Page 34 of Boyfriend
“We’re all here now, right?” Stevie says. “Let’s do it.”
“Sure, Dad,” Weston agrees, patting his stomach. “I need a spacer before dessert, anyway.” He pushes up, off the couch. “Let me get my stash of gifts.”
I get up too, retrieving a shopping bag that I’d hidden in the mud room.
Weston returns a couple of minutes later with three gifts: one for his dad, one for his brother, and a big squishy one with a gift tag in the shape of a polar bear. It says Abbi on it in red marker, with a smiley face.
And I know my reaction is dumb, because presents don't really matter. I'd give up presents forever if I could spend one more day with my mom. But just seeing my name in Weston's cheerful scrawl does something to me anyway. It gives me an unexpected zap of optimism. It reminds me that life can still deliver surprises when you least expect them.
Weston sits beside me and drapes an arm around my shoulders. “Merry Christmas, Abbster,” he murmurs. “Such as it is.”
It is merry, though. I could be sitting alone in my apartment right now, shivering under the comforter because my landlady won't turn up the heat. But I’m here in front of this crackling fire with a cute guy who likes polar bear gift tags.
Life really could be worse.
Mr. Griggs has given each of his sons a pair of very pricey headphones for Christmas, and they are well-received. And both Weston and Stevie produce thoughtful presents for their dad, too, of the manly variety. Weston gives Mickey a leather fireproof glove for tending that wood stove we're sitting in front of. “So you can stop singeing off your arm hair," my fake boyfriend explains.
And Steve gives him a set of drafting pens from Japan. "It's what all the new kids are using," he says. "You might like them, old man."
Mickey smiles indulgently and gives his son a one-armed man hug.
Then the big moment arrives. I place my carefully wrapped gift in Weston's lap. “This is for you, Westie. I hope you like them.”
“I’m sure I will, baby. You know me so well.”
Across from us, Stevie actually rolls his eyes.
Damn Stevie. I've only got a few hours left of this holiday visit to convince him.
Meanwhile, Weston tears the paper off his gift like, well, an overgrown kid on Christmas Eve. And when he lifts the lid, he chuckles. "Cute, honey.” He lifts a pair of super soft black flannel sleep pants from the box. They're printed with an adorable white dog in profile, who’s wearing a cheery red collar.
"Those are supposed to be West Highland Terriers," I explain. "But most people call them—”
"Westies,” he says with a laugh. "Aren't you clever?"
Smiling, he drops the flannel in his lap. And then our eyes meet, and we both seem to hesitate at the same time, because couples don’t just shake hands when they’re exchanging gifts. There’s often a thank-you kiss.
And now there’s a frozen look in Weston's eyes. Then he seems to shake off his hesitation. He moves, opening his arms.
Now, in my defense, I'm trying to be a better fake girlfriend today than I managed to be yesterday. So I open my arms, too, rotating toward him…
But I'm a beat late, and Weston is already in motion. The result is much more like a collision than a hug and kiss. My lips hit his throat as his face sideswipes my forehead. And I elbow his chest and he sort of crunches me against his collarbone.
At least my yelp of pain is buried in his clavicle. That’s the only saving grace to The World’s Most Awkward Hug Ever.
“Sorry,” we both murmur in unison, pulling back, matching sheepish expressions on both our faces.
I hear a painful snort and turn to see Stevie, who’s dying of laughter. His face is red and his body is shaking.
Weston, also red faced, puts my gift in my lap. “Open this. I’ve been dying to know what you’ll think.” He winks at me, like we’re sharing a joke. “It could really go either way.”
“Okay!” I say, grateful for the distraction. I remove the polar bear and set it beside me. I don’t even know why I like it so much. Then I rip the paper off what turns out to be a hunter green Moo U hockey zip-up sweatshirt with a wonderful piled fleece interior. “Ooh! Cozy,” I say. I’ve seen these before but they’re spendy, so I don’t own one.
“Don’t miss the back,” Weston says with a sly grin.
I flip over the shirt. And there it says GRIGGS in block letters right over his jersey number.
I laugh. Loudly. “So I’m supposed to parade around campus with your name on the back of my shirt?”
