Page 107 of Because of Dylan

“Water?”

Dylan goes to the fridge, and I grab the gift bags and walk to the bay window.

The Christmas tree ends a few inches from the ceiling, and the scent of pine gets stronger with each step. I tuck the bags next to the other gifts. A mismatch of ornaments decorates the tree. They look old and cherished. I can’t help myself from touching a few.

A blue birdhouse, two tiny birds atop it, a little train with “Dylan.” Another that says, “Tommy’s First Christmas.” The entire tree is covered in them. Little pieces of memories molded into plastic figurines, each telling a story.

Dylan brushes my shoulder, his hand on the small of my back.

“It’s so beautiful. I’ve never had a Christmas tree before.”

“Never?” He’s holding a water bottle.

I can’t step back. I’m trapped between him and the tree, and I have said too much. Racing thoughts cloud my mind. I need to say something, but what? The therapist’s voice comes to me. I settle for a version of the truth.

“My family wasn’t religious. We didn’t really celebrate anything.” Damn it! I said too much again.

Dylan kisses my head and lets it go. I’m sure he can sense my resistance on the subject. All the times we got together since that rainy day—and there have been a lot of times—I’ve never talked about my past.

He points at a Millennium Falcon ornament. “This one was always my favorite growing up. I’d steal it from the tree every Christmas thinking I was sneaky, and then I would forget about it and leave it somewhere for my mother to find.”

“Did you get in to trouble?”

“Nah, Mom was never mad. But she put it up higher and higher every year as I grew until I was taller than her.” His face softens with the memory.

“What did she do then? And how old were you?”

“I was twelve. She’d get a chair and put it all the way to the top. By then it was a game we were playing for years. I’d take it and leave it somewhere she could find. And she would hide it again on the tree. Back and forth we went until the tree was down and the ornaments put away.”

“I love that. It was your thing.”

“It was our thing, our own little game we played only at Christmas.” His hand grips my hip.

“Maybe it’s a tradition you can keep going with your own kids someday.”

He looks at me then, blinks away the memory and the hint of sadness in his eyes. “I’d like that.”

The beeping sound of a timer breaks the moment. I open the water bottle and take a long drink, following Dylan to the kitchen. “What can I do?”

He looks around, checks everything. “Nothing. I think we’re done. Tommy even set the table earlier. Let’s eat.”

* * *

The three of us settle in the living room, the fireplace flickers with orange and blue flames, and on the TV,Die Hardis playing. We’re full and content. I don’t remember ever being this safe, this happy, this … at peace.

“Hmm, I’m not sureDie Hardis a Christmas movie.” I pull my legs under me on the couch. Dylan is sitting next to me, an arm over the back of the couch, his fingers twirling into my hair.

“Blasphemy!” Tommy stands up.

I cover my mouth to try to keep my giggles in but fail. My body shakes with laughter.

Tommy points a finger at the TV. “Dylan, do something! Side with me on this one.”

Dylan puts his hands up, presses his lips together and shakes his head. “I take the fifth.”

“He’s lying. We watchDie Hardevery Christmas.” Tommy points at Dylan now. “I know what you’re doing. You’re siding with your woman so you can get lai—”

A pillow flies and hits Tommy on the face before he can finish his sentence. “Watch it!” Dylan says, but there’s no heat in his voice.

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