“Magic’s back,” I agreed. Silver bells faintly chimed beneath the brandish of the holiday. I felt relaxed for the first time since I was a child, safe, in someone’s embrace. Sure of myself and the future I wanted, the type of person worth building it with, the hopeless romantic in me that grew up watching Hallmark movies sighing on the sidelines as the credits rolled.
Myself. I was me.
Not their Ophelia. Not a biennial statue, or forgotten plate setting, the extra folding chair on the end of the table, or the last few gifts under the tree in the morning. If someone had told me a month ago the answer was in leaving it all behind, that what I didn't know I was looking for meant individuality, freedom, independence, confidence, bravery—I wouldn’t have believed it. Because I liked who I was before I became this fuller version. Now I liked her more, and I loved the person I was with him.
“Not too bad for a third date.” Frankie’s thumb traced ovals into my knee. “Fancier, more serious, romantic.”
The corner of my lip curled. “You’re very impressive. I just have one qualm.”
He hummed, a singular eyebrow arching patiently.
“Too much company.”
On cue our friends glided into the room with an extra glass of sparkling wine in each hand. A sharp laugh croaked out of me at Mateo, garnished head to toe in his infamous Santa suit once again.
“No, please—I’m still having nightmares from the last time I saw this outfit,” I said.
“Ho, ho, ho.” Mateo bent down to hand Frankie his champagne, which instead slipped through his white-gloved hands and doused his roommate's dress shirt.
“Matty, for fuck’s sake,” Nat groaned.
“Jesus Christ.” Frankie jolted, untangling from me quickly.
Mateo grimaced, running his sleeve uselessly down the buttons of Frankie’s shirt. “My bad. But hey, this is perfect because it’s showtime anyway, big guy.”
Nat joined me, snuggling into my shoulder, tucking her bare feet under her legs while I rested my head on top of hers.
“All right,” Mateo clapped. Frankie reluctantly stood beside him, wet and towing a thread-thin line between aggravation and anxiousness. “Let me set the mood.”
A stream of music started playing out of the tiny speaker on Mateo’s phone, the cacophony of bu-booms followed in turn with the low horn rhythm and unmistakable sound of Eartha Kitt’s voice singing “Santa Baby”。
“No, Cap, you’re on your own—” Frankie shook his head, the apples of his cheeks deepening a shade.
“Tradition is tradition, Pike. The ladies deserve to know.” Mateo swayed back and forth with the melody, training his eyes on his girlfriend lovingly and crooking a finger toward her to join him. “We strip.”
“What?” I gasped.
“You ever seen Jarhead, Ophelia?” Mateo asked.
I shook my head, staring back and forth between him and Frankie.
“Jake Gyllenhaal, look it up.”
“You idiots were in the Army.” Natalia laughed as Mateo pulled her off the couch and spun her in a circle. The long tips of her hair shined with every twirl past the fireplace.
“Delta is made up of all kinds of salty motherfuckers, my love. MARSOC, Air Force Pararescue, Army Rangers. I’ll give you a pass because you’re goddamn beautiful and I’m taking you directly to bed after this.”
Mateo peeled his fluffy red suit jacket down provocatively, rounding his hips in sensual circles and singing along to the rich notes of festive jazz. I hooted from the couch, cupping my hands over my mouth to egg the pair of them on. My cheeks burned with laughter, the muscles in my jaw aching.
Natalia picked up and whipped Mateo’s jacket around her head like a banner when it hit the floor.
“Fuck it.” Frankie gave in. His fingers went to his chest, slipping the clear buttons through their holes in succession until his full, tanned upper half and the outline of his muscular torso were on full display.
My insides contracted, a slow swirl of heat pooling low in my stomach. Every sinewed vein on that man was working double time apparently, because my eyes found and registered each and every root from his hips to his shoulders.
“Take it off!” Natalia roared as Mateo’s fingers snuck beneath the stretchy band of his pants and teased them up and down, his green briefs peeking out every few seconds.
“This is so twisted.” I giggled, enjoying every sordid second of it.
My attention whistled back to Frankie as he tossed his dress shirt to land in my lap. Unsure as he might have been, we locked gazes and he trailed his perfect hands slowly toward the buckle on his belt. “Eyes over here, Trouble.”
“Yes sir,” I mumbled suggestively. My legs felt like gelatin, and every inch of me from the waist down buzzed.
He worked himself open, black leather sliding like a greased conveyor through one loop and then two, deft fingers curling around metal and loosening the buckle until it hung near his zipper like an invitation.
My chest rose with an inhale…and it stayed there, the breath caught in a limbo of concentration. The less air that got to me the more incessantly aroused I found myself. I needed to be alone with him. My eyes flitted from his belt to his face and that same echoed expression was there looking back at me, thickening the air in the room to fog.
I lifted the champagne flute to my lips and took one long, slow pull of liquid down my throat, emptying it.
The final lines of “Santa Baby” faded out and Mateo lifted his girlfriend off the ground, wrapping her legs around his waist. His red pants pooled at his feet and he didn’t even shimmy out of them, hopping toward the hallway as Nat cackled, holding onto his neck for dear life.
“See you in the morning, Phee!” she squealed over her shoulder.
“Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!” Mateo sang back before burying his face in her neck.
I peeled my eyes away from them and back to Frankie. The weight of a few moments before was just as pressing and even heavier despite our distance.
A muscle in his jaw clenched and softened, a timid smile stretching itself across his cheeks. Then, he did the opposite of my expectation and crouched down, sitting alongside the gifts beneath the tree. “I got something for you.”
“Me?” I perked up, floating on a cloud across the living room to take a place beside him on the carpet. His bare skin glowed even brighter up close, the flames from the fire rippling gold and yellow against shadow.
Adonis, I thought, embarrassingly. The man was my living, breathing, mythical god.
“Something to commemorate your Christmas in Coconut Creek,” he said, pulling a small box from under the tree that had obviously been wrapped by his hands. The crinkled edges and overlapping tape were veritably charming. “It’s very lame, now that I think about it.”
“It’s not,” I assured him, twisting the gold foiled box in my fingers. “Should I open it?”
“Go ahead.” He nodded.
I tore the paper, unveiling a white box with a bow around it. The top popped off as I tugged the fabric away and that airless, tight-chested, speech-disabling thing I’d found happening around Frankie more and more often came on with force.
My lips parted, the singular expression of vitality.