A Snowy Little Christmas

I’m curled on the love seat, a pillow tucked under my head and a blanket from the pile Jasper brought in last night draped over me. I sit up quickly, looking toward the bed, knowing already I’ll find it unmade—if Jasper had woken up in the night, he would’ve made it. And he would’ve insisted that, at the very least, I get in.

So we must’ve . . . slept together?

I rub a hand over my eyes, my hair. I’m not surprised that I was dead to the world last night—Kelly and I shared a room until she left for college, and she could literally spend an entire night loudly making playlists on her computer without me waking up—but I am surprised I was comfortable enough to fall asleep in my clothes, my makeup. I probably look like the Crypt Keeper, but I can’t summon the energy to care.

I know already that I’m not getting to Michigan today. I grew up on the west side of the Upper Peninsula, which means I know snow. I know the sound of its silence outside, the muffled quality to the air, even when you’re inside. I know the way the light changes, whether it’s gray—like it is now—or sunny. I even know the smell of it when it’s freshly fallen.

So I know it’s snowed more while I was sleeping.

I grab my phone from the coffee table, see Jasper’s watch and phone there, pause briefly to listen for him moving around in the bathroom. But—nothing. He’s brought our bags in; they sit right by the cottage’s front door, so he must be dressed and at the Dreyers’, probably using the extra time to work on Gil. I’d be mad, him on the job without me, but I can’t help thinking about the way he spoke last night, the way he talked about his family’s Christmases past. The way we’d sunk into each other, talking quietly, Jasper saying things he’s never said before. I didn’t even know he’d grown up on a ranch. Maybe he’s escaping a bit, working on the job, reestablishing some boundaries, and I certainly can understand that.

Even if I do still feel that holiday bell in my heart.

I stand and walk over to my bag, my body stiff with sleep, and take a quick glance at my phone. The screen is stacked with texts, nearly all of them from the airline: DELAY, DELAY, DELAY, CANCELLATION.

But the most recent one is from Kelly, a single line.

Your Jasper is lovely.

I stare down at it, my brows crinkling in confusion. Kelly met Jasper a couple of times when she’s been in Houston for visits, and obviously—as she reminded me last week—I talk about him a good deal. But I’m not sure what’s prompted—

Just then, the door opens, nearly hitting me in the face. “Oh!”

“Holy shit!” says Jasper, stumbling slightly across the threshold as he tries to keep hold of the various brightly colored tote bags in his hand while catching the door. “I’m sorry!”

I step back, reaching a hand out to stop him dropping his haul. “What—?”

He steadies himself, pulling the bags slightly closer to his body, like he’s trying to hide something. His cheeks are reddened—maybe from the cold, maybe from embarrassment, and my lips press together in an effort to suppress my smile.

“I was at the house. Gil and Romina’s house, I mean.”

“Yes. I figured that.”

He’s got snow all up the shins of his jeans, and he lowers the bags to the floor gently and then turns back to the open door, reaching outside to haul in a box. When it’s in, he closes out the cold, the wind, the world—and for a second we stand there in the quiet. Me in a wrinkled skirt and blouse, stockinged feet and day-old hair and makeup; Jasper in jeans and boots, a thermal and a heavy coat, like he’s natural to this place.

“I called your sister,” he says.

I blink at him.

“She sent me the recipe for the cookies.” He looks down at the stack of bags. “Romina didn’t have everything, but she had most of it, and the oven here is small, but she said there’s a cookie sheet in here that’ll fit.” He crouches down, pulls the box between us, and opens the lid. “She gave us this tree. It’s small and fake but it’s got lights on it already.”

“Jasper, is this . . .” I trail off, my throat thick with emotion.

He stands, and he is holding the ugliest artificial tree I have ever seen. It’s not plugged in, obviously, but I can see that the lights he referred to are, in fact, fiber-optic threads imitating pine needles. I love this hideous, slightly crooked tree. I love that he got it for me.

“It’s not going to be like home,” he says. “But just in case you can’t get out tomorrow, I don’t want you to miss—”

“Christmas.”

He shrugs. The red on his cheeks isn’t from the cold. “Yeah.”

The smile I was holding in, it’s irrepressible now. Probably my crooked bottom teeth are showing. “I need to put on my pajamas!” I blurt.

Jasper frowns at me, confused. “You just woke up.”

“I know, but on Christmas, it’s pajamas all day. Baking in pajamas, movies in pajamas.” I bend down, unzip my bag.

“I don’t have pajamas.”

I laugh distractedly, pushing past a couple of sweaters to what I’m looking for. “What do you mean, you—oh.”

His mouth curves up again on one side, his expression sheepish.

“You can just wear that, then.” I gesture at his current attire, which is absurd. Like I’m a schoolmarm granting permission. All I can think about is Jasper, no pajamas, and that bed. The holiday bell is ringing somewhere different at the moment.

“Thanks,” he says, his smile fuller now. “How about you change, and I’ll get us set up?”

I mutter a flustered agreement and grab my bag of toiletries before ducking into the small bathroom.

When I come out twenty minutes later—the quick shower and teeth-brushing doing wonders to make me feel more human and less embarrassed—Jasper’s put the tree in the center of a small café table to the side of the kitchen, has set out ingredients and cooking supplies over the small counter space. He’s staring down at the screen of his phone, reading something.

“Ta-da!” I say, throwing my arms wide. It’s silly, but now I’m determined to be silly. I promised Jasper we’d have fun, and he’s made an effort, too. We’re doing this thing, a friendly snowed-in Christmas at our lost recruit’s guest cottage, so I might as well go for broke.

He looks up and for a second he only stares, lips parted and eyebrows raised. “Are those—”

“Snowmen? Yes! Yes, they are.” I point to a spot on my thigh. “Frosty, right here.”

“Wow. Did Carol give you those?”

“No, my mom did. But my mom’s a lot like Carol. Is there coffee?”

I step into the kitchen area, and Jasper points to a Keurig hidden behind a stack of mixing bowls, a cup of steaming brew already prepared. Despite the fact that I’m wearing flannel pants and an oversize sweatshirt, and that I’m pretty sure Jasper is reading my grandmother’s cookie recipe rather than his usual news feed, this moment is familiar, like mornings in the office where we meet up to go over our days.

“Says here we have to start with the sour cream mixture,” he says, brow furrowed. I sip my coffee, peek over his shoulder to read the e-mail my sister’s sent, and this is familiar, too—me and Jasper, working on a project together. Within minutes we’re swept up in the rhythm that’s been absent from our interactions lately. He’s arranging tools and ingredients, I’m doing assembly; he scoops balls of batter onto a cookie sheet while I start on the icing.

And all the while, we talk easily. Some about work and some about life—Ben’s recent proposal to Kit, my eldest niece’s ballet class, the new high-rise that’s being built not far from our office, the burger place we ate at a few months ago that neither of us can remember the name of. It’s the kind of conversation that’s made it feel, for years, like Jasper is, truly, one of my best friends. That it’s not just work that brings us together.

“I don’t think these are right,” he says. I look up from stirring more powdered sugar into my buttercream. Beside me, Jasper is bent over, peering through the glass door of the apartment-size oven. “Look how much they’re growing. They’re gonna stick together.”

I shift, crouching beside him. “They’re not. That’s just what happens when they bake. They’ll slow down.”

He frowns. “I don’t like it.”

I laugh, returning to my post. “Okay. Well, I’m telling you, it’s going to work out. You can’t tell dough what to do.”

“Hm.” When he stands, he leans on the counter right beside the oven, as though he wants to be close enough to keep checking on them. I duck my head, hiding another smile, stirring my icing. After a few seconds, he clears his throat. “The Dreyers said they have a big meal for Christmas Eve. A lunch.”

“Oh?” My smile dims, the thought of my family pointed at the mention of something like this—another family’s traditions, another family’s gathering.

“They said we’re welcome. If—you know. If we’re still here.”

I stop stirring, set the bowl aside. It’s the perfect texture right now, just like my grandmother’s, and I don’t want to overmix it. I look toward the window, where the snow is steadily falling. “I think we’re still going to be here.” I try to sound sanguine about it, but I can hear the disappointment in my voice.

“Kris, I really am sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. It’s the job, you know? Who knows, maybe we can make some progress.”

He looks down at his feet, shakes his head slightly. I’ve sucked all the silliness right out of the room, mentioning the job, and I didn’t mean to.

“Listen, of course I’m disappointed about my family. But this”—I wave a hand vaguely around the room—“it’s sort of nice, you know?”

He looks up at me, a question in his eyes. My this—it’s not the job. But I’m not sure how to make a start at telling him.

I smooth the front of my sweatshirt, notice some flour dust here and there, and I concentrate on brushing it off while I speak. “You know, every year, at Christmas, when we’re away from work for so long, I—I miss you, you know?”

He doesn’t say anything, for long enough that I finally have to look up at him. He stands still as a statue, his arms crossed over his chest. The posture is cold, but the way one of his hands grips the opposite elbow, the way his eyes are fixed on me, the way he’s pulled his bottom lip, scar-side, slightly in—all of it is warm, warm, warm.

“You miss me?” There’s something in his voice I haven’t really heard before. Half surprise, half wonder. Like looking under the tree on Christmas morning.

I lift my shoulders, let them fall. “I do.”

After another long pause, he speaks again, his voice low, tentative. “They said we could come over tonight, too. If we wanted.”

The air between us crackles, like that moment just before I asked for his kiss. But I’m not going down that road again, not without an invitation.

“I don’t mind staying in,” I tell him.

He nods, bends, and checks the cookies again. When he straightens, he fixes me with another warm look. “Good,” he says. “We’ve got movies to watch, anyway.”