“Why didn’t you bring Finn?” I ask. “Don’t you think he’d be better at this?”
“You know that’s untrue. He’d like everything because it was expensive.”
A snort-laugh sneaks out of me. He’s not wrong.
“I was so glad when you called to make plans,” Theo continues. “You and I haven’t spent any time just the two of us in a while, and I thought we could use an activity.” Again, not wrong.
“So, was there a reason you wanted to meet?” he asks. “Not that you need a reason, of course, I’m always happy to spend time with you.” He places a hand on my lower back to guide me into the next room, which is full of hyperrealistic paintings that look like photographs if you stand far enough away. There’s one of a man wearing small swim trunks with even smaller pineapples on them, only his torso and legs are visible. Another of a young girl facing away from the viewer, wearing baggy jeans and a pink backpack. None of the subjects have faces, but you can tell so much about them from these snippets of body parts and clothing.
“I wanted to talk about Christmas,” I say.
“I had a feeling that was the case.” He doesn’t give any indication of where he stands.
“I think we should do it. Give Finn one last Christmas adventure. One for the record books!” I have a whole speech prepared. I practiced in the bathroom mirror this morning. I wait to see how my opener is received before proceeding. I was fairly certain Priya would cave, but I’m not as sure about Theo. Even though Finn and I mended fences, Theo’s kept me at arm’s length the last year, and I’ve let him. But with our possible last Christmas looming, I need things to go back to how they were before the great Hannah-Finn fight, when we were at our best. Just the four of us.
He stops in front of a painting of two sets of bare legs, a woman in sandals and a man in sneakers, and cups a hand to his chin to consider it. I can’t tell if he’s interested in the piece or stalling. For a minute, I wonder if he has a foot fetish. As far as I’m concerned, the painting is weird, but then I got a D in my required art history elective in college.
“What do you think?” he asks after a minute.
“Of the painting or about Christmas? I told you what I think about Christmas, I think we should do it.”
“I’m on the fence about both, frankly. But I think this is too jarring for the bedroom.”
He moves to stand in front of the next painting, this one by a different artist. Two bodies float in a blue ocean portrayed with thick layers of paint caked on top of each other to suggest the appearance of waves. I stand next to him and wait for him to say more about which way he’s leaning on Christmas. Another thing I’ve learned from observing Theo’s relationships is he usually has one foot out the door, always preferring to leave than be left. I know Finn’s departure must be affecting him more than he’s let on.
After a minute of silent consideration of the swimmers, Theo speaks, eyes forward, addressing the painting instead of me. “I think you should have Christmas without me. I don’t want to get in the way.”
After our first Christmas as a foursome, we weren’t sure if we’d see Theo again. That spring, we invited him to happy hours at Tacombi and to see Finn’s off-off-Broadway play about JonBenét Ramsey’s murder where he played her nine-year-old brother, despite being almost three times his age. It was ironic, Finn claimed. But Theo declined every invitation saying he was sorry to miss us, but he was out of town. The more plans he declined the clearer it became his fancy apartment was more storage unit than home.
In his absence, we scoured Google for hints about him, but didn’t get very far without a last name.
That year, Finn and I spent endless hours parsing Theo’s texts over buckets of dollar beers at Lucky’s, our neighborhood bar. Was Theo sending a shirtless selfie—his chest bronzed and a coy smile on his face—because he was coming on to Finn or was it just because he was on a beautiful Caribbean beach? Was the photo of him eating a bao bun in Beijing alongside a text that said, Dim sum always makes me think of you, a nod to our Christmas dinner or was he actually alluding to the night before? And I knew there were other texts, too, ones Finn didn’t share with me. Sometimes he’d leave his phone unlocked on the table between us and I’d catch glimpses of long swaths of messages traded between them.
In August, Finn invited Theo to his twenty-fifth birthday party at Wilfie & Nell. “This is the last olive branch,” Finn told me. “There’s only so much rejection one person can take.”
Theo wrote back he would be in Mallorca and was sad to miss it. But at the party, a waiter brought over a bottle of champagne with sparklers sticking out the top, courtesy of Theo. Finn beamed as the waiter set the bottle down in front of him, relishing the spectacle and impressed that Theo had sprung for Dom.
“Does he get another chance?” I asked as I poured Finn a glass.
“Just one,” he said, unable to hide the lovesick grin on his face.
The next time we heard from Theo, he was the one who reached out. On November 1, he texted Finn: What’s the plan for Christmas this year? Happy to host! And after our second Christmas together, our group of four was cemented. Theo was just as much a part of our Christmas tradition as any of the rest of us.
“Get in the way?” I echo his words back to him. For a moment, I forget about the tomb-like silence of the gallery, and my protest comes out louder than is necessary or appropriate. The gallery girl pokes her head up from her laptop to see if she’s missing anything worth eavesdropping on.
I adjust my tone to a whisper and grab Theo’s arm, pulling it so he faces me and can see how serious I am. “You could never be in the way. It wouldn’t be Christmas without you. You’re part of the group.”
“Oh? I thought I was a stray?” The left side of his mouth quirks up into a wry smile. He’s teasing me. I’m pretty sure I have him.
“It just so happens those are the sort of people I like best.” I wind my arm through his and let him lead me to the other side of the room to stand in front of another painting by the same artist, this one of four people swimming. While the other two swimmers looked like they were floating along serenely, these people look like they’re having fun, maybe splashing around. I like to think they might be the four of us, even though the “people” are just thick abstract globs of flesh-colored paint.
But after a few minutes of silent consideration, there’s no “yes” forthcoming. I try again, “Why wouldn’t you come?”
He sighs. “Things are finally good between you and Finn. And I know Christmas is so important to you both, I don’t want to upset the peace. I’m worried I don’t know the whole story about what happened.”
From what I’ve heard about what Finn told him, he’s right. But that’s not my place. Instead, I say. “We’re great. Truly. Water under the bridge.” And even though I’ve avoided part of the question, it’s the truth.
“And you’d tell me if you two were not fine, right?”
“There’s seriously nothing to tell.” I shrug, offering my empty palms as proof.