Page 136 of Someone Like You

Couple goals.

Like supporting each other through life changes and awkward situations? Like championing your partner’s successes and being there to pick up the pieces when it all goes to shit? Like sharing in-jokes and having entire conversations simply by exchanging a look?

Like us, Raff?

‘You still haven’t looked in your stocking,’ Issy says, gently admonishing him.

Issy bites the head off another chocolate Santa to punctuate her point, and I shake my head, dislodging my futile thoughts. I go back to my stocking, taking out trinkets and candy, and laughing at a magnet that says, ‘In Seattle, we have two seasons: rainy and August.’

I look over at Raff, who’s now delving into his stocking, each item he takes out making him smile with delight.

I love this man and last night, he kissed me back.

Now what?

Hours later, we’re all in the living room wearing our ugliest Christmas sweaters – although, I’m still not sure Raff knows we’re wearing ours ironically – surrounded by discarded Christmas wrapping. ‘White Christmas’ is (aptly) playing on the stereo and we’re munching on rugelach, mince pies, and Christmas cookies, even though none of us can possibly be hungry after Dad’s traditional Christmas brunch.

Actually, I may never be hungry again after that. Eggs, sausage, bacon, hashbrowns, grilled tomatoes – Dad’s plate drowning in the hot sauce he gets sent in from Texas.

Right before we sat down to eat, Raff cracked a bottle of Champagne and when Mom had a sip, she declared it was too nice to make Mimosas from, so we had our juice on the side.

We’re on the third bottle now and there are only two presents left under the tree – mine for Raff and his for me.

‘I’m going next,’ I say, getting up from the floor. I stamp my feet, which are seconds away from getting pins and needles, then retrieve a large, flat, gift-wrapped box and hand it to Raff. He accepts it with a curious smile, and I go back to my spot on the floor by the coffee table.

As we have with every gift – oohing and ahhing as the wrapping is peeled away – we all watch him remove the paper, then lift the lid on the box. The gift inside is wrapped in tissue paper with a gold sticker holding it in place, and he slides his finger underneath the sticker to release it. When he parts the tissue paper, revealing the gift, he gasps.

‘Oh, Gabs,’ he says in a whisper.

‘What is it?’ asks Issy.

I flick at glance at Mom, who helped me with the gift-wrapping, and she raises her eyebrows, giving me an excited smile.

Raff takes out a crisp, white jacket and holds it up in front of him.

‘It’s monogrammed chef’s whites,’ he says, his voice filled with wonder.

He sets it back in his lap, his long fingers running over the embroidered Baked to Perfection logo, under which is ‘Rafferty Delaney’.

‘The hat’s in there too,’ I say.

‘Oh, really?’ He digs deeper into the box and takes out a toque. ‘Wowser.’ He looks over at me. ‘Thankyou.’

‘Put it on!’ says Issy.

‘All right.’ He stands and slips on the jacket and does up the buttons, then positions the hat on his head. I don’t love a chef’s hat, to be honest, but CiCi said they’re not really worn while working – they’re more for show. He’ll wear the jacket, though, and he’ll need four more – one for each workday – but I wanted to give him his first.

‘How do I look?’ he asks us, stretching his arms out and doing a slow turn.

‘Like a pro,’ says Dad.

‘Like a pastry chef,’ Mom replies.

‘You look hot,’ says Issy, and my head swivels sharply in her direction. She pretends not to notice that I’m glaring at her.

Raff laughs it off. ‘Well, I’m not sure about that, but it certainly makes it feel real,’ he says with a nervous laugh. He turns to me, suddenly earnest. ‘Really, Gabs, thank you. It’s brilliant.’

‘You’re welcome,’ I say, ignoring the tummy flutters that penetrating look induces.

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