by J. J. Murray
“You want to put a budget on Christmas.”
Hope wrinkled up her lips. The word “budget” is not an evil word. “Yes. If more people did it, there would be fewer broke people at the end of January.” Oh, now his face is another shade of red. It almost matches the lights on the tree.
“But that’s like putting a budget on my heart, Hope!” Dylan shouted.
Oh, that was deep. Loud but deep. It sounds like a future greeting card.
“What if what I want to give you adds up to more than five hundred dollars?” Dylan asked.
Hope sighed. I have to explain everything. “Then you’d be over budget, and then I’d feel obligated to go over budget, and then we’d go back and forth like that until we spent too much money on each other.”
Dylan sat next to her, taking her hands.
Now we’re talking. Rub on my legs, too, Mr. Healy.
“I wouldn’t care, Hope,” Dylan said. “It’s the giving that matters to me, not the monetary amount. I can’t believe you want to put limits on what I want to give you. That defeats the purpose of giving. I give because I can. I give because I want to. I give because you mean so much to me, and now you say I can only spend five hundred bucks on you. I will not budget anything where you are concerned. I probably won’t even add up the receipts until after Christmas.”
That’s not a good idea. That’s a good way to overdraw your bank account. Oh, his hands are so hot! “You actually like to go Christmas shopping?”
“I love to go Christmas shopping,” Dylan said.
There’s that word again. Ooh, he is so passionate! Put your hot hand on my heart!
“I love finding that perfect gift,” Dylan said, squeezing her hands harder. “I love the hunt, the hassle, and even the crowds, because it tells me that here are bunches of giving people around me all trying to be giving at the same time.”
“That’s not what I see,” Hope said, shifting in the pillows. “I see an unruly mob buying things they don’t need with money they don’t have.”
“Wow.” Dylan’s chin dropped to his chest. “I don’t know what to say.” He looked up. “Christmas is simple to me, Hope. You find out what someone desires, you find those desires, and you give those desires, and you never count the cost.” He released her hands and slid off the couch, walking to the mantel. “You never count the cost,” he seemed to say to a snow globe. He turned. “Are you going to give me a wish list?”
I don’t know if I like his attitude. He sets my hands on fire and then he leaves. “Do you have a list?”
Dylan dug into his pocket and took out a folded piece of paper. “Here.” He handed it to her.
Hope unfolded the paper and read the list:
• 2 small portable easels, tempera paint (all colors), and paintbrushes (assorted) for Brownsville Rec
• sketch pads and good mechanical pencils for Odd Ducks
• ergonomically correct desk chair (for my aching back!)
• new hoodie to replace the one Hope stole and won’t give back!
• assorted restaurant menus from Manhattan, the Bronx, Staten Island, Queens
• a new hairbrush that’s kinder to my scalp
• another dinner at The Islands
• painter’s pants for art at Kinderstuff
• waterproof winter gloves
• a used car with character
• peace on earth!
I should have expected him to have a list already. I shouldn’t have called his bluff. Dylan lives for Christmas. It’s a simple list, but most of what he wants involves other people—including me.
Hope shook the paper in her hands. “But I could get you all this tomorrow or sometime this week. Well, maybe not the car. You could buy yourself all of these things well before Christmas if you wanted to.”
“That’s not the point, Hope.” He reopened the memo pad. “I’ve been making a list of what I think you might want since my first visit to your apartment.”
That was a month ago! We weren’t even boyfriend and girlfriend then!
“I was hoping you’d give me some ideas tonight that might match my list—you know, confirm what I would get you. You’ve already helped me out.” He ran the pen through a few items brusquely. “You’ve simplified things. Thanks.”
Now he uses sarcasm? “Dylan, I do not need anything. How many times do I have to tell you that?”
“I said want, not need,” he said. “Look at my list. I can get by without all those things, but I’d be overjoyed to have them as gifts.” He took a deep breath. “We’ll try again.” He looked at his memo pad. “How about a new kitchen set? I saw one the other day that I could refinish. Nice walnut. Four sturdy chairs that won’t wobble.”
Hope folded up his wish list and set it next to the nativity scene. “Why? We eat mostly in the bed.”
Dylan made another line in his memo pad. “How about a new TV, something bigger, a widescreen. So we can enjoy our movies more.”
“We hardly ever finish a movie,” Hope said, “and I hardly watch TV when you’re not there.”
Dylan scratched it out. “A car.”
He thought I’d want a car? “I don’t want to drive around Brooklyn,” Hope said. “I’m safer on my feet.” As long as elves driving Santa Clauses in bicycle rickshaws watch where they’re going.
Dylan drew a large X this time. “New boots.”
Now he makes big marks on his little paper. “My boots are just fine,” Hope said louder. “They’re still waterproof.”
Dylan sighed and didn’t move his pen. “An umbrella.”
“Mine still works,” Hope said even louder. If I tilt it and lean to the right.
Dylan flipped a page and smiled. “Food! I can buy you food! Canadian food. BeeMaid Honey and Caramilk bars. Mackintosh’s Toffee. I can order it online and have it shipped directly to your door.”
Hope blinked. That wouldn’t be too bad.
“Or one of those massager shower heads.”
That might be nice, but . . .
“A Kindle gift certificate,” Dylan continued. “Gift certificates to Tim Hortons. A trip to Edmonton to visit your family. A trip to the Bahamas or to Trinidad.”
He would give me all that? None of those are practical gifts, but I cannot tell him that. “Dylan, they’re all wonderful gifts, really. But isn’t it enough that we have each other?”
Dylan tore out several pages, balled them up, and rolled them under the tree.
Now he crumples my gift list in front of me? This is not acceptable!
“Hope, all I wanted was to put something under the tree that says ‘From Dylan to Hope.’ That’s all. Instead, there’s only some crumpled paper.” He flipped a page. “I want you to tell me, now, what you would like me to put under that tree. I will purchase whatever it is. I will wrap the hell out of it. I will not tell you what it is. You will open it Christmas morning, and maybe it will make you happy. Tell me what you want.”
He is too serious about all this! “I told you what I wanted. I want a beach house.”
Dylan closed the memo pad and shoved it into his back pocket. “On a night when we should be celebrating, you decide to be difficult.”
I will not sit for this any longer. Hope stood. I almost stood too fast. Whoo. It must be the altitude. “I am being difficult? You are being difficult. You want Christmas to be your way or no way! Did it occur to you that maybe I don’t want to celebrate Christmas the way you do?”
“Why do you hate Christmas so much?” Dylan asked.
Now he is being crazy. “Hate” is such a strong word. “I don’t . . . hate Christmas.”
“You do, Hope,” Dylan said. “You make fun of Christmas traditions.”
“What traditions?”
He pulled out his memo pad, slapping it into his palm. “This. This is a tradition. Making wish lists.” He waved his arms. “This. Everything you see around you. This is a tradition. Shopping is a tradition. Giving without counting the cost is a tradition. Search
ing for the perfect gift is a tradition.” He turned away. “And you hate all of it.”
“I don’t . . . I don’t hate it all,” Hope said, sinking back into the couch. Do I? “Maybe I don’t see the point of these traditions. I didn’t have many of these traditions growing up, okay?”
“I’m . . .” He sighed. “You won’t let me be the giving man that I am. That’s the bottom line. I want to say, ‘Bah humbug to you.’ I want to say, ‘I’m getting you gifts whether you like it or not,’ but if I did, I would be ruining the spirit of Christmas. Hope Warren, if you ask for it and I can afford it, I will get it for you because I love you.”
The apartment was silent.
Hope held her breath.
“I love you, Hope,” Dylan said, his eyes shining. “I have loved you and wanted to tell you. It’s why I started your list. Let me prove my love to you, even if it’s in a bunch of small little packages under the tree.”
He loves me. He made a list of his love, but now it is balled up under the tree. How important was that list then? “You’ve already proven your love to me in every way. You are the most loving man I’ve ever known.” She rose from the couch and took a step toward him. “You don’t need to show off one day of the year to prove anything to me.”
Dylan backed away. “Show off? You think giving is showing off? Okay, I’ll agree with you. I do. I need to show off. I didn’t always have the opportunity to give anyone anything when I was a kid. I do now. I had some rotten Christmases, nine of them in detention with no family around me at all.”
“And I had eight in a row completely alone,” Hope said. I am sobering up. Some celebration this has been. “I was completely alone for the last eight Christmases.”
“That was your choice.” Dylan nodded his head rapidly. “You chose to be alone. I spent the last five Christmas mornings at the Salvation Army Man Shelter.”
Hope shook her head. “Oh, you are such a saint. Saint Dylan, the faithful and loyal.”
Dylan took a step toward her. “I went to that shelter because I didn’t want to be alone on Christmas morning! You obviously like to be alone!”
Hope stepped back, leaning against the couch. No, I don’t. I hate being alone.
“It doesn’t take a saint to serve breakfast and hand out blankets and hot chocolate,” Dylan said. “Anyone can do it, and it’s the right thing to do on Christmas Day. It is right for me to give you gifts, and no matter how much you hate Christmas, I will give you those gifts whether you want me to or not!” He shoved his hands into his pockets and stared at the floor. “I’m . . . I’m going into the office to sort out the cards and start packaging them. I’m sure we’ve had some more orders to print out, too. If you want me to, I’ll . . . I’ll call you a cab. I’m sure I’ve ruined the evening.” Dylan collected the bags at the door and disappeared down the dark hall.
In a moment Hope heard “Joy to the World” echoing loudly down the hallway, and then the song faded to a whisper when a door closed.
He turned on the music, and then he shut the door to keep me from hearing it. I kind of like that song, yet here I sit in silence, smelling pine and looking at the lights on the ceiling with tears in my eyes.
She looked across the room at the Christmas tree. He cut the branches off the bottom of his tree almost two feet high. Deddy used to say, “De more branches at de bottom yuh don’ see, de more presents yuh will see.” Deddy always left lots of space under our tree.
She wandered over to the tree and smiled at the decorations. Look at all those ornaments made by Dylan’s little artists. Pictures. Faces. So cute. They’re Dylan’s adopted family, and they share Christmas with him right here in this room. No wonder he puts his tree up so early. He wants to be less alone. There’s so much love here.
She stooped and gathered the balled-up paper, smoothing out each page. He kept a list all this time, adding to it, thinking of me. I don’t really need any of these things, but he thought of me when he made this list.
I have ruined this evening.
Maybe I should go.
She heard a door open and then footsteps.
Dylan returned to the room with a piece of paper and handed it to Hope. “These are the orders for tomorrow. I’ll e-mail any more that come in. I’m taking tomorrow off.”
No toast, no jam, no kiss?
“I want to do some shopping,” he said. “Are those my lists?”
Hope nodded.
He put out his hand.
Hope handed them to him.
“I’ll stop by Thrifty by six to pick up the orders,” Dylan said. “And if you’re working, I could walk you home if you still want me to.”
Yet he still wants to walk me home. Hope’s eyes filled with tears. “There is something I really want for Christmas.”
“What?” Dylan whispered.
“And it’s not a beach house, I promise you.” She watched a tear fall to the floor. “I want you.” She saw Dylan’s hand reach out to her, and she took it.
“You already have me, Hope,” he said. “You don’t have to ask for what you already have.”
She rubbed her thumb on his palm. “But I get the feeling I am losing you. Right now.”
“You haven’t lost me, Hope,” Dylan said softly. “I’m sorry if I said anything to make you think that. I’ve been only thinking of what I wanted to do this Christmas. I didn’t consider your feelings. I’m sorry. I understand everything you said, and you made a lot of sense. When I’ve been able to, I’ve always overdone it at Christmas, and I’m sure that’s why Art for Kids’ Sake doesn’t exist yet. You were blind for a day so you could see. In order to give Brooklyn a day care for the arts, I have to be less giving. You’re right, and when I’m shopping tomorrow, I’ll . . . I’ll count the receipts as I go. Five hundred, right?”
Oh, my heart is breaking. I’ve changed him into me! “No.”
“Higher? Lower?”
“No!” Hope shouted, staring into his eyes. “Whatever you want to spend, Dylan Healy, you spend. I just don’t know why you want to spend so much . . . on me.” She stumbled into his arms. “I don’t deserve you, Dylan. I don’t deserve you.”
Dylan held her while she sobbed. “You don’t really think that.”
She wiped her eyes, then clung to his shoulders. “I do. I didn’t think I deserved anybody, and then you came along. You are my dream. You are my wish for Christmas. You are the only item on my wish list. I want you for Christmas. I want you wrapped up under my tree. I want to open you up on Christmas morning, and I want to hold you for the rest of my life.” She looked down.
“And I’ll never need batteries,” Dylan said.
Hope’s eyes darted up to his. She saw his smile, and then she laughed. “How do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“You say the most random things at the right moment to make me smile and forget to be sad.”
He kissed a tear on her cheek. “I like to make you smile. You know we have to make that card. ‘True love never needs batteries.’ ” He rested his forehead on hers. “And that’s what we have here, Hope. True love. I love you.”
Yes, this is right, this is so right. “I love you, too. I love you so much.”
They held each other, dancing together for the second time in their lives, as the faint whisper of “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing” glided down the hallway while lights raced all around them.
Hope felt heat rising from her toes to her nose. “Dylan?”
“Yes?”
“I want you so badly. Right now. Do you want me?”
Dylan swept Hope off her feet and carried her to his bed, falling with her onto the bedspread. Hope felt his heat, felt his hair, felt his hands, felt her clothes vanishing, felt his tongue moving lower and lower, and for a moment, she felt something tingle.
The tingle turned into a spark.
She began to pant softly while his hands caressed her breasts and his tongue circled her navel before disappearing and landing on her thighs, his finge
rs probing, touching, entering.
There it is ... there it is . . .
As his tongue began tasting her, the spark intensified and threatened to ignite.
Oh God, please, oh God, please . . .
She closed her eyes as fire spread from Dylan’s lips to her stomach and raged out of control, her hips quivering uncontrollably, her lips buzzing.
Oh, yes, I’m baaaaaaack! I have missed this, oh yes!
“Dylan, come back up here!” she cried.
He scrambled to cradle her face. “Are you okay?”
“Oh yes.” She laughed. “Orgasme.”
“Orgasme?”
“Huge, hot, I’m still on fire, and I’m so juteux I’m a freaking waterfall.” She pushed him onto his back. “I want to go for a ride.” She guided him into her and eased down. We’re doing it, yes, we’re sliding and gliding and riding and I am gloriously slick and sweaty and I’m in ah-go-nee without being in agony! “Dylan, we’re jooking!”
Dylan nodded.
Hope froze. She distinctly heard “Silent Night.”
“Can you change the song?” Hope asked. “I don’t think tonight is going to be very silent.”
“No,” Dylan said. He dipped out from under her.
“Hurry!” she cried. A moment later, she heard “This Christmas” blasting from the office. At least it has a little bass to it.
Dylan slid under her. “Sorry. It’s all I’ve got.”
“No, it isn’t,” she said, resuming her ride. Yes! He still fits! “You like my sexy derriere, don’t you?”
Dylan nodded.
“Do a little grinding,” Hope whispered.
Dylan sat up and grabbed Hope’s sexy derriere, forcefully moving her entire body forward and backward.
My grindsman! My champion!
“Quick,” Hope said. “Get behind me and play my djembe.”
Dylan pulled her off the bed and moved her to the mirror. “I want to see your face,” he whispered, “and I want you to see mine.”
As Dylan gave her sexy derriere the pumping it had been missing, Hope watched her man move, watched him tap-tap her djembe, watched him pull her hair, watched him thrust until the entire dresser shook.
