––––––––
Outside of Riley’s door the strings and celestial cymbals of The Cure could be heard. It was Christmas Eve and he was barely speaking. Emma took a deep breath and knocked.
Lyrics about the sky falling in on lovers kissing in the rain and the courage to let go swathed the dim room in poetic melancholy. Pictures of You was one of her favorite songs by The Cure.
She stepped inside, fearful of pushing him too hard. “Riley?”
Sitting on the floor with his back to the wall and his knees up, lucky sock monkey hat pulled low on his head, he grimaced as he stared at his phone, his thumb swiping over images every few seconds.
“What are you doing?” Deliberately stepping over a pile of books on the floor she tried to find a place to fit. His palm slid the hat lower on his brow, hiding his eyes. Was he crying?
Dressed for dinner at his parents’, she gathered her emerald skirt, crossed her ankles, and sank to the carpet beside him. “This song reminds me of the day we sat on the roof,” she whispered, trying to find a smile.
He sniffed and nodded. He wasn’t dressed for dinner. It was nerve wracking reintroducing herself to his parents as more than Rarity’s friend. But Riley, not being his usual upbeat self, was more concerning.
The Lockhart’s had always made her nervous, the sort of people that naturally induced pressure on others. Today, she was oddly indifferent about such things, but she still hoped to make a good impression for Riley’s benefit—if he cared. Maybe he didn’t.
“Shouldn’t you be getting dressed? We’re supposed to be there in an hour.”
He shrugged and crossed his arms over his knees, pulling them close and lowering his face into the hollowed space by his elbows. She smiled at the back of the ridiculous hat and gave the monkey tail a slow tug.
“Tomorrow’s Christmas,” she whispered, wishing some magical spell of merriment would fall upon them and they’d slide back into normal. They needed a reprieve from all the heaviness. “Santa’s coming...”
He said nothing.
She reached for his hand and tilted his phone. “What are you looking at?”
Her lips parted as she saw the image. It was her, sleeping. “When did you take this?”
“In August.”
That was when they’d first started dating. Had it only been four months? In comparison to every other relationship she’d had, theirs felt lifetimes long.
Did he look at this picture a lot? Maybe he did in the beginning, when they were hiding their relationship and they couldn’t openly be together, sleeping under the same roof but walls apart. Bitter that she didn’t have such a picture of him sleeping, she felt a pinch cheated. In the beginning there were plenty of nights she wanted to watch him sleep and couldn’t.
She still liked staring at him, but now she could do so whenever the mood struck. How did people carry on when the one person they longed to look at wasn’t there? She shoved the morbid question into a dark corner with the rest of her morose thoughts. But she was glad he had that picture.
Was it normal to be so obsessed with another person? To want to spend every waking second and every sleeping breath within his reach? Becket had never been that invested in her. Even in the end, when they were ‘engaged’, they worked on a ‘by appointment only’ arrangement. She laughed inwardly, understanding why that suited him.
There was nothing planned about her and Riley. Not in the beginning and not now. That wasn’t how they operated. They flowed naturally, on a current of laughter and desire that formed a rhythm, like stars drawn across the universe into the other’s orbit, drifting close until they collided. Never the same again.
The music ended, the room silent as the tape stopped with a sharp snap. “You and your cassettes.”
He laughed, but the sound was clipped and hollow.
“Riley, you can’t let this consume you. We don’t even know anything yet. It could just be a cyst.”
She’d been trapped where he was. The worry was enough to swallow a person whole. She wasn’t strong enough to bear it, so she took it in doses. Right now she was coping by pretending the worry wasn’t there, somehow convinced life was normal. But it wasn’t.
“I looked on the internet,” he quietly admitted.
Her eyes closed, as sympathy tightened her heart. She’d made the same mistake when she’d been curious and overwhelmed herself in a matter of minutes. She understood the temptation, but should have warned him there was no comfort to be found in such searches. Rarity made her promise to stay away from medical websites and patient forums. She should’ve made Riley promise the same.
“Did you find anything good?” None of it was good. People visited those sites begging for peace of mind, but signed off with nothing more than terrifying paranoia.
“There’re so many cases. Thousands.”
She nodded. Daunting. “I know. It’s a little shocking that I’m the first person we know to go through something like this.”
“You’re so young, Emma. We’re so young.”
Her breathing turned jagged as she faced the wall, watching the items on his desk blur under a fresh gloss of tears. It was impossible to hide from the worry when he wanted to discuss it, but they needed to talk about this, she supposed.
She needed him to be able to handle this, because she couldn’t handle it alone. Her biggest fear, maybe more than the C-word, was coping with something so life altering without Riley there to make her smile. If this turned into too much for him to handle... She couldn’t even imagine what she’d do.
Her head rested on his shoulder. “I know I’m young, but that’s a good thing, right? It’s really rare at this age, so maybe it is nothing. Maybe, in a few weeks, we’ll all be laughing about how dramatic we got and how we let one little pea sized cyst ruin Christmas.” Wouldn’t that be nice?
Resting his chin on his arms, he mumbled, “I read the survival rate’s good with treatment for women your age.”
Survival rate.
That wasn’t really a phrase she needed to incorporate in her life, was it? Those sorts of words came after a diagnosis. Right now she just had a foreign hard spot in her body. That could be anything. But his words lingered in her mind.
Good news was a jagged pill to swallow when it came with words like survival rate. Things got very real very fast. Her chest tightened and whatever comfortable cloud of distraction she’d been hiding behind dissolved.
Her breathing turned heavy, but she tried to hide her stress from him. Staring at the floor, she blinked and casually wiped away the start of tears. “It could be nothing,” she rasped. Broken record. Broken woman.
Her wrist throbbed as she became hyper-focused on her health, the blood flowing through her veins, the cells mutating, and a world of science she didn’t understand. As her fingers went numb, a tingling sensation traveled up her arms and over her shoulders. Pressure built in her chest and a small voice inside her head, very far away, started to scream.
Is this what a panic attack feels like? Amazingly, she remained perfectly still.
“I think you should have it removed, even if it’s just a cyst,” Riley said.
Her entire chest vibrated so acutely, yet her trembling was imperceptible. Her mind wove together images of her body, red with blood and floating cells as her imagination drifted from her brain stem, down her spine, through her chest, and into her breast, following those little ducts like roots of a tree. And there, at the end of it all, was a small little pea.
What color was it? It pissed her off that she couldn’t decide on a color when imagining the lump, pissed her off she knew absolutely nothing about breast cancer and she was a woman. Her imagination took her on a tour of her anatomy with the precision one would garner from a cartoonist illustrating a skit about the human body on Sesame Street.
She could sense it, beneath her skin and tissue. A phantom presence that was actually quite solid. An abnormality she wanted gone. How could something so small be so powerful, so lethal? What if she had it removed and it came back? Did that happen? She didn’t know how cancer worked, didn’t know how a woman went from losing a pea-sized lump to losing both her breasts.
Something like one in every eight women faced the risk of breast cancer, so why wasn’t she more educated on the subject? And of those diagnosed, only two of every three survived.
Suddenly furious and unspeakably petrified, she stood. “You should get dressed. We have to leave soon.”
“I don’t wanna go.”
She paused. They needed to go, because if she stayed in the loft another minute she’d freak out. As unpleasant as his parents could be, she needed the distraction—desperately.
“Riley, it’s Christmas Eve. They’re expecting us. We have to go.”
“Why? It won’t be the first time my parents expected something from me and were disappointed.”
Taking a slow breath, she pinched the bridge of her nose. “I want to go.”
He frowned at her from the floor. “Why? They’re assholes, Emma. We should stay here.”
“And do what, sit on the floor and listen to The Cure?”
He looked away. “I don’t wanna go.”
“Riley,” she pleaded. “I’m dressed. I did my hair and put on makeup and squeezed into these tights. We don’t have to stay long—”
“You look pretty.”
“Th—thank you.” She sighed. “Rarity’s going. We made her do Thanksgiving on her own. We can’t abandon her for Christmas too.”
“She can stay with us.”
She was silent for a few minutes, running out of methods of persuasion. “Just an hour. You can do sixty minutes with them. I know you can.”
Glancing up at her, his eyes narrowed. “Why do you want to go so badly?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. They’re your parents.”
She couldn’t let him know how scared she was. He was dealing with his own trepidation, and fear was contagious. Their anxiety would feed off each other so for the moment she kept her worry to herself.
Shaking his head, he rolled his eyes. “They’re gonna judge you.”
“So? Let them.”
“You say that now.”
Sighing, she lowered herself to the floor again, this time kneeling before him so they were looking into each other’s eyes. “Riley, I know you hate being around them and I know you’re only trying to protect me, but I’ve known them since I was a child. I get that they don’t really like me, but they don’t like anyone, so I’m not taking it too personally. What they think can’t hurt me.”
He prepared to argue, but there was a fast rap on the door and Rarity came in. “Are you guys ready? We have to get a move on.” She frowned. “Please tell me you’re wearing that hat. It’ll keep mom bitching all night and then I don’t have to hear about how I’m wasting away my ovaries watching life go by through a camera lens.”
“He’s not going,” Emma said, knowing Rarity wouldn’t stand for that.
“The hell you aren’t. I did Thanksgiving by myself. There’s no way I’m doing Christmas. Get your ass off the floor and get dressed. I’m walking Marla and then we’re leaving. Emma, get his suit out of the closet.”
She stood and did as Rarity instructed, once again grateful for her best friend.
****
Riley drove while Emma fidgeted beside him. Rarity texted Lexi from the backseat. Lexi would stay at the loft tonight so they could all be together for Christmas morning. There had been so much going on that week, so many surprises, all of their plans sort of fell apart, but being together, doing nothing, sounded just fine to Emma.
Originally, she intended to have a traditional brunch, but she’d forgotten her shopping list and been so distracted at the grocery store, she wasn’t sure what they had in the pantry. Tomorrow’s menu would be another surprise.
She smiled at Riley who scowled as he maneuvered through traffic toward Park Ave. The last time she’d been to the Lockhart’s condo she was ten. Rarity and Riley spent most of their childhood living on the family estate, outside of the city. Her only memory of the condo was not being able to touch anything. There was a lot of white and almost everything was glass.
As they took the elevator, the three of them shifted with resigned apprehension. Rarity reached in her shirt and hoisted up her breasts while loosening a button. She also rolled her sleeves so the tattoos running up her forearms were on full display.
Emma drew pleasure from watching her friend flaunt her diversity. From her short hair, buzzed close on the sides, to her oxblood boots, Rarity was everything her name claimed.
Deposited into a private foyer with vaulted ceilings and a sparkling chandelier, the scent of wealth and conceit churned up prickly memories.
The door opened and an older gentleman dressed in gray greeted them. “Mr. Lockhart. Ms. Lockhart.”
“Harold, you remember Emma,” Rarity said.
“Of course.” Tipping his head, he greeted. “Miss.”
Right.
Although every exterior wall was made of glass, displaying the gaping panorama of New York and a gazillion dollar view of Central Park, the condo was taciturn and unwelcoming. Monochromatic, eccentric, and ugly were the words that came to mind.
Marble walls complemented the pale zebra wood flooring and cold metal furniture. Art deco lines created an abundance of space, so much so it became a piece of art in itself, the pricey square footage so blatantly displayed it surpassed braggadocios.
Harold took their coats and they shuffled into what the Lockharts called the fore room where white leather chairs sat beside an étagère wall displaying glass pieces of objects d’art. She hated it.
“You made it.” There she was, Sophia Morgan-Lockhart. “Most people send notice if they’re delayed beyond an hour. I see you’ve brought a guest without advanced notification.” She smiled tightly, as if she tasted something unsavory. “Emma, how nice to have you with us.” There was nothing sincere in her greeting.
Rarity and Riley tolerated air kisses and a short debriefing of what their mother found tedious so far that day. Emma tried to keep to the shadows, but everything was freaking white and wide open. Fidgeting, she toyed with various poses and places to keep her hands. Rarity collapsed on a settee and Riley filled a leather chair.
Mr. Lockhart entered from a set of gray pocket doors she hadn’t noticed.
“Oliver, the children are here and they’ve brought a guest.” Sophia gestured as if Emma were a stain they needed to address, her enormous canary diamond glinting in the high altitude sunlight.
“Riley.” Mr. Lockhart shook his son’s hand, but only nodded at Rarity. He barely acknowledged Emma. “Your hair’s gotten shorter, Rarity. I sometimes wonder what happened to my little girl in Mary Jane’s and lace.”
“I killed her,” Rarity announced dryly.
“Don’t start,” Mrs. Lockhart admonished. “Shall we have a toast? Harold, tell Lillian we’d like a cordial.” Turning to her husband she mumbled, “Honestly, Oliver, what is she thinking? They’ve been here almost five minutes.” She tsked.
It was clear Riley didn’t want to be in his parents’ presence, but they were there and he should make the best of it. They’d eat and leave and it would all be over soon.
A woman in black wheeled out a glass cart filled with fancy liqueurs and tiny stemmed glasses.
“I’ll take a beer,” Riley announced.
“We’re having cordials, Riley.”
“Bully for you. I’d like a beer.”
“I’ll take one too,” Rarity said.
It clearly took an effort for Mrs. Lockhart to hold her tongue. Shooting Rarity a disapproving look, she said, “Lillian, please bring Riley a glass of whatever ale we have. Rarity, you may have one of the liqueurs if you’d like a cocktail before dinner.”
The maid disappeared and returned with a tall pilsner of amber beer for Riley. She poured several small glasses as Mrs. Lockhart directed her every move down to how she carried the silver tray. Emma carefully took a small glass and sipped the citrus flavored alcohol. Gross.
“No thank you, Lillian,” Rarity said as the tray came to her.
Riley took a long sip of his beer, eyed his mother, and passed the glass to Rarity who chugged the remainder.
“Your manners are abysmal.” Mrs. Lockhart tsked again. “Lillian, we’ll be moving to the dining room.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The dining room resembled a tomb. Great windows on each wall overlooked the New York skyline. A slab of marble long enough to fit twenty men was coldly dressed with square, white dishes and multiple forks and stemware. Emma settled into an S chair between Rarity and Riley.
Placing her napkin on her lap, she took a moment to squeeze Riley’s thigh under the table. He snatched her fingers so fast it surprised her. He’d been so distant and indifferent since they’d arrived, but as his grip tightened over her hand as if he were drawing strength, she understood how far being here was pushing him.
Here, he was just a boy and these people were, unfortunately, the parents that would never appreciate the incredible man he’d become. She squeezed his hand back. I appreciate you.
“I haven’t seen you in some time, Riley. What have you been doing with yourself?”
“Same old, same old.”
“I see. And I suppose it’s too much to ask that we have lunch on occasion so you might enlighten me about this secret life you lead.”
“I have no secrets, Mother.”
“Of course not—Rarity, put that phone away. We’re at the table, for the love of decency. I swear, your lack of couth and etiquette is dreadful.”
Rarity finished typing a text and stuffed her phone in her pocket. The servants carried out the first course and Emma watched discreetly to see which fork to use.
“Mazie Sinclair’s daughter is shopping for a place in Manhattan, Riley,” Mrs. Lockhart announced and Emma stilled. “Perhaps you could give her a call and see if she needs anything.”
“Because I’m suddenly a realtor? I think I maybe said ten words to the girl in my entire life.”
“She’s quite pretty.” She glanced at Rarity. “Long dark hair, trim figure. Her new nose transforms her face.”
“No thanks,” he muttered.
Emma frowned. Was he purposely hiding the fact that they were dating? He’d wanted her here. It was part of his argument when he’d confessed wanting to stop hiding their relationship—spending holidays as a couple.
As they ate in silence, Mrs. Lockhart continued to passively berate her children and promote the beautiful New York transplant she wanted Riley to marry. Emma’s appetite disappeared the longer Riley remained silent.
As horrid as his mother was, his neglect to introduce Emma, as his girlfriend was worse. If he’d just tell his mother they were involved she’d likely stop pimping her friend’s daughter. Why wasn’t he speaking up?
The first course was cleared and Mrs. Lockhart appeared perturbed—an ongoing state. “I don’t understand why you won’t consider it. She’s a sweet young woman who—”
“Jesus Christ, Mom, he’s dating Emma,” Rarity snapped.
Riley’s eyes jerked in his sister’s direction and he scowled. Apparently he hadn’t wanted to disclose that bit of information for some reason. “What the fuck, Rarity?”
“Watch your tongue,” Mr. Lockhart muttered.
Mrs. Lockhart scoffed. “I beg your pardon?”
Rarity turned, sending a challenging glance past Emma to her brother. Emma folded her hands on her lap. Dear God.
“Is this true?” his mother asked, appalled.
“Tell them,” Rarity demanded through gritted teeth.
His fork clattered to the table. “Yes.”
Feeling devalued, Emma stared at her lap.
“Oliver, say something.”
“Men often pass their time with various women before settling down. I see no cause for alarm.”
Her breath choked out of her. Stand up. Get your coat. And leave. She couldn’t move.
“That’s not what this is,” Riley said. Did anyone see her? “I’m not passing time. I love her.”
Mrs. Lockhart laughed. “Love? I don’t think so, dear.”
“It’s true—”
“Then that’s unfortunate,” his mother snapped. “You’re a Lockhart. Act like one. I refuse to have some girl, who couldn’t afford the inheritance tax of her family’s sole legacy, sponging off my only son like some New Jersey parasite.”
“That’s it,” Riley stated calmly and stood, pulling Emma up by her elbow. “Get your coat, Em. We’re leaving.”
“Sit down, Riley,” his father directed.
Rarity stood. “Merry Christmas. Yay...” Rolling her eyes she took Emma’s hand and walked her toward the door.
“Everyone sit down!” Mr. Lockhart snapped, rising from his chair.
Riley bunched up his napkin and tossed it on his plate. “This is fucking bullshit,” he mumbled.
“Think about what you’re doing, Riley. We’re your parents.” Then in a more severe tone, she threatened, “You need us.”
He turned and hissed, “For what? What could I possibly need from you? Money? I have my own. You can hold whatever’s left, but you can’t touch what’s legitimately mine. I’d freeze and starve before I’d ever ask for help from you.”
Heart pounding, Emma stood at the entrance to the dining room, stunned. Rarity returned with their coats, appearing unaffected.
His father shook his head. “You’re behaving like a child, Riley. When will you finally become a man? We spoiled you, humored this ridiculous portrayal of some low class, provincial nobody, but enough is enough. Where’s your motivation to do better? Your drive? We gave two children every opportunity to be something great and they’re both living like hippies, surviving on wasted potential and their grandparents’ hard-earned money. It’s a disgrace!”
“I have drive,” Riley growled. “Every day, every single fucking day, I wake up and do my best not to become you.”
Emma’s jaw unhinged as she caught the perverse glint in his mother’s overdone eyes. It was as if she were taking pleasure in this disgraceful spectacle.
His father’s voice pitched low and harsh. “Take your friend and leave.”
Trembling, Emma stared as he turned and took her hand.
“Rarity,” their mother called.
She groaned and turned. “What?”
“We still expect to see you tomorrow evening.”
Rarity glanced at Emma and slowly smiled. “Sorry. I have plans. I’ll be spending Christmas with family—the ones that are there for me and love me no matter what.” She looked at her parents and held out her hands, shrugging. “I can’t keep coming here, pretending to be someone I’m not.”
Together, the three of them turned and left.
****
“Open it, open it, open it, open it!” Riley bounced on the floor next to their horribly decorated Christmas tree. Whatever tinsel still clung to the tree was not earning any points in holiday glamour.
Rarity laughed from the couch where she and Lexi lounged together under the boo-boo blanket. Emma peeled back the paper of the large gift. The box was bright with a young girl on the front. “Nerf Rebelle Agent Bow,” she read and gave a nervous laugh. “It’s a toy bow and arrow.”
“It’s a crossbow!” he said excitedly. “It shoots up to eighty-five feet! We can use it for zombie apocalypse practice!”
“Thanks.” She smiled and kissed him.
Despite the unfortunate turn of events last night, the moment they returned to the comfort of their home, Riley’s mood returned to his usual upbeat, hyper self. She wasn’t sure if he simply loved Christmas that much or if he was overcompensating for fear that the ominous atmosphere of the previous days would return. Though he usually had more energy than the rest of them combined, today he acted like an excitable squirrel battling an attention deficit disorder in a room full of shiny objects—on speed. Still, it was better than seeing him sad. As far as defense mechanisms went, his was a harmless one.
“You want more coffee, baby?” Lexi asked as she stood. Her long, dark legs stepping around the piles of paper as Emma made room by gathering the shredded trash and crumpling it into a ball.
“Can you grab me a trash bag, Lexi?”
“Sure, Em.”
“Now, open this one,” Riley insisted.
He’d bought her so many gifts. The vintage shaving kit she got him no longer seemed like the great present she thought it would be. “Okay.”
Pulling back the wrapping, she discovered an old hat box. There was obviously something fairly large inside, heavier than a hat. Unlacing the string, she lifted the lid and smirked, amused. “A Polaroid camera?”
“Now we can actually print and hold our pictures instead of posting them on social files for a bunch of people we hardly know to critique and judge. That whole box over there is filled with film. Enough to take a picture every day for a year.”
She smiled, unprepared for the tickle of sadness that seeped in. What would her pictures look like in a year?
“Do you like it?”
She lifted the pink camera and opened the flash. A strange hum started as the camera turned on. “I love it.”
He kissed her. “Come on.” Pulling her to the floor on a pile of crumpled paper, he held the camera over them. “Vintage Christmas selfie—hashtag old school. Everyone say sex please.”
She laughed. “Sex please!”
The flash went off, bright and loud. As the bulb whistled the camera processed the picture, sluggishly purging it from the slit. He took the picture and fanned it in the air.
“Vintage and hashtag don’t belong in the same sentence,” Rarity commented as Emma blinked, momentarily blinded.
“Fine. I’ll say pound sign,” Riley argued. “Rarity’s annoying—pound sign: brat.”
As Emma’s vision restored, Rarity gave her brother the finger.
“Look,” Riley said, holding the picture out for her. A poor resolution image of the two of them landed in her hand.
He kissed her ear and whispered in a voice too low for anyone else to hear, “Pound sign: beautiful.” She shut her eyes, thinking the exact same thing. He was beautiful.
Taking the picture, she studied it as it came into focus. If she’d taken it on a digital camera she would’ve fussed with her hair and edited it twenty times. There was no such thing as candid photos anymore. But what she saw, that expression of total happiness and love in his eyes, that was real.
Her gaze was turned toward him, as her mouth opened in a crooked smile. Lying back the way they were, she had a double chin. But she looked so happy. Real.
Turning, she kissed his cheek. “I love it. We should take a picture every day.”
“For a year?” he grinned, staring close into her eyes.
“Forever.” That way, they’d always be together, even when they couldn’t sleep side by side.
He nodded. “I like it.”
Marla, sniffing out affection, barged between them and nuzzled Riley’s neck. Rarity and Lexi bundled up and took the dog for a walk while Emma cleaned up and started breakfast. Based on their supplies, they would be having eggless pancakes and orange juice, since she’d forgotten everything else at the market.
As she mixed the batter Riley slipped his arms around her waist and pressed his face to her neck, hugging her from behind. “I love all my presents.”
She grinned. “I planned on getting you more, but...”
He grunted. “You’re my favorite gift.”
She rested her cheek against the top of his head. It had been over a week since they’d slept together and she missed him. It was a strange place to be mentally, totally attracted to him, yet stuck in a body that seemed—at the moment—broken. He’d been really patient with her, but she didn’t want to add another strain to their relationship.
“I miss you,” she whispered.
He hummed and kissed her shoulder.
“Maybe tonight we can...”
“But...what about Starsky?”
Did it gross him out? “Does it bother you?”
“God, no, Emma. I just don’t want to hurt you.”
“You won’t hurt me. Just...pretend it’s not there.”
Mastectomy.
She winced, as the word unexpectedly flung into her head.
She just wanted a few minutes without fear, but that seemed impossible. Her check up couldn’t come fast enough. Would he still love her if she lost her breast? The breath knocked out of her lungs and she gripped the counter.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing,” she lied, a million times more fragile than she’d been a moment ago.
“Does something hurt?”
Only my heart.
She shook her head. “I’m okay.” Reaching for the bowl, she continued to mix the batter. Just breathe. Keep moving.
She couldn’t make assumptions until they spoke to the right people. Everything took time. Time...the one thing she’d never have enough of and the only commodity as precious as air. How did people deal with this sort of thing? Her mind couldn’t fathom the worst-case scenarios, though it tried often enough without her permission. How did people deal with tragic news, being told they only had a limited time to finish living?
Stop thinking like that. You’re fine.
All she could do was put one foot in front of the other, walk until she reached the end—or the next hurdle if that’s what would come. When she got to the hurdle, she’d run, but she couldn’t take that leap without getting there first, so there was no sense in rushing forward.
When Lexi and Rarity returned, breakfast was ready. They sat at the island and laughed over Emma’s terrible pancakes while sipping coffee and reminiscing. Marla was in heaven, having been thoroughly spoiled by her owners. Even Lexi gifted the dog with a special holiday bone.
Riley, too hyper to sit with the grownups, wandered around and took pictures of random objects with the Polaroid. It wasn’t quite the Christmas she’d imagined, but she loved it all the same. Judy Garland crooned about Christmas, promising their troubles would be far away by next year, and even that seemed a little too far away to count on, so she simply savored the now.
Emma committed that moment to memory, the way Lexi smiled at Rarity as she brushed a loving hand over her leg and laughed at some private joke. Riley drifting around the loft, shirtless in his pajama pants with her pink crossbow strapped to his back and that ridiculous monkey hat on his head. Marla, sound asleep in a puddle of drool on Rarity’s shoe surrounded by untouched dog treats.
It was the ‘this’ she and Riley had come to love. It was her everything, the quiet chaos, the dependable presence of friends, the easy expectations for shitty pancakes and quality coffee. This was her life. And though she had a long road of unknown hurdles ahead, she felt incredibly lucky to know ‘this’ right now.
As long as she had ‘this’ she could face anything. One step at a time, conquering one hurdle before thinking about the next.
Riley jumped into the kitchen, landing hard with both legs braced wide, startling the crap out of them. The pink crossbow aimed to the ceiling as his lucky sock monkey hat slid low on his head, and he shouted, “I am Katniss Everdeen!”
He let out a battle cry, releasing one foam arrow after another, and ran into the living room, jumping from the coffee table to the couch until he slipped and fell with a boom, taking down the lamp and rocking the whole tree. “Oh shit...”
The three women collectively gasped as the tree tipped, landing on top of him with a crunch of branches as he grunted, “Mockingjay down.”
Rarity and Lexi, eyes wide, looked back at her. Emma simply smiled. “I love this.”