Page 48 of Born in the Spring

But based on our history, I want to believe she wouldn’t stop me even if I were.

Nineteen

Jasper

The door still hasn’t opened when I chuck the last log into the fireplace and ignite the flames.

My attention has been divided between building the fire and watching for Elara. I told her my plan to surprise Mom by putting up the Christmas tree, to help ease the load and the weight of double our loss I could tell Mom didn’t want to carry, but I didn’t tell her when. I didn’t tell her I was doing it on a Saturday night, justsometime at the end of the week. And she didn’t ask, which told me she took my hint. If that was even a hint.

We haven’t met up here like we used to in years, but that was the point. I want to see if those nights are still on her mind. I want to see if she knew I meanttonightand chooses on her own to show up.

I want to see if she chooses on her own to be here with me. To have our nights back. Oroneof our nights.

I fall back against the couch, eyeing our tree I already setup with gold lights, positioned like a grinch losing patience, the naked leaves and bare branches poised like they’re scolding me.

The decorations inside the row of boxes at my feet look less in a hurry to be dug out and hung up. We got our blue, white, and gold color scheme that’s been the same since I was born. We have berries, ribbons, ornaments in solid shades, bells, snowflakes, trinkets the kids have made over the years and given to Mom, a Christmas village set to place around the bottom. . .

The box farthest from me holds the stuffI’min the least hurry to dig out and hang up.

Gift tags with some of our family pictures on them. We’d add a new one each year. This is the first year we won’t have a new one. And if we did, two of us would be missing.

Though all of our initials are still there, an ornament each, carved from wood.

G, A, S, J, and E.

Elara’s was made before and added her first Christmas here. Not even a year into knowing her and we all knew she belonged.

My nose flares on a sting as I prepare to sift through it all.

“Waiting for me?”

With Elara.

My inhale is a gust of relief and answered prayers as I meet her gaze over my shoulder. Her tone is half playful as she brings the cheer into the room and a peace to my mind the closer she gets to me.

“As long as it takes,” I say on my exhale, confirming I was and telling her I will, and her brief pause as she takes off her jacket tells me she sees below the surface of my next promise,this one to her.

For tonight, though, she didn’t make me wait. I would’ve pulled plans out of my ass to do in here every Saturday night until she showed up. But it only took one.

We’re not in our pajamas; I’m wearing a long-sleeved shirt and a pair of jeans, and while there’s not a piece of silk in sight on Elara, she’s still wearing pink, that top, and her leggings hugging every curve, every valley I’ve pictured my hands exploring a million times.

I can’t fucking handle how beautiful she is.

My fingers dig into the couch to get a literal handle on myself as I say another prayer that this is the Christmas I’ll get to unwrap her under this tree.

Realistically, that wouldn’t work, but she’s the only gift I want.

“Thankfully, I didn’t take too long,” she says, still half playful, as she lays her jacket with mine on the cushion, and more questions flood my head.

Did shehaveto too? Did she have no other choice but to come to me?

All my senses are awakened to my favorite atmosphere. Me, Elara, and a crackling fire. Her breathing, that she releases as a sigh, a soft curve in her mouth as she removes her phone from the pocket of her jacket. She scrolls the screen to a Christmas playlist, like she would do when we’d all decorate the tree as a full family, then takes another brief pause as she glances around the space—the tree, the fire, and me reflected in her eyes before she puts her phone away with a smile, like this is all she needs too.

She leans back beside me, the side of her hand pressed against the side of mine. “Where do you wanna start?”

“Anywhere,” I answer with a breath, running my pinky over hers. She angles her eyes toward the touch, her pinky lifting into mine almost naturally before she pushes off and bends for some boxes, setting them at the tree so we won’t have to move around each other to work. Though that’s exactly what she’s still doing with us.

“Balls,” she says when she whips back up, flourishing an ornament in each hand, her gaze sparkling with amusement that draws out mine.

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