He pulls out the tissue paper carefully, the way someone unwraps something they've decided to take seriously, regardless of what's inside. There are two things in the bag. He pulls out the first one.
A photo frame. Wooden, simple. Inside it is the Santa photo from the mall. The one where we're standing on either side of Santa, Harper on his lap, both of us leaning in. The one where I'd looked at the preview and thought,we look like a family, and felt my chest do something I didn't know what to do with.
He doesn't say anything for a moment. Just looks at it.
"Red."
"There's another thing."
He sets the photo carefully on the rug beside him. Reaches back into the bag.
It's a tiny screwdriver set. The kind you use for ceiling fans.
He looks at it, then looks at me. The corner of his mouth twitches.
"You did not."
"You keep meaning to fix that fan."
"Well, yes, and I will fix it."
"Plus, I was tired of hearing about it."
He's laughing now, properly; his whole face is doing it. He sets the screwdriver set down next to the photo frame and reaches across the rug, and I think for one second he's going to kiss me, and I think I’m going to let him.
He kisses my temple instead. Slow. Lingering. His forehead rests against my hair for a second longer than it needs to.
"Best gift I've ever gotten," he says, into my hair. "Both of them. You. The whole thing."
"It's just a screwdriver set."
"It's not just a screwdriver set."
"It really is, Ty."
"You bought it because you live here. You bought it because the fan annoys you. You bought it because you've decided this is a place you're going to be in long enough for the fan to be a problem worth solving." He pulls back enough to look at me. "It's not just a screwdriver set, Red."
I don’t have a response for that.
"Okay," he says quietly. "Okay."
He moves away, just slightly, just enough. The space between us is back to where the space between us is supposed to be. The bracelet is on my wrist. The screwdriver set is on the rug. Harper is still asleep.
The tree lights are still on.
It’s perfect.
We make breakfast together at nine. Pancakes, because Tyler decided Harper's first Christmas needed pancakes even though she can't eat them, and there's bacon, and the kitchen smells like Christmas mornings I haven't had since I was twenty-three years old.
I don't think about that. I don't let myself think about that.
I think about the bracelet instead, the way the chain sits against my pulse, the smallN, and the fact that he stood in a jewelry store and chose the smallest, quietest, most private claim a thing could make.
Tyler is making pancakes one-handed because Harper is on his hip. He’s telling her the entire history of pancakes as if she’s taking notes. I’m pouring orange juice into two glasses and wearing a silver bracelet a man bought me because I’m… me.
This is what people mean. When they sayhome, this is it.
And I'm going to lose it.