“But you must’ve had a private tree, like just for the family?”
She shook her head.
“So, let me make sure I’ve got this straight.” He moved the bundle of lights off his lap and then rubbed his hand over his hair a couple of times. “You never had, like, a family decorating night? No fighting with your siblings over who got to put the star on top?”
“Nope.”
“No sneaking candy canes off the tree when your parents weren’t looking?”
“Nope.”
“No teasing your mother when she got all teary-eyed when she pulled out the paper ornaments you made in kindergarten?”
“Is there a ‘none of the above’ box I can check on this conversation? Because I guarantee, whatever you think of, the answer is the same.”
“But . . . she kept them, though, right? Your handmade ornaments?”
“I have no idea.” She sipped her drink again. Her fingernails were nearly white from the tense grip she held on her glass.
The emotion that tightened his chest was a cross between anger and sympathy. “So, how did you decide which tree to put your presents under?”
“We didn’t.”
“You didn’t give each other presents?” His voice had taken on a falsetto that would’ve made Freddie Mercury proud.
“Yes, but we didn’t put them under a tree. My mom said it looked cluttered, and my dad was always worried that one of the tourists would steal them, so they would just bring them all out Christmas morning.”
“I—” He blinked several times. “I’m speechless.”
Her lips twitched into a tight smirk. “Christmas miracles do happen.”
“So—”
She looked at the ceiling with a groan.
“—you never knew that amazing feeling of watching the pile of presents grow under the tree in the days leading up to Christmas and constantly checking the tags to see which ones were for you?”
“I usually already knew what I was getting, so . . .” She shrugged. The gesture was probably meant to convey nonchalance, but her clipped tone and tense jaw sent the opposite message.
A voice in the back of his mind—which sounded remarkably like Malcolm—warned him to change the subject but, Jesus, every answer she gave just opened up a new line of questions. “Why did you always know what you were getting?”
“For as long as I could remember, I would give them a list, and they would buy everything.”
He was officially dumbfounded. “You’re shitting me.”
“Why would I lie about that?”
“I don’t think you’re lying. I just can’t believe it. The best part about Christmas as a kid is ripping open the presents and finding the thing you wanted most but your parents had been telling you for weeks you weren’t getting.”
She cocked another smirk. “We have very different families.”
The anger and sympathy converged into a seething ball of resentment on behalf of the child she once was. What kind of parents denied their kids the most basic holiday traditions for the sake of something as frivolous as a holiday house tour?
“Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I was some kind of neglected child. I grew up in a mansion with more money than most people could ever even imagine.”
“There are a lot of forms of neglect.”
“Not decorating a Christmas tree isn’t one of them.”
The conversation had taken all of five minutes, but it was as if she’d read her entire autobiography aloud to him. No wonder she hated Christmas. There was never any magic in it for her. She challenged his prolonged silence with a raised eyebrow. He had to clear his throat to find the right tone of voice. “Well, then, I guess I have the privilege of being your first.”
She rolled her eyes, but his joke worked. Her brittle smirk became her pretending-to-be-annoyed-but-actually-amused smile. He was starting to live for that smile.
He stood up from the floor. “So, you gonna help me or just sit there all night admiring my ass in these jeans?”
“There’s that ego again.”
“Because I’m actually fine with either.”
She stood up and set her glass on the coffee table in front of the couch. “Tell me what to do.”
He lowered his voice. “Honey, I’m going to replay those words all night long in my dreams.”
She did the eye-roll, annoyed-but-not-really thing again. “Do we start with lights or ornaments?”