new computer.
“How was the rest of your night?” she asks quietly, and I smile at her concern. Julia was sweet to apologize for bringing up my secret boyfriend and unleashing my father’s disapproval.
“Pretty good,” I reply.
“Well, I’m here if you ever want to talk about…you know, girl things.”
Smiling, I rest my head on her shoulder. Her offer is sweet, but something tells me she won’t really welcome a girl-talk session about my choice of beau. Might be a little too squicky, even for Julia. “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”
Later in the afternoon, I head back to the kitchen to start the vegetables and potatoes for dinner. It’s late enough in the day that I don’t feel guilty pouring myself a glass of wine before I get started washing and peeling the vegetables. I’ve just started chopping the carrots after putting the potatoes on the stove when Owen saunters in.
“Your dad sent me in for beer,” he says, explaining himself as though I might mind the pleasant interruption.
Smiling, I set down the knife and wipe my hands on a dishtowel. I step away from the counter, peering out toward the living room to be sure we’re alone before I address him. I still keep my distance as I lean back against the counter I was working on and he remains by the fridge. It’s obvious we still don’t trust ourselves to be too close to one another, but the way his eyes roam the entire length of my body hungrily—lingering on my chest and probably imagining what he knows I’m wearing underneath—tells me what he’d like to be doing right now. And, to be honest, I would like nothing more than that, too.
I shake the image of him sweeping the countertop clear and throwing me onto it from my mind and smile brightly. “You know, for a man who has a problem with me seeing an older man,” I say, keeping my voice low, “he sure has a habit of throwing us together.”
Owen chuckles, cracking one of the beer bottles open and taking a drink. “Huh. You’ve got a point.” He takes a look around the kitchen before focusing on me again. “You need a hand in here?” he offers.
I shake my head, smiling appreciatively. “Thanks, but I think I’ve got it covered.”
Suddenly, Owen’s eyes lift above my head, and I turn around to see Stephen entering the kitchen. Nodding courteously, he smiles at us both. “Amy. Owen.”
“Well,” Owen says, his blue eyes dancing nervously from Stephen to me as he picks up the beer bottles again, “if you don’t need a hand in here, I should take these to the living room.”
“Of course,” I tell him, turning back to my vegetable chopping. “Thanks for offering to help.”
Owen walks past Stephen, who remains in the entryw
ay, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed and his eyes curious. I try not to focus on his presence, but I can feel his eyes on me. My anxiety begins to spike as I’m reminded that this is how he looked at me last night when my dating life was the center of attention, but I try to keep it from my face as I look up at Stephen.
“Hey.” I know it’s super lame, but I’m not sure what else to say.
He smiles again, and there’s something about it that worries me a little. Okay, not a little; it worries me a lot. “How are things going, Amy? It feels like forever since we’ve talked.”
“Uh, good,” I reply. “School’s been keeping me pretty busy.”
“And you’re enjoying your classes?”
I smile, finally feeling at ease again, like I was misreading Stephen’s body language a minute ago. I guess ever since Carla caught me with my legs around Owen and his hands up my dress, I’ve been pretty quick to assume we’re more than a little transparent. “I am. I mean, there are a few classes that are pretty snooze-inducing, but I manage.”
Stephen steps into the kitchen and sits across from me at the island while I continue chopping. There’s a moment of silence between us, and the vibes that suddenly thicken the air in the room make my hands tremble slightly. Does he know? I guess it wouldn’t surprise me if he picked up on something between Owen and me; he’s always been pretty aware—even more so than Julia, sometimes.
Should I bring it up? What if he doesn’t know? Then I’m just ratting myself out and putting him in the same precarious situation as Carla.
Every second that passes has my anxiety rising, and I find it hard to focus on the task of preparing dinner. I don’t think it would be the end of the world if Stephen and Julia knew; I bet we’d feel a little better to be able to tell someone, but is now the best time?
I set the knife down again and raise my eyes to find Stephen looking at me; I can feel that he knows something. I don’t want to lie to him, but I also don’t want to admit to something he may or may not have figured out. So, taking a steady breath, I begin to say, “Stephen—”
He doesn’t give me the opportunity to say…well, whatever it is I was going to say before he speaks up. “You don’t have to say anything, Amy.” He keeps his voice low and serious. “You seem happy, and you don’t have to explain your relationship to me—or to anyone, for that matter. You feel what you feel, and outside opinions shouldn’t factor into that.” There’s another dramatic pause, and I can tell he’s not quite done. “But you should consider talking to your dad about it. It’s obvious this bothers him, but I think it bothers him because you’ve kept it hidden. I know it doesn’t make much sense, but by keeping this from him, I think you’ve validated his feelings of unease.”
I don’t realize I’ve been holding my breath until my lungs begin to burn.
“I plan to tell him,” I manage to squeak out. “In the New Year. We’re going to sit down and talk to him.”
Stephen laughs lightly, pushing his curly blond hair back. “I’m not trying to tell you what to do, Amy. But I could sense the tension before everything came to a head last night. You and your dad have always been close, and I don’t want to see you jeopardize that.”
Seeming content with how the conversation has gone, Stephen stands up and starts back toward the living room. I’m left there, playing his conversation over and over in my head for a minute and totally understanding what he meant about my secrecy validating my dad’s concerns. I’m glad that the holidays are almost over, and then Owen and I can sit down with my dad and tell him everything. Sure, there’s going to be backlash, but we’ll be ready to handle everything rationally by then, I think,
I pick up the knife and am just about to begin slicing the carrots again when something from our conversation registers for the first time: While he’d brought up our relationship, Stephen never mentioned Owen by name once. Does this mean he still has no idea? The looks he was giving the two of us earlier, as well as last night, would indicate he knows, but why wouldn’t he say anything? Maybe he only suspects, and by not gaining confirmation, it makes everything easier to deny should he be questioned.
Yeah, let’s go with that. Totally plausible.
My brain starts to hurt, and I pick up my wine, downing it in hopes it’ll help. After pouring myself another glass, I finally buckle down and finish the vegetable prep so they’ll be done on time.
Once dinner is ready, I put the call out for help with carving the turkey while I finish getting the table set and dishing up the side dishes. Dad volunteers Owen, which I find hilarious again.
I mean, really. If only he knew…
Owen and I work side-by-side in the kitchen, doing what probably looks like a well-choreographed dance as we move around each other to get dinner on the table. True, we’ve been stuck in the kitchen together many times over the weeks, but it never occurred to me just how in-tune we’ve always been with one another until now.
Dinner is amazing—and that’s not me being biased about my own cooking. It’s not just the food, but the company that makes it wonderful. All through dinner, I glance over at Stephen to see if I can pick up on whether or not he knows as much as I suspect he does. I want to ask him, but at the same time, I don’t want to out our relationship if he has no idea.
I hate that I can’t focus on anything else, and if I keep staring, people are going to probably start thinking I have a crush on him.
As if my current situation isn’t complicated enough.
After dinner, Dad and Carla offer to clean up, and Carla enlists Ethan and Hayley to help. Naturally, they grumble and complain, but they’re soon reminded how much Owen and I did to prepare the meal today.
Game. Set. Match. Parents: one. Whiney teenagers: zero.
Julia and Stephen tell us all that they have to head back to the city since they have plans with Stephen’s family early tomorrow morning, so after saying goodbye and seeing them to the door, Owen and I head to the living room and sit a safe distance from each other on the couch. The only sounds filling the room are the crackle of the fire and the soft notes of Christmas carols from the stereo, and I sigh peacefully as I let the warmth of the fire and wine envelop me. I can hear the constant clatter of dishes and laughter from the kitchen, so knowing we’re safe for now, I reach across the couch and lace my fingers through Owen’s.
He responds with a smile, glancing toward the kitchen before lifting my hand to his lips and kissing it softly. “Merry Christmas, Amelia,” he whispers, letting our hands fall, still connected, to the couch, his thumb gliding over the back of my hand in a way that sends goosebumps prickling up my arm and spreading all over my body.
“Merry Christmas, Owen.”
Smiling, I rest my head against the back of the couch and stare longingly into Owen’s eyes. We’d gotten through the day without slipping up. I’d say that’s a small victory and we’ve earned the two minutes of hand-holding before we hear Hayley and Ethan crash through the house and into the living room, forcing us to pull apart.
18. I Think We’re Alone Now
“You sure you can’t stay awhile longer?” Alan asks over breakfast.
It’s the morning of the twenty-ninth, and Amelia and I are planning to leave early that afternoon. Truthfully, I could stay another day or two, but every day that passes finds me more and more unable to stay away from Amelia. It will only be a matter of time before we slip up again; I just know it. It’s selfish, but I also have plans to surprise Amelia for New Year’s.
“Yeah,” I reply, spearing some eggs onto my fork and taking a bite. “I’ve got a few loose ends to tie up at the office before the New Year, and then there’s the office party the night of the thirty-first.” There. Not a total lie.
Alan looks over at his daughter, looking somewhat hopeful, and it makes my stomach churn, because I already know what her answer is going to be. Offering him an apologetic smile, she shrugs. “I’d stay if he wasn’t my ride home,” she tells him. I sense a little truth in her words,
but more than that, I sense her desperation for the two of us to be alone.
Of course, that could all be me. That picture Amelia sent me the other morning only does so much good; I can’t wait to have my hands on her in every way she’ll allow.
Over the last few days, we’ve managed to have a few stolen moments together, but we’re always careful to keep a safe distance from one another—save for a few fleeting touches as we pass one another in the hall. I’ll be glad once we can tell Alan, and I know that now would probably be a good time since it’s just the three of us gathered around the table, but I don’t want to ruin what I have planned back in Seattle for Amelia.
Yes, it’s selfish, I get that, but what could a few more days hurt, really? Amelia’s going to ask him to come down on the second of January, and she’ll suggest we all go to breakfast. While there, we’ll tell him everything—well, maybe not everything, but we’ll tell him about us.
Telling him on our terms will be better for everyone, but it’s still not going to be easy for him to hear. I think Amelia is hoping that such a public setting will help to keep him from overreacting…or, really, just reacting a little less like a father who’s just found out the identity of his daughter’s much older boyfriend.
“So, Dad,” Amelia says, shifting in her seat nervously, indicating that this is it. This is the moment she’s going to invite him to the city so we can talk to him. “I know you’re working New Year’s Eve, but is there any chance you could make it down afterward? Like, maybe on the second or something?”
Alan smirks before taking a sip of his coffee. “Why not just stay until the New Year? I’d be happy to drive you back to the city.”
“Well,” she says softly, dragging the word out, “I’m hoping to have plans on New Year’s.”
Alan appears confused as he drops his eyes to his plate and pushes his eggs around. “Hoping? You mean that uh…” He pauses briefly, almost as he’s trying to find the right word to use. “That guy you’re seeing hasn’t asked you to do anything?” He laughs once, and it’s without humor.