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Chapter Thirty-Two

Justin

I wake up on Christmas Day with more enthusiasm than I’ve felt on Christmas morning since I was a child. It might be because of who I’ve got pressed against me.

Drew’s breath tickles my neck in a steady rhythm, and his fingers are curled loosely against my chest.

My fingers itch to trace the curve of his jaw, but I don’t want to wake him yet.

The conversation from the night of the Christmas party echoes in my mind—Drew’s confession about how being bullied in high school left deep scars and made him doubt anyone could genuinely want him.

I’ve been mulling over his confession for the past few days, even though it brushes against some memories of my own I’d rather not think about. Memories of my own actions that I’m so ashamed of in retrospect. But I can’t do anything about the past now. All I can do is concentrate on Drew.

I hate the fact that someone made this amazing man feel so worthless. And I want nothing more than to prove to him how wonderful I think he is.

Cassie appears at the foot of the bed, fixing me with her most judgmental stare.

“I know, I know. Breakfast is traditionally served at dawn,” I whisper to her. “But do you think you could handle a slight delay? It’s Christmas, after all.”

Drew stirs against me. “Are you trying to negotiate with a cat again?” he says sleepily.

““Hey, I’ll have you know my negotiation skills are legendary. I once convinced her to delay dinner by three minutes.”

“She just let you think you won that negotiation.” His voice is still rough with sleep. “Classic feline manipulation tactics.”

I brush my lips against his temple. “Merry Christmas.”

He lifts his head to smile at me, his hair sticking up in ways that defy physics.

“Merry Christmas,” he replies.

We kiss sweetly, lips gentle and warm, until the sound of a cat jumping onto the bed is followed closely by the sensation of paws kneading my legs with increasing urgency.

Somehow, Cassie’s purrs manage to sound both affectionate and threatening.

Drew withdraws from me. “I think your cats might stage a revolt if we don’t feed them soon.”

As if on cue, Tabitha lets out a series of increasingly dramatic meows from the doorway.

“I should feed them and make us some breakfast,” I say.

Drew stretches, which makes his T-shirt ride up to reveal a strip of skin that severely tests my resolution to leave the bed.

“I’m never going to say no to the idea of breakfast.” He throws me a grin.

I pad into the kitchen, Drew following behind after detouring to appease our feline overlords. He’s got the cats’ breakfast routine down to an art now. Tabitha’s bowl is slightly elevated because she’s a princess, and Cassie’s portion is measured carefully to prevent her ongoing attempt to cosplay as a small bear.

I crack eggs into a bowl while he starts the coffee maker.

“What did Christmas look like at your house growing up?” I ask curiously as I whisk eggs.

Drew’s quiet, and I glance up to find him fiddling with his glasses.

“It was your pretty standard Christmas,” he says finally. “We used to have Pop-Tarts and chocolate milk while we opened presents. Then we’d usually go to my grandparents’ house for Christmas lunch. Grandma insisted on serving everything on these weird commemorative plates from the 1976 Olympics. We weren’t allowed to stack them in the dishwasher because, apparently, Mark Spitz’s face would fade.”

I laugh.

“What about you? Did you have any family Christmas traditions?” he asks.

I pour the eggs into the pan, letting the familiar rhythm of cooking ground me so I can answer. “Before Bobby Ray, Mom and I would make cinnamon rolls from one of those tubes that explode when you open them. We’d usually mess up the timing, and they’d be either raw in the middle or burned on the edges.”

“What about after?”

“After… Well, everything had to be perfect then. No more exploding tubes of dough allowed.” I focus on stirring the eggs, careful not to let them stick. “My mom was always on tenterhooks, trying to make everything perfect for him. It sucked the joy out of Christmas.”

Drew comes to stand behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist. I lean against him, letting his warmth seep into me.

After breakfast, we tackle Christmas lunch preparations together. Drew proves surprisingly competent at peeling potatoes, though his attempts at brussels sprout trimming look more like a crime scene than vegetable prep.

“In my defense, they’re basically tiny cabbages designed by sadists,” he says, brandishing a particularly mangled sprout. “Who decided these belong at Christmas dinner?”

“I’m starting to think British cuisine is just one long dare that got out of hand.”

“I think they’re just subconsciously punishing themselves for centuries of colonialism, one vegetable at a time,” Drew replies.

When everything’s finally in the oven, we collapse on the couch. Drew immediately commandeers both cats, who seem to have forgiven our breakfast timing transgression.

“What’s next?” he asks, scratching under Tabitha’s chin and turning her into a purring puddle.

“Now, it’s time to experience a proper British Christmas tradition.” I retrieve the box of Christmas crackers I bought specially for today. “According to Pete, it’s illegal to eat Christmas dinner without wearing the paper crowns that come inside them.”

We pull the crackers, and I can’t help laughing at Drew’s startled jump at the pop.

“I feel like I’m being initiated into some kind of bizarre cult,” he says as he puts the paper crown on his head.

“Wait until you see the jokes. They make dad jokes look like high comedy.”

Drew locates his slip of colored paper, his forehead creasing as he reads the joke aloud. “What do you call a cat who likes Christmas dinner?”

“I’m afraid to ask.”

“A Santa Claws.” Drew groans. “Okay, you weren’t kidding about the jokes.”

“At least yours was seasonally appropriate. Mine’s about why the cookie went to the doctor.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Because it was feeling crumbly?”

“I feel you should be denied Christmas dinner for knowing that.”

His laugh echoes through my apartment, and a warm feeling unfurls in my chest.

Despite our mocking and skepticism, our traditional British Christmas lunch tastes amazing. Maybe the Christmas meal is the British yearly culinary apology for Marmite.

After we’ve stuffed ourselves to the gills, it’s time to exchange presents. My nerves are in my throat as I hand Drew his present. Is it too much? Too sentimental?

Oh well, it’s too late for regrets now because Drew has unwrapped my present to reveal the photo book inside.

He opens the first page and blinks.

The photo is the selfie we took outside St Paul’s Cathedral. Drew’s glasses are askew, and I’m squinting into the sun, but we’re both grinning like we’ve discovered some amazing secret.

My gaze stays fixed on his face, trying to interpret what he’s thinking.

I wanted him to have a physical record of our adventures together. But I’ve been worried that putting together this album crosses some invisible line Drew’s drawn between casual and something more.

But as he flips through the pages—there’s us pulling faces at the Tower Bridge, the series of increasingly ridiculous poses we struck with the Trafalgar Square lions, the time we got caught in that downpour at Greenwich Observatory and ended up looking like we’d tried to time travel through a car wash—his smile grows wider.

“I can’t believe you put this together,” he says.

“Well, someone needed to preserve evidence of your gargoyle obsession for posterity.”

He laughs, but there’s something soft in his eyes as he reaches the last page, the selfie I took of us at the Winter Wonderland, cuddled into each other, the Christmas light show behind us.

“Thank you,” he says, carefully shutting the book and placing it by his side.

“You’re welcome.”

Then, he reaches down to retrieve his present for me.

“Uh…it’s not much,” he says, handing me the wrapped gift.

The present is small, roughly the size of a jam jar, padded carefully with tissue paper that crinkles as he hands it to me.

I peel back the tissue paper layer by layer, each crinkle building anticipation until the final reveal steals my breath completely.

It’s a snow globe.

But it’s not just any snow globe. It’s a snow globe containing a tacky flamingo wearing sunglasses with ridiculous pink glitter swirling in the water.

“How did you…?” My voice cracks. I clear my throat and try again. “How did you find this?”

Drew pushes his glasses up his nose. “I might have spent some time on vintage collectibles websites. Turns out there’s quite an active community of snow globe enthusiasts.”

I shake the globe gently, watching the glitter dance around the flamingo. My vision blurs as I remember that little boy I used to be, making wishes using the snow globe.

“Thank you,” I manage to choke out.

“I thought you deserved something that can provide you with magical wishes,” he says quietly.

When I glance up, Drew’s watching me with an expression I can’t read. Before I can try to decipher it, he clears his throat.

“Right, I believe the tradition is to watch a terrible Christmas movie now, right?”

I have to swallow the lump in my throat. “Yep, I believe that’s the tradition.”

We settle into our usual positions on the couch, Drew tucked against my side. Tabitha claims her throne on Drew’s lap while Cassie drapes herself across the back of the couch like a judgmental garland.

We finally settle on Die Hard to gather evidence for Pete’s ongoing crusade to prove it’s a Christmas movie. The familiar action sequences play out while we trade commentary about the improbability of crawling through ventilation shafts in a dress shirt.

Somewhere between explosions, Drew starts absent-mindedly playing with my fingers where our hands are joined, tracing patterns like he’s typing out secret code against my skin. His crown is slightly askew and the Christmas lights reflecting off his glasses create tiny constellations that shift every time he moves.

Drew catches me looking and squeezes my hand.

And that’s when it hits me, while I’m watching Bruce Willis battle terrorists and holding Drew’s hand, my cats treating him like he’s always been part of their kingdom.

I love him.

The realization settles into place inside me like there’s always been a space for it.

I love him, and it feels like the most natural thing in the world, like my heart has known this truth for ages and was just waiting for my brain to catch up.

I’m in love with Drew Smith, who makes terrible jokes, sorts M&Ms by color, and knows me more thoroughly than anyone ever has. Who fixes more than just the technology in my life.

So much more.

“Justin?” Drew’s voice breaks through my revelation. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I manage. “Just…really happy you’re here.”

His smile is soft but slightly uncertain.

So I lean over and press my lips to his.

For the first time in my life, Christmas feels exactly right.