Page 50 of His Until Christmas

He means on my lock screen.

It is. I could look at it for even longer, but Isaac holds a finger to his lips and inches a door open for me to enter.

Reece doesn’t notice. He can’t with his back to me while curled in a ball.

One of the foundation kids tries to shove him over, and it takes a moment to see why—a translator holds open a storybook so all the children can see an image of a little boy trying to hold back a huge boulder. Whoever drew that kid conveyed real effort. And fear, which the translator interprets before repeatingherself in English. “Can he hold back something that heavy all by himself?”

These most recent arrivals have already picked up enough English to answer.

“No!”

I didn’t have this on my Christmas wish list, but getting to witness kids working together to shove Reece over so he ends up flat on his back and laughing now tops it. My phone is still in my hand, so I take a photo, and that’s when he sees me.

Reece smiles, and fuck Lito for ever suggesting I was frosty. Thawing is so easy for the right man for me.

That assistant librarian must also notice. Isaac whispers, “How long have you two been together?”

“Me and Reece?”

I should say less than a week.

This doesn’t feel like lying.

“Three years this Christmas.”

He’s wistful again. “And you still look at him like that?”

I almost confess to stretching the truth about our daily texting, but Isaac points to a whiteboard where emotions are listed, his finger aimed at a word Reece must have written.

After less than a week of working together, I know his handwriting. And after thirty-six months of practice, I can say this with zero hesitation.

See word, say feeling, right?

“Loving him is really easy.”

13

If Isaac were my assistant,I’d give him a Christmas bonus. He’d deserve it for the extra time he carves out for Reece. Getting to use this room for a little longer doesn’t stop our countdown clock from ticking, but Reece does get to finish his story, then run an activity with the last of my Post-its.

I sit beside him cross-legged on the carpet, not caring if it’s gritty or grubby. All I do care about is this close-up view of Reece lighting up as these kids share with him. I almost take a photo. Instead, my phone stays in my pocket, and my throat tightens.

Snaps of him won’t cut it after Christmas, will they?

I’ll want the real deal for even longer.

It’s a theme I can’t dodge once the kids are gone and we stand outside a station entrance where Reece asks, “Want to head straight back to work? Or we could stop off in town. I could take some daytime photos for your gran if you wanted?”

I never wanted anything less, so I’m relieved when he makes another suggestion.

“I do still need to get a tree ornament for Mum. Help me choose one?”

We end up in the same tourist-trap pub for lunch first. This time, we share a table with American retirees here to see this city sparkle. They also get a ringside seat to watch Reece sorting through tiny drawings of Christmas wishes. Once he’s done eating, he makes multicoloured piles of paper and murmurs, “Sorry the kids used up so much of your stash.”

“I don’t mind.” I watch him create more piles and lean closer to hear him over Christmas music.

“It’s scary how quick they pick up on new traditions. Even if Christmas isn’t their celebration, every single one of them already knows that Santa has two lists: a naughty and a nice one.” He lifts his glass only to place it back on the table just as quickly. Maybe he should have taken a gulp to ease this hoarseness. “One of them asked me how to get off the naughty list. Because he won’t get presents like his classmates. That’s why I said the foundation would buy a few of their ideas for the toy library at the community centre.” He taps one of those stacks of paper. “Only now I don’t know which toys to pick and which ones to leave out.”

These little drawings take on new meaning. They’re more than Christmas wishes. They describe what it’s like to be on the outside, and I know that feeling.

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