My house is only lit by the strings of lights I have everywhere—on our giant Douglas fir and the garland draped over the patio doors and wrapped around the banister—but it's enough for me to see him well. I appreciate his thick sweater and messy hair and the stubble pressed to my cheek the moment he sets the present on the coffee table. We hug for a long time, mostly quiet about it when the sensation itself is overwhelming.
When I finally take a step back, I leave him on the sectional while I pour Bailey's and hot cocoa for both of us. Christmas music plays softly enough to keep us company without interrupting whatever conversations we'll have. Once we've taken a few sips, I nod toward the gifts.
"I kinda hate that we've never done this before."
Mateo touches two fingertips to my lips. "Stop looking back. We're doing it now."
"Mmmm, yeah, okay. Open yours first."
He drops his hand and reaches for the present I wrapped earlier,but he studies me, too. I'm sure he knows I'm impatient and that I love being given things. Wanting someone else to open anything before I can is wholly unlike me. I also think he knows he's the exception to at least a few rules, so he slides his finger under the tape and tears as gently as anyone ever has. When he gets to the box, he's careful with it, too. I'm close to yelling that nothing I could give him is that precious.
I'd be lying, of course. This present means something, and he already understands that much.
"Oh. God. This is—Jamie," he chokes. There are questions he wants to ask when he lifts my jersey and brings it to his nose without thinking. His eyes fall closed and I give him time. It's clean, nothing about the scent giving him an answer, but it's obviously worn, and he cradles it for a while. When he looks at me again, Christmas lights dance in tears that don't fall, and he shakes his head. "When? What games?"
"Don't worry. It's not what I was wearing in the last one. I'd rather not give you a reason to imagine that broken version of me."
"But I was—" Mateo stops and frowns, then shakes his head.
"You were what?"
"No, it's—I don't want you to hide any version of yourself from me," he says, shaking his head one more time before he takes a deep breath. "Tell me, though. Please. When did you wear this?"
"Throughout the playoffs, the first year we won the Cup."
"Are you serious?"
I am, and I deflect with a small huff of laughter. "It wasn't my Conn Smythe season."
"I would've been happy with something you wore for a ridiculous photoshoot. This is so far beyond anything anyone has ever given me. Thank you."
"You're welcome, and I'm glad you like it, but I'm gonna guessthis is more than a board game or a holiday sausage," I say, pulling the other present into my lap.
"It is."
It is.
For someone who once gave me shit about trespassing, Mateo doesn't seem to have hesitated to climb halfway to my backyard without my knowledge. I run my finger around the simple black frame, unwilling to smudge the glass. I don't look up yet because I'm unable to speak. The photo is matted, and I stare at that blank space for several seconds before I refocus on the details captured by the man waiting silently next to me. He took the picture at night, but the moon might've been full, the bench lit up beautifully even as it's guarded by the brush surrounding it. There's a blanket there too, folded neatly where either of us could sit if I took his hand and walked him outside right now. It's where we started. It's where I told him I'd wait for him. It's where both of us confessed we hadn't waited as well as I wish we could have.
But nothing has ended there, and maybe this is a promise that it won't.
"Thank you, Mateo," I say. "I love it."
His fingertips touch my cheek, painfully light there. "And I love you."
That holiday high lasts for a while. We don't spend New Year's together, but we escape to Santa Monica for an amazing birthday dinner. The restaurant is the kind of place frequented by friends as often as lovers, and we keep our hands to ourselves until we're back in his apartment. Then Mateo holds me all night.
The soccer season wraps up, the team falling short of achampionship. They fought hard until the end and will be proud of themselves once the sting of the loss fades. Harper isn't the only senior who will play in college next year, though she is the only one headed up to Seattle. There are some tears at the banquet when those distances sink in. She wins a couple of awards and takes pictures with everyone who stays still long enough. Mateo congratulates her with a smile I know well.
I'm quiet that night because my loss will become my gain. Harper's impending graduation is the only day likely to leave me feeling even more conflicted than I am now.
If I'd stopped to predict the future, I would've expected those last months to drag on forever. Instead, so many things are happening as the end of the school year approaches. Harper's AP classes are preparing for exams, she's picked up extra hours at work, she flies up to Washington for spring break, and she weeps briefly over the end of another relationship. I make a couple of local appearances for charity and get invited to L.A. for several more broadcasts. I also take long-distance calls from people who want to talk about an opportunity they think may suit me well. I'm surprised, but I don't disagree. When meetings are proposed, I travel to them without thinking.
In hindsight, I should've wanted everything to slow down.
Mateo and I remain so close, still sneaking away if our schedules allow, or curling up at home whenever it's possible. We've kept our promises about the lines we can't cross, but it's easy to get lost in him when he touches me in ways nobody ever has. There are nights I think I need to pull away, for his sake.
I stay where I am for mine.