This made me laugh harder, and we both ended up laughing together for several minutes. As the hilarity and enjoyment of our own jokes subsided, I caught Martin eyeing the presents in my hands.
“What’s all this?”
“Just some stuff I saw that I thought you might like.”
His gaze lifted, his smile growing softer as his eyes searched my face. He asked in wonder, “These are all for me?”
“Yes. But you weren’t supposed to know about them until morning. Congratulations, you’ve ruined Christmas.”
Martin pressed his lips together and gave me a look reminiscent of our time on the boat last spring, like I was perfect and strange. “Technically, it’s already morning.”
“Oh, well, in that case,” I stepped forward and dumped the cornucopia of wrapped presents into his arms, “Merry Christmas, Martin.”
He accepted them gingerly, shifting to the side to make sure none of them fell. “Jesus, Kaitlyn!”
“That’s right, Jesus.” I nodded. “Jesus is the reason for the season.”
This only made him laugh again while he struggled to keep his grip. “I mean—help me carry all this stuff to the couch.”
Grinning at him, I took the boxes most precariously perched and turned for the couch, stumbling a little when I caught sight of the piano and tree again. A rush of uncertain happiness spread from my stomach to my extremities.
“Do you like it?” he asked from behind me, obviously noticing where my attention had snagged.
“Is it for me?” I asked, a rush of emotion — confusion, hope, hopeful confusion — making my throat tight.
I heard him deposit his stuff on the couch and felt the heat of his body directly at my back just before his arms wrapped around my shoulders, his cheek brushing against my temple.
“Of course it’s for you.” His voice was a rumble above a whisper.
I placed my hands on his forearms and squeezed, glad he couldn’t see my face because I was overwhelmed. My hopes and my questions were assembling themselves, trying to partner up so I could begin to understand what this gift meant. I had to clear my throat before speaking.
“I…I don’t understand.”
“What’s to understand? It’s a piano. The guy tuned it yesterday and it’s all ready for you. You should play something.”
“Now?”
“Yes. Now.”
I couldn’t do that. I didn’t want to touch it. If I touched it then I’d want to keep it and nothing in this apartment was mine to keep. And when the time came for us to part, which felt inevitable, I would lose something.
No. The piano wasn’t mine any more than Martin was mine.
So I shook my head, clearing it of these maudlin thoughts, and decided to tease him instead. “You got me a piano for your apartment.”
“Yes.”
“So I have to visit in order to play it.”
“That’s the idea.”
“So it’s blackmail.”
“It’s an incentive.”
I let my head fall back on his shoulder and looked up at him. “It’s bribery at best.”
He grinned down at me. “It’s an enticement.”
“Don’t try to out-synonym me. Let’s settle on enticing extortion.”
“I’m fine with that.”
“But you don’t have to buy me a piano in order to ensure I’ll visit. Friends visit each other. If you want me to visit, just ask me.”
His arms tightened then let me go. I felt him draw away, heard him sigh quietly. “Do you want something to drink?”
“Are we going to finish this conversation?” I turned to watch him disappear.
“Yes. But I need some scotch to finish this conversation,” he called from the kitchen.
“Scotch? Are you drinking scotch?”
“Yeah. It’s good. You’d like it.”
“Monogrammed towels, business cards, fancy watches, corner office, and now scotch. It’s like I don’t even know you anymore. Are you golfing now, too? Pretty soon you’re going to retire and move to Miami.”
He barked a laugh and reappeared with two glasses and two bottles of unlabeled red liquid.
“Fine. No scotch. How about sangria?”
“Oh! I’ll take sangria.”
I moved all of his presents to the center cushion of the couch and claimed one end while he poured us both a glass and settled on the other side. The sangria was really, really good. It didn’t even taste like it had alcohol in it, except maybe a little red wine.
I sipped mine.
Meanwhile, Martin gulped his then refilled his glass.
“So…” I peered at him while he studied his loot. “Like I said, just ask me to visit.”
“I will.”
“You don’t need to buy a piano.”
He took another gulp of his sangria then set it to the side. Selecting a box, he tore through the wrapping, and said offhandedly, “I know I don’t need to buy you a piano, but I like hearing you play—and more than that stuff you play in the band. I want to hear your music, the stuff you compose.”
He grinned as he discovered what was inside the wrapping paper and held it up. “I like this. I’m going to use this when I send you letters.”
It was the lazy fisherman desk set. My chest filled with warmth, the kind caused by giving someone a gift and seeing that they love it. Plus… letters from Martin.
“Open the rest.” I bounced in my seat, caught up in the excitement of opening presents, and tossed him the hobbit soap dispenser—but I surreptitiously held back the Stevie Wonder vinyl. I felt a little weird about the record. When he’d played Overjoyed for me on the boat, it felt like he’d been trying to communicate with me. But this record was just a record, right? Or maybe it wasn’t.
I pushed my anxiety away and took a large gulp of the sangria.
He dutifully opened his gifts, smiling and laughing and just generally having a fantastic time. I soaked it all up—the wonderful feelings and his expressions of happiness—storing it for later, hoarding it for when I would need the memory. I also drank two glasses of sangria, and began to suspect it contained quite a lot more alcohol than just red wine.
“The Princess Bride?” He opened the first few pages of the book, his eyebrow lifting in question.
“You’re going to love it. It’s full of awesome sidekicks and side characters, like a giant who rhymes, and man who is hunting another man who killed his father and has six fingers, and—”
“Isn’t this a movie?”
“Yes. They’re both great, but you should see the movie after you read the book. And look,” I leaned forward, flipping the pages back to the beginning and pointing to the swirling signature, “it’s signed by the author.”
I gave him a satisfied grin, which he returned. As I sat back in my seat I was feeling warm and a little dizzy, the sangria and lack of sleep was going to my head.
“Thank you,” he said softly. “I’ll read this next. Then you’ll come over for pizza and we’ll watch the movie.”
“Sounds good.” For some reason this thought made me melancholy, a future that involved me visiting him in a few weeks to watch The Princess Bride.
With a silent sigh, I handed him his last present, feeling unaccountably nervous about the record, and grateful he’d suggested drinks before presents and conversation.
Part of me hoped that when he opened the gift he would see it merely as a record of a musician he liked. Another part of me hoped he would read more into it and tell me that he’d been wishing, too—but I wasn’t holding my breath. Martin wasn’t the wishing type. When he wanted something, he took it; or at least he was vocal about it.
If he wanted me still, then he would have done something, said something already. Therefore… not holding my breath.
He pulled back the paper, his big grin in place. Then his eyes moved over the front of the album and his grin fell away. He blinked at it. My blood pumped hot and thick through my veins and I fought the urge to cover my face with my hands. I didn’t hide though. Instead I braced myself, deciding I would take whatever came next like an adult.
He seemed to stare at the front of the record for an eternity, and when he did look at me, he lifted just his eyes. Something raw but also detached made his stare feel like a brand. He examined me. The air in the apartment shifted, became heavier, hotter.
“Do you regret it?” he asked, glancing away, his voice cool and calm. He set the record on the coffee table along with the other gifts.
I swallowed thickly and managed to croak, “What?”
“Do you regret what we did?” His gaze swung back to me, held mine as he pushed, “That I was your first? The first guy you—”
“Engaged in gland to gland contact with?”
His grimace told me he didn’t like my word choice. But the phrase had slipped out in a poor attempt at protecting my heart, some instinctual need to keep the conversation from becoming too serious.
Martin corrected, “Made love with.”
I stared at him, giving my aching heart a moment to settle, wondering if I should be flippant or honest. In the end I decided on being flippantly honest, because sangria made me brave, but not brave enough to risk everything.