Page 59 of A Love Like Christmas Time
“Okay,” Lauren whispers and lets out a shaky breath. She opens her mouth, then closes it again, trying to find the right words. But I’m patient. And finally, she talks.
“My family might not be as bad as yours or Nic’s, but they’re their own very special kind of messed up,” she explains, eyes staring straight ahead at my chest.
“To them, I’m invisible. Which might come to you as a surprise considering I barely shut up, ever.” An unamused laugh falls from her lips.
“My mom is extremely traditional. In her mind, a woman simply must marry and stay at home with her children. She doesn’t understand why I chose to work and stay single, it’s unfathomable to her.
“A lot of my cousins have families now and chose to become stay at home moms. If that’s their idea of happiness, I’m glad for them. But it’s not mine.” She clears her throat. “Whenever I see my mom, her first question is if I’ve finally gotten myself a boyfriend. The second one is if I’ll bless her with grandchildren soon.” She presses her lips together and lets out a deep, measured breath.
“And that’s the only thing she’ll ask about. Not about my movies, or press tours, or if I’m doing okay. She’ll just jump right into a disappointed tirade about not getting any younger that I can recite by heart now. Then she’ll sing my cousin’s praises for raising three kids while her husband pulls hundred-hour-work-weeks and is never at home.” Her eyes find mine. “No offence to them, to each their own and all that, but my mother doesn’t get it into her head that that kind of life sounds like my own personal hell. She just keeps rambling about having a family beingsofulfilling. Then she’ll go into painstaking detail of my mistakes, and hey, have I gained weight? Why would I choose to wearthatdress? It’s a never-ending list of things I need to change so a man would want to marry and impregnate me.” She rolls her eyes.
My heart aches for her. I’m not the most pop-cultured guy, yet even I know that her work is nothing short of incredible. One Google search will reveal that.
How can a mother not realize their child is so much more than their ability to reproduce?
“I didn’t even get an invitation to Thanksgiving at their place this year. Instead, they hosted my cousin and her family because her parents couldn’t and,”—she lifts her hands for air quotes— “‘we don’t have enough space, and it’s more important for the children to have this experience.’”
“What the fuck?” Why did she hide that from us? Is that what she saw on her phone on Thanksgiving that ruined her mood?
Obviously, I want nothing to do with my sperm donor, but if it turned out he went ahead and replaced me, I would be hurting too. I can’t imagine how much that must sting.
“That’s what I said!” She exclaims, and her eyes find mine, a fire burning in them. “Fine for me, I loved spending Thanksgiving with you guys, and I’m not exactly jumping at the chance to get interrogated by my mother, but it’s the principle of it.”
Her voice breaks, anger and annoyance mixed with pain, even though she tries to conceal it.
“My dad never got involved. He called himself the ‘neutral party,’ but by staying out of it and letting my mother tear into me at any chance, he wasn’t being neutral at all.” She clenches her jaw.
“I limited contact with them once I moved here, yet they still manage to get under my skin. It’s annoying and frustrating and sometimes…” She stops herself and takes a deep breath.
My fingers itch with the need to reach for her.
“I wonder if it’s somehow my fault that they don’t like me.” She shrugs. “Maybe there is no space in this world where I truly belong, if not even my family loves me unconditionally. Maybe there was a mistake in my creation, and I miss the gene that makes me lovable. What if I- “
Before her breaths can pick up further and she talks herself into a panic, I lift my hand to run my fingers through her hair,down to the back of her head. I lean in and, before I realize what I'm doing, interrupt her last words with a kiss.
A soft gasp catches in her throat. I freeze.
This certainly wasn’t planned.
I look at her, trying to gauge her reaction. For a moment, her eyes widen in surprise, her entire body tensing, fingers digging into my shirt. Then her eyes flutter closed and she relaxes in my arms.
She lets go of my shirt and snakes her arms around my neck, pulling off my beanie and flinging it away, so her fingers can weave through my hair as I pull her closer by the small of her back.
This is not how I imagined our first kiss would go.
I never had any doubt it would happen. Though I was sure it would be a little more… romantic. Probably under one of the mistletoes she hung up in my café. That there would be a beacon of light beaming on us, angel choirs breaking into a ‘hallelujah’.
But this is quite profound without any of that.
It’s like us. After all, our ‘firsts’ have been messy from the beginning.
Kissing her is like coming home. The way she parts her lips for me, how she tastes of coffee with a hint of that gingerbread syrup. It’s so her. Sweet. Addictive.
Everything else fades. There’s only her and a warmth sweeping through me quicker than a gasoline-induced fire.
When she pulls away, I rest my forehead against hers, our breaths mingling in the narrow space between our faces. One of my arms is around her, the other hand cradling her face.
“You were right,” I mumble, and her eyes flutter open to reveal her confused eyes.
