My True Love Gave to Me: Twelve Holiday Stories

She was surprised at how much the truth—the simple, obvious truth—hurt to speak out loud. “I’ve been better,” she finally said.

North stared at her. The lights of the tree glimmered in his warm brown eyes. “I’m so sorry, Marigold.”

Her heart thumped harder.

North took the serving dish. “Would it … would it be okay if I called you sometime? I mean, if you’re still interested in the voice work, I’d be happy to help. I could stop by after a shift. I’ll need to bring this back, anyway.” He lifted the dish in an uncharacteristically awkward gesture.

North could have kissed her. He could have done it, he could have swooped in, but he was being respectful. It made her want to devour him whole. Or be devoured whole. She grabbed the serving dish, shoved it aside, and placed one hand on each side of his face. She pulled him down into her.

She kissed him.

He kissed her back.

Their mouths opened, and he tasted clean and healthy and new. He pulled her closer. Her fingers slid down the nape of his neck. Down to his chest. He lifted her up, and her legs locked around his waist, and it felt like the most natural thing in the world. As if they had rediscovered something essential that they didn’t realize they’d lost. They kissed deeper. They kissed like this, her body wrapped around his, for minutes.

When she finally slid back down to the ground, both of their knees were shaking.

“I’ve been wanting to do that all night,” North said.

His voice, so close to her ears, resonated inside of her. It filled her. “I’ve been wanting to do that all month.”

“I want to do that for the rest of the month.” North kissed above her lips, below her lips. “And after.”

“And after,” she agreed, as their mouths slipped over each other again.

“Okay, okay.” She laughed, a minute later. “You have to go. Now.”

They kissed some more.

“Ahhhhhhh,” he shouted as he pulled away. “Okay! Now!”

North’s hair was scruffled and wild. Marigold’s braid was halfway unpinned. They were laughing again. Dizzy with discovery—the wonder and thrill of connection. She tossed him his flannel shirt. “Don’t forget this.”

He threw it on over his T-shirt. “So what do you think your mom will say when she comes home and sees all of this?”

“Honestly?” Marigold shook her head as she repinned her hair. “She’ll be pissed. But then … I think she’ll be glad. Maybe even happy.”

“I hope so.”

“Here, give me your phone.” Marigold tugged hers out of a pocket and tossed it to him. He did the same. They added each other’s numbers. “Text me when you get home, okay? Let me know you got home safely.”

North smiled. “I will.”

They kissed again beside the front door.

“I’m working tomorrow night,” he said, between kisses.

“Thank God.”

“I know. I’ve never been so happy to work for my parents.”

They laughed.

“Until tomorrow, Marigold Moon.” And he kissed her one last time.

Marigold peeked through the sugary frost that was growing, shimmering, on her balcony door. She watched North cross into the lot next door. His entire figure looked perfect from here, like something she ached to scoop up and cradle in her hands. As he climbed into the seat of his truck, he glanced up at her window.

He smiled when he saw her figure. He waved.

Her heart leapt as she waved back. She watched his truck until it disappeared. The tree lot’s lights were off and its fires were out. Through the dull glow of the grocery store, she could see that the evergreens were coated in a fine white dusting. Everything outside was cold and empty and dark.

There was a rattling of keys at her door.

Marigold turned around. Everything inside was warm and cozy and bright. She had needed North’s help to create her mother’s present, but this was the gift—a beautiful apartment. And a beautiful tree.

The doorknob turned.

“Mom,” Marigold said. “Welcome home.”

It’s hard not to feel just a little bit fat when your boyfriend asks you to be Santa Claus.

“But I’m Jewish,” I protest. “It would be one thing if you were asking me to be Jesus—he, at least, was a member of my tribe, and looks good in a Speedo. Plus, Santa requires you to be jolly, whereas Jesus only requires you to be born.”

“I’m serious,” Connor says. It is rare enough for him to be serious with me that he has to point it out. “This might be the last Christmas where Riley believes in Santa. And if I try to be Santa, she’ll know. It has to be you. I don’t have anyone else.”

“What about Lana?” I ask, referring to the older of his younger sisters.

He shakes his head. “There’s no way. There’s just no way.”

This does not surprise me. Lana’s demeanor is more claws out than Claus on. She is only twelve, and I am scared of her.

“Pweeeeeeeeeeeeease,” Connor cajoles.

I tell him I can’t believe he’s resorting to his cute voice. As if I’m more likely to make a fool of myself if he’s making a fool of himself.

“The suit won’t even need to be altered!” he promises.

This is, of course, what I am afraid of.

*   *   *

Christmas Eve for me has always been about my family figuring out which movies we’re going to see the next day. (The way we deliberate, I think it’s easier to choose a Pope.) Once that’s done, we retreat to our separate corners to do our separate things.

Nobody in my family is particularly religious, but there’s still no way I’m letting them see me leave the house in a Santa costume. Instead I sneak out a little before midnight and attempt to change in the backseat of my car. Because it is a two-door Accord, this requires some maneuvering on my part. Any casual passerby looking into the window would think I was either strangling Santa or making out with him. The pants and my jeans don’t get along, so I have to strip down to my boxers, then become Santa below the belt. I had thought it would feel like pajamas, but instead it’s like I’m wearing a discarded curtain.

And that’s not even taking into account the white fur. It occurs to me now to wonder where, exactly, this fur is supposed to have come from, if Santa spends so much time at the North Pole. Perhaps it’s him, not global warming, that’s dooming the polar bears. It’s a thought. Not much of one, but it’s all I can muster at this hour, in the backseat of this car.