"Shepointed."
"She did."
"That's new. Is that new? That has to be new."
"That's new."
He's grinning at me like Harper just scored her first NHL goal. I'm grinning back. The coffee is good. The tree is on. Harper is pointing at it. This is a good moment, and I want it to last, and I'm aware that wanting things to last has, historically, not gone well for me.
I press the feeling down and drink my coffee.
Presents are at seven-thirty, after a bottle and a diaper change.
I've put Harper's gifts under the tree, mine to her—a soft cloth book with crinkly pages, a stuffed rabbit with knotted ears for her to chew on, and a set of stacking cups, small things, nothing that saysI’m trying too hard. Tyler's apparently been hiding things for weeks. There's a small mountain.
"Tyler."
"What?"
"How much of that is for her?"
"Most of it."
"She's seven months old."
"And it's her first Christmas. Are we doing this, or are we relitigating my spending?"
"Both, probably."
He grins and lifts Harper out of her bouncer and sets her on the rug with one of the smaller boxes. She immediately goes for the bow and tries to eat it. Tyler intercepts, handing her the actual wrapping paper, which crinkles and delights her. The wrapping paper is the gift. We knew this, and we bought presents anyway.
It takes us forty minutes to get through Harper's pile, mostly because she keeps getting distracted by paper. There's a play mat with hanging toys. A wooden ring stacker. A little fabric pianothat lights up when you press the keys. A board book about a duck. Three different teething things. A onesie that saysDaddy's First Round Pick.He bought that one specifically so he could put it on her later and take a photo to send to everyone.
She's tired by the end of it. Tyler scoops her up, carries her to the crib in the living room, and she's asleep before he walks away.
The living room is a disaster of paper and ribbon. The tree lights are still on. The coffee is gone.
"Okay," Tyler says, sitting back down on the rug across from me. "Us."
My stomach flips.
"Us?"
"You first or me first?"
"You."
Instead of reaching for a present, he reaches for me. Just his hand on mine, fingers laced, like he's making sure I'm still here.
"Before I give you this," he says. "I want to say something."
"Tyler—"
"Just let me. Please."
I nod. The knot at the base of my throat gets tighter.
"I know what this is," he says. "I know what we are. I know we're not—we're not the thing we'd both be if it were simpler. I'm trying to respect that. I'm trying not to push." His thumb moves over my knuckles. "But Red. The thing I got you, I want you to understand, it's not—it's not me asking for anything. I'm not asking you to wear it. I'm not asking you to make it mean something it shouldn't. I just wanted you to have something that wasn't from a job."