by Lori L. Otto
“That’s awesome!”
“I know.”
“Wonder what brought that on.”
“Chaperoned visit, I’m sure. On that note, before we go inside...” He holds my hand but steps back and looks at me from head to toe. “You look so pretty, Livvy Holland.”
“Thank you. You look great, too.” I touch his face, which is soft from a recent shave, glancing at his slacks and a plaid shirt I’d never seen him wear before. He’s got a white t-shirt underneath it. The color of his shirt brings out flecks of green in his eyes. He takes my head in his hands and leans over to kiss me. “I’m gonna miss this tonight. There’s really nowhere to be alone once we walk through this door.”
“We’ll survive,” I assure him, then move in to kiss him once more. “We’ll just have to work twice as hard next week.”
“Not gonna argue with that,” he says, smoothing down my hair. I wipe the lipstick off his mouth and he takes my hand as he opens the door. The apartment is small and crammed with furniture that seems to be too big for the space. A four-foot Christmas tree sits in the corner of the living room, adorned with lights and a few ornaments. Five wrapped presents sit beneath it. I think back to my house, where the upstairs living room is rearranged to accommodate the large fir tree that my dad and Uncle Steven had brought home. There are so many gifts underneath it that they spread out, six feet in all directions. Granted, my family is huge, but still. Their decorations just seem so sparse.
“Livvy, welcome,” Jon’s mother, Margie, says happily. She’s wearing a dark green dress and has long black hair and a lot of makeup on. Jon’s brothers, Max and Will, flank her sides, both dressed in khakis, button down shirts and sweater vests. “We’re so happy to have you here.”
“Thank you for inviting me,” I say, nervous, clutching my oversized leather bag which just seems ostentatious and showy right now. I wouldn’t have chosen this one if I hadn’t brought gifts with me.
“I’m so excited to finally meet you. Jon has said so much about you.”
“Likewise,” I say with a smile.
“Well, come on in, honey, we won’t bite.” I realize I’d stopped walking once the door closed behind me. “Make yourself at home. Jon, maybe you could put her bag in your room.”
“That seems like a bad idea,” he retorts, looking at his brothers.
“It’s fine,” I tell him. “Just let me get these out.”
“Jon, Max and Will are staying over at the Munoz’s tonight. They’ll be heading down there after dinner.”
“Why?” Jon asks. I look up briefly after finding the four ornaments I’d made as presents.
“Candy needs someone to take her shift this evening. I kind of owe her because she covered for me when Max was sick last week. I wasn’t sure what your plans were, so I made other arrangements for the boys.”
“Wait, you’re going to the bar tonight?”
“Yes, but we’re all going to be here for dinner, Jonny. We wouldn’t miss this for anything.”
Jon and I look at one another curiously. “Great. Okay,” he says to his mother. I force a smile, feeling very apprehensive about what lies ahead this evening. If I have a midnight curfew, Jon and I will probably have about four hours alone in his apartment. My stomach feels as if it’s in knots as I struggle to decide if this is a good idea or a bad one. I’ll wait to talk to Jon until after his family is gone.
His mother is nice, but very talkative, and most of the questions she asks me are related to my mom and dad and have very little to do with me. I don’t mind, though. My parents are interesting people who manage to lead a fairly private life, so it’s quite often that my friends’ mothers and fathers ask me about mine.
“Max,” Jon says to his youngest brother. “Livvy has a little brother that’s your age. He plays t-ball, just like you.”
“I bet he has a new mitt,” Max says. “Does he?”
“I don’t know,” I tell him. “It’s probably a year old or so.”
“Max has been using my hand-me-down from when I was little. Will used it until he got his new one. I’ve considered it a family heirloom, but Max says it hurts his hand,” Jon says. “It’s broken in quite nicely.”
“It’s coming apart,” Max argues.
“Well, it’s a good thing you asked Santa for one.”
“Will says there is no Santa,” Max says. Jon and his mother both put down their forks, glaring at Will.
“That’s just because Will knows he’s on Santa’s naughty list, Max, and won’t be getting anything this year.” Jon says it so seriously, and I can tell he’s angry with his thirteen-year-old brother.
“Hey!” Will argues. “What’d I do?”
“Santa’s not real?” I ask. “What do you mean?”
Jon looks at me and smiles. “I don’t know. Will seems to think that there’s no way Santa could deliver presents to everyone in the world in one night.”
“Well, he doesn’t have to,” I explain. “He skips the naughty kids, right?”
“And the ones that don’t believe in him.”
Jon’s mother smiles at our banter.
“It’s humanly impossible for Santa to do that,” Will says.
“Well, maybe Santa’s not exactly Human,” I suggest.
“What, he’s like Superman or something?”
“Something like that, yeah. I don’t question it, though,” I tell him before taking a bite of our dinner. “I don’t want him skipping my house. I have a lot of things on my list that I want.”
“Mom says you have so much money, you could buy anything you want,” Max says. “Why do you need Santa Claus?”
Margie puts her head in her hands. I’m not sure how to answer.
“Livvy’s a kid, just like us,” Jon says. “It’s not like she has a job, and makes money like Mom does.”
“But she’s a rich kid,” Max continues.
“I am so embarrassed,” Jon’s mother says. “I don’t know where he’s getting that.”
“It’s okay,” I say with a smile, but I feel a little weird. “My parents are the rich ones, Max. And they don’t give me everything I want. That’s why I rely on Santa Claus to help out.”
“I hope he’s not sick again this year, though,” Max says. “We put out cookies and everything last year, and then he didn’t come.”
I look around at Margie and Jon, waiting for one of them to explain this. I can’t imagine what Trey would do if Santa just didn’t come. I feel sad for Max.
“I have it on good authority, Max,” Jon begins, “that Santa is feeling great and will be here this year.” He meets his mother’s eyes, and she nods minutely.
“Well, I think I’ve had enough to eat,” Margie says suddenly, standing from the table and picking up her plate, taking it to the sink. “Boys, are you ready to go downstairs?”
“Yeah!” they exclaim.
“Wait,” I say softly. “I wanted to give you each a little gift.”
“Oh, Livvy, you didn’t need to get us anything.”
“It’s really nothing,” I tell Jon’s mother, handing Max, Will and then Margie a small box. The boys tear into theirs, and Margie opens hers slowly. They remove the tissue paper to see the ornaments. “I paint these every year for everyone in my family. It’s kind of a tradition.” Painted on each is a different winter landscape, their name, and the year. It’s by chance only that Max’s ornament has a picture of Santa and Rudolph in the snow.
“They’re so intricate,” Jon says. “And so pretty.”
“It’s adorable,” Margie says as she holds hers up. “Boys, let’s get these on the tree!” All three of them hang their gifts from otherwise bare limbs. “Thank you, Livvy,” Jon’s mom says as she gives me a hug.
“Thank you for dinner. It was wonderful.”
“I’ll get the dishes, Mom,” Jon says.
Margie helps the younger sons with their duffel bags and pillows, and they all tell us good night.
“If we don’t see you before t
he holiday, Livvy, have a merry Christmas.”
“Thank you. You, as well.” Before she shuts the door, she turns out the lights in the living room.
“Is that for ambiance or conservation?” I ask Jon.
He laughs as he gets up to turn the lights back on. “Just force of habit, I’m sure.”
“Right,” I say softly as I stand up and start to clear the table.
“Whoa, Liv. What are you doing?”
“I was going to help you with the dishes.”
“I’ll get those later. I don’t want to waste our time doing mundane household chores.”
“Okay,” I say, stalling. “Then what are we going to do to kill the next four hours?”
“About that,” he starts, walking back to the kitchen table and taking his seat again. He pats my chair, signaling for me to sit back down. “I was just as surprised to hear that as you were. I swear.”
“I believe you. I’m not sure what that means, though.”
“It just means we’re left to entertain ourselves. Don’t let that frighten you. We have a ton of options, many of which don’t even involve hanging around here.”
“Like what?”
“Do you like to ice skate? We could get a cab to Rockefeller.”
“Have you looked out the window lately? The snow’s really picked up, and just in case you couldn’t tell, I’m not exactly dressed for outdoor activities.”
He glances down at my bare legs and smiles. “No, you’re not. We could do our regular Saturday night date, and go to a movie. Or go to a café and talk?”
“Just tell me you have no expectations tonight, and I think I can relax and we can stay here. I don’t really want to go out in the weather.”
“Zero expectations, Liv. If I had planned this or had any expectations, I would have had my brothers pick up their side of the room. It’s a death trap, walking around in there. I will not risk your life tonight.”
“Okay then. Do you have any movies or anything?” I look around the living room and don’t even see a television. “Or maybe not.”
“There’s a little TV in our room. I have to be honest, this main room gets very little use. Mom’s normally in her room or at work, the boys are playing in our room, and I’m down the street at the library or out with you. Honestly, we haven’t had dinner at that table in months.”
“Oh. Can I ask why Santa skipped your house last year?”
“Mom didn’t have the money. She didn’t bother to tell me, either, so it was a pretty crappy thing to wake up to on Christmas day, with both of my brothers crying. I would have found a way to get something for them, or refrained from letting them unwrap the presents I gave them on Christmas Eve.”
“But this year?”
“I’ve got a few things for them–the mitt included. Mom says she’ll do something, but she’s not the most reliable.”
“I don’t mean to overstep my boundaries here, but my parents donate tons of presents to kids every year. I’m sure they–”
“Livvy, stop.” I look at him, biting my tongue. “We don’t need your charity, okay?”
“It’s not charity. You’re a part of my life, Jon. That makes them a part of my life, too.”
“Your parents don’t need to be involved at all, though. This is one of those things you don’t need to tell them about. Can you do that for me?”
“I guess so.”
“I’d really appreciate it. I know you’re just trying to help.”
I nod at him.
“I don’t ever want your family thinking I can’t handle things in my life. That shows weakness. I don’t want them to see that in me.”
“Jon, they don’t. But you don’t have to do everything on your own, you know? You should still be able to enjoy your childhood a little, too.”
“No. That luxury was taken away from me years ago. Hey, don’t feel sad for me. I don’t mind. I love my brothers, and I love the role I play in their lives. Better me than their dad.”
“You’re such a grown-up,” I tease him.
“Yeah, yeah,” he brushes off my compliment. “Want a tour of the place?”
“Sure.”
I follow him to his mother’s room. He opens the door, but stands in the way, blocking the entrance. Her room is cluttered and very unorganized. I was never allowed to let my room get that messy, and can’t even begin to imagine one of my parents living in a room like that. “Don’t tell her I showed you this.”
“My lips are sealed.”
“You’ve seen the living room,” he says on his way through it to the other bedroom. He opens the door and walks in, showing me the small room he shares with his brothers. He has a twin-sized bed on one side, and his brothers have bunk beds on the other side.
There are a bunch of cars on the lower bunk and a mound of old wooden blocks all over the left side of the room. Jon’s side is neat and organized.
“Desk, bed, closet,” he says, pointing out everything in the small room. “Nothing fancy.” I walk past him and sit down on his bed, looking out the window that seems to shudder when the wind blows. I can feel cold air seeping through with every gust.
“How do you stay warm in here at night?”
“Blankets,” he says nonchalantly. “Sometimes, we’ll sleep in the living room, though, when it’s too cold. There’s a furnace in there. That’s the only good thing about living on the top floor of this old building.”
“Wow.” I can remember a few nights when the electricity went out at my house when I was much younger. It was extremely cold, and until my dad finally got a back-up generator, my parents would let me sleep in the middle of their bed with a fire lit in the fireplace. Those were fun nights.
“You cold?” he asks.
“Yeah, a little.”
“Let’s go back in the living room. I’ll light the furnace and we can grab a blanket or two.”
“Will you continue to live here, when you go to Columbia?”
“If I go...” he corrects me.
“When,” I state with a smile. He grins at me, setting a large quilt on the floor in front of the furnace and bringing in two pillows and two blankets from his bed. My stomach gets jittery, watching him set up a little makeshift lounge area.
“All freshmen have to live on campus. I’d have a roommate. Man, I can’t wait to have my own room. I can’t even begin to imagine what that’s like. Privacy? What’s that?”
We both look at one another from across the room. “This,” we say in unison.
“Right.” He laughs as he turns on some music. “So this is how my brothers typically sleep on really cold nights.” He takes a seat on the quilt and holds his hand out for me to join him.
“Oh, my dad would kill me.”
“Your dad won’t know, and we’re not doing anything wrong.”
“Nope,” I say as I sit down next to him, trying to be ladylike in my skirt. I bend my legs and sit with my feet to the side. Jon hands me my own blanket.
“Better?”
“Yeah. It’s nice.”
“Can we talk about Christmas presents?” he asks.
“Yeah, I was meaning to ask you, and don’t ask why, but what’s your middle name?”
“Augustus.”
“Wow. Sounds important. Family name?”
“My dad was fascinated by Roman culture,” he says. “Jonathan’s the family name. I’m named after my mother’s brother. He died when he was three of some rare birth defect.”
“How sad.”
“Yeah. But when he was born, they gave him three months to live. He proved a lot of doctors wrong. He was a strong-willed little kid, they said. I lived up to that expectation.”
“Yeah, you’re pretty strong-willed, Jonathan Augustus Scott.”
“Why’d you want to know?”
“I told you not to ask. It’s nothing. You’ll see when you come over on Wednesday.”
“So can I show you one of your presents?”
“I thought we’d wait until We
dnesday to exchange gifts. I didn’t bring yours–except your ornament.”
“Ummm. I’d rather do it while we’re alone, and take advantage of this rare opportunity.”
“Oh. Well, what is it?” Again, I get butterflies in anticipation. He starts to unbutton his outer shirt. “Wait,” I tell him, putting my hand over his.
“Just trust me,” he says. “Do you want to see your present or not?”
“I’m not sure, what is it?”
“Livvy,” he says seriously, taking my hand in his and setting it in my lap. “Trust.”
“Okay,” I say with a sigh. He continues slowly unbuttoning the shirt, and then slips it off his shoulders, leaving him in his white v-neck t-shirt. When he reaches for the hem of that shirt, I start to protest, but decide to trust him anyway.
I smile when I see his chest and abdominal muscles. I’d felt them before, but never actually seen them.
“Do you like that?” he says with a laugh.
“Well, yeah, but... what’s your point?”
“What do you mean?”
“That’s my present?”
“No.” He turns around and faces the furnace, letting me see his back. In small, neat, meticulous letters near his right shoulder is a quote:
“If it be thus to dream, still let me sleep!”
“What do you think?”
“It’s very nice. Is that real?”
“Touch it,” he encourages me. I press my fingers against it, feeling the slightly raised markings of ink. It’s real.
“If it be thus to dream, still let me sleep,” I read it out loud. “Is that for me?”
“Yes.”
“Did it hurt?”
“A little, but not like I thought it would.”
“You’re not dreaming, if that’s what you’re implying. Is it?”
“Yeah,” he says. “But there’s more to it.”
“Tell me.”
“Did you know that the first documented instance of the name Olivia came from Shakespeare’s The Twelfth Night?”
“No, it didn’t.”
“Yeah, actually it did,” he says as he turns his head around and smiles at me. I continue to rub my fingers on the tattoo, a little mesmerized by it. I never thought I’d be dating a guy with a tattoo. I’m sure my dad never did, either.