Page 63 of War on Christmas

“I also think…” I tuck my head next to hers, so it’s nestled into the curve of her shoulder. “You were neveralldark, Frey.” My hand trails up her ribs to the soft, sweet-smelling skin of her neck, and I reach across her chest to draw the neckline of her sweater over her shoulder to reveal her tattoo. Her witch’s garden. “You’ve always been the medicine to me.” My lips trail along the swirling black lines. “Everyone else kept looking away from my mom and me. They insisted we were ok because Gary put food on the table and didn’t smack us around or whatever. And that?Thatfelt fucking dark.”

I swallow, and Freya’s hand snakes up my neck to grab me by the nape. A silent, comfortingI’m here.I nibble along her shoulder before I continue.

“The fact that you never asked me to deny what was happening? That you listened to me and acknowledged the truth I was living with?” I pause for a moment, trying to find the right words. “That was pure light. You were a—astar, Freya, illuminating my deepest, darkest secrets. I never thanked you properly for that, but I should have. I should have—”

She shakes her head.

“Don’t you dare thank me for that,” she interrupts, and I’m shocked at the vehemence in her voice. “Don’t you dare thank me. I should have been there for—” Frowning, I turn her around so she’s facing me, rearranging her legs so they wrap around my waist. She’s clutching the present to her chest, still shaking her head. “I should have been there for you. Youneededme, Jeremy. In a big way. And I wasn’t there. I—”

“You were always there.” I pull back, tipping her head so she’s forced to meet my gaze. “Like a little angel on my shoulder, whispering in my ear.” She snorts, and my lips tug into a smile. “Well, like afallenangel,” I amend, then jerk my head at the present pressed to her chest. “Open it.”

She releases her breath in a tiny puff, nodding, and as she starts to unwrap the gift, I slide her next to me, my arm wrapped around her shoulders. My belly gives a nervous twitch. Freya is a notoriously amazing gift giver. She sees people with unerring—and quite frankly, unnerving—accuracy, and she chooses presents that leave the recipient feeling validated and seen. It’s like a superpower.

But I know, deep down, that what I’m giving her is pretty damn good.

She tosses the wrapping paper onto the nightstand, covering the digital clock that keeps blinking a neon red 12:00, and runs her fingers reverently over the black sketchbook in her hands.

“Jeremy, is this—”

“From high school, yeah. Senior year.” My face warms. “Well, mostly high school. I may have made a few”— I cough—“additions over the past week. But I have to warn you, I’m out of practice. I’m all straight lines and right angles now, so don’t—”

“I love it,” she breathes.

I grin. I knew she’d love it. There’s nothing that Freya craves more than secrets, than the hidden nooks and crannies we hide from the rest of the world, and giving her my sketchbook is the equivalent of handing over my journal. As a kid, I spent hours drawing in these notebooks, and it drove Freya wild that I’d never let her see them. I believe the exact phrase I usually used was, “Over my dead body,” to which Freya would always reply, “Gladly.”

The cover opens with a creak, and Freya snuggles in closer, her head resting on my shoulder as she peruses the first page. It takes two whole seconds before her sharp gasp echoes through the small apartment.

“It’s Roxy!” she squeals, sitting up straight, her legs bent to support the book.

There’s no denying it. The sketch staring back at us, a dark-haired, pointy-eared elf with a heart-shaped face, full lips, and a beauty mark next to her pert nose is absolutely Roxy Noteleaf, right down to the bow and arrow hanging casually from one shoulder. Freya’s fingers float above the paper, like she desperately wants to touch it, but she won’t risk smudging the graphite.

“Keep going,” I urge her, excited by her initial response.

They’re not all of her. There’s an ancient wizard with a distinct walrus-look, who Freya immediately recognizes as our high school trig teacher, Mr. Zimmer. There’s Thad as his cleric character, Stromm Godsan, draped in robes. Even her dad disguised as a Tolkien Ent, his beard carefully shaded into the knots and grooves of the tree’s bark.

But they’re mostly her.

Freya as a sun elf, light emanating from her fingertips and hair. Freya as a menacing fairy with torn black wings and sharp, jagged teeth. (“Pretty sure I drew that one the day you pulled ahead of me in AP U.S. History,” I admit with a sheepish grin, and Freya laughs.) Freya as a fairy queen, feminine and lush, covered head to toe in flowers. Freya as a vampire, hugged in skintight leather from shirt to knee-high boots, her fangs dripping blood. (“The day I found out you were dating that skater dweeb.” There’s no hiding my blush. “I was a tiny bit jealous.”)

She loves them all—I can tell from the way she bites her lip to stop herself from smiling—but she loves the dark, creepy ones the best.

When she gets to the last handful of pages, I slap a hand over the book, cringing.

“These are new,” I rush to explain. “I haven’t drawn anything but buildings in—”

“Move your hand, Asshat,” Freya orders, and like the poor, lovesick fool I am, I obey.

Freya falls silent as she studies the new additions, her face focused and serious. I see the drawings with an artist’s eye, taking in every flaw. The shading that’s not quite right and the smudges from where I had to erase, over and over. But I try to see them from her perspective now. Sketches not based on fantasy, but on moments we’ve lived together over the past week and a half. Grown-up Freya, her face a little leaner, cheekbones more pronounced. Freya and Andy, with her head tipped toward him, listening intently. Freya’s dark eyes peeking at me over a windowsill, a winter hat pulled low over her head. Freya sleeping, her hand resting under her cheek, her thick lashes splayed across pale cheeks.

They’re…intimate. The level of detail, the damning accuracy of her face and body and expressions. They’re a confession, as surely as dropping to my knees and declaring my undying love for her.

“Jeremy…” she murmurs as her fingertips hover above the paper. My heart pounds behind my breastbone, every beat protesting the rejection I’ve set myself up for, and I swallow, not sure how to respond. But before I can, Freya turns to the final page and freezes inside the circle of my arm, her breath catching. “How did you find out?” she chokes.

I look down at the final sketch, my sole attempt from a couple days ago at my teenage style of epic fantasy. Freya is front and center, of course, but in this picture, I’ve depicted her as a sea creature, bold and terrifying and gorgeous. Her stare is direct, her expression fathomless. Myriad limbs snake from a voluptuous body, six of them ending in monstrous, scale-covered heads with sharp, threatening teeth. She’s balanced on a jagged rock, and around her, the water rotates inwards, creating a vortex.

My mouth twists with confusion. “Find out what?”

“About Scylla,” she whispers. I shake my head, not sure what she’s talking about, and her lips lift as she continues, her eyes still glued to the page. “Remember readingThe Odysseyin eighth grade?” she asks, and I nod. Freya, Thad, and I—as self-proclaimed nerds—had been a little obsessed with it. “Scylla,” Freya explains, “was the sea monster that Odysseus had to pass. He lost one sailor to each of her six heads.” Her fingers trace the six heads on the sketch. “Scylla—well, Scylla Wilde—also happens to be my stage name when I perform.”

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