by Rachel Cohn
“I was thinking It’s a Wonderful Life? Seven o’clock showing at Film Forum? I have some cookies in my bag.”
The look on her face was priceless. Sweet Lily was wondering how to break it to me.
“Cookies from Levain,” I added. “I don’t quite know how they do it, but they’re ninety percent sugar, ninety percent butter, and maybe six percent flour. In other words, we should eat as many of them as possible while we’re still young and our bodies can take it.”
We got to the door to Herald Square. An unmiraculous Thirty-Fourth Street beckoned.
“Remember,” I said to Lily. “Anything we want. Any way we want our story to go. This is not the time for reality. Reality can return in January, if it has to. But now—the city is ours for the making.”
I thought we’d rush forth then—but Lily stayed where she was, shoppers pushing past us both.
“Dash?” she said. “You do realize you said it, right? Twice.”
“Really?” I replied. “I thought I only said ‘unadulteratedly’ once.”
Her face clouded. “That’s not what I meant.”
I looked her right in the eye.
“I’ll say it again right now if you’d like. In fact, let me let these strangers know.” I started addressing the people pushing by us. “Sir, I love Lily. Ma’am, I happen to love Lily. I love Lily—I love Lily—I LOVE LILY! I am a Santa-dressing lovelorn fool for Lily! If loving Lily is a crime, then proclaim me guilty as charged! Shall I go on?”
Lily nodded.
“I love Lily more than you people love Christmas! I love Lily more than Mr. Macy loves your consumer dollars! I love Lily so much it should be put in shop windows! My love for Lily is higher than the GNP of most industrialized nations! I love—”
Lily put her hand on my arm. “Okay. Stop.”
“Are we on the same page now?”
“I believe we are.”
“And even though there’s no mistletoe in sight, may I kiss you in the middle of this crowded department store entrance?”
“Yes.”
So there we were. That completely obnoxious pair of teenagers making out in the doorway of a major department store, eliciting stares and curses from passersby and not caring one bit.
“Happy anniversary,” I said, pulling back.
“Happy anniversary,” she said, pulling in.
Then, hand in hand, we plunged into the night.
We still had four days until Christmas, and it was time to fill them with the right story.
Monday, December 22nd
Christmas can go fudge itself, because I already have what I want: Dash.
I could feel the faint light of morning sun on my face, but before I opened my eyes, I wanted to enjoy the rise and fall of his breathing against my chest, his warm body pressed against mine.
Yesterday, arguably the best day of my life not including any Star Wars movie opening days, Dash and I had declared our love for each other. When Dash took me home last night, we cuddled by the fire, gazing at our beautiful tree-baby, Oscar. I told him how much I loved him. “I love your obscure books and moody music and even your terrible cookies. I love your kindness. I love you for loving Christmas, despite yourself. For me.” I’d been holding it in for so long, and needed to talk it all out. “When did you know you loved me?” I asked Dash.
He said, “There wasn’t an actual moment. Don’t look so disappointed. It was more a gradual realization. A knowing of how much sweeter my life was for having you in it. Sofia telling me how much lighter and happier I seemed since knowing you.”
I wasn’t jealous of Sofia at all anymore. At least, not in terms of Dash. I’d never not be jealous of her Euro-elegance and her un-American, rational relationship with sugar foods. “Did you tell Boomer and Sofia you loved me before you told me?”
“Didn’t need to. Apparently everyone else knew before I did.”
“We have an anniversary! I love us for that! I love you for telling me you loved me on it!”
“You didn’t remember, did you?”
“I didn’t,” I confessed. My December mind has traditionally been so caught up in Christmas it hadn’t even occurred to me that my own romance could now be included in important holiday dates. “Which Nicholas Sparks book do you think we as a couple are the most like? Say The Notebook!”
Dash’s dreamy blue eyes turned icy blue-gray. “Don’t even joke about something like that.”
I hadn’t been joking.
I asked, “Am I ruining the moment by overtalking it?”
“Yes. Let’s talk it out silently.”
And we did, through many, many kisses, before we fell asleep on the living room floor—fully clothed, fully exhausted.
For now, there was waking up next to each other to savor. Drool dribbled onto my arm and I fluttered my eyes open. Darnsicles! It was Boris I was spooning, and not Dash. My waking disappointment was silly. I was actually doubly blessed. I already had what I wanted, this year and last. Dash, and a dog. My red Moleskine runneth over.
Dash lay on the other side of Boris, half-awake. Dash had already gotten what he wanted for Christmas, too. His mom went away on her annual holiday vacation, and she didn’t insist Dash stay at his dad’s while she was away, so Dash didn’t need to lie to them by saying he was staying at the other’s apartment. What Dash wanted most was to have his home to himself. He could have that, later. For right now, he was all mine.
My heart was still exploding with exhilaration. I loved a boy! He loved me back! He baked me cookies! That hadn’t made me sick!
I knew I had serious competition for his affection. Dash greedily eyed the bookcase next to Oscar. Instead of saying “Good morning,” I asked him, “Why do you love books so much?” It wasn’t a hostile question, like I was jealous of those firm, colorful spines that beheld so much wonder between their…pages. I was genuinely curious.
Dash said, “From the time I was a baby, my mom took me to the library at least once a week. Librarians were like Mary Poppins to me. They always knew how to match a book to my mood or to whatever I was going through at the time. I could always find peace in books.”
“And escape?”
“Escape, sure. But it wasn’t so much about getting away, as going to. You can go anywhere in a book. Books are adventure. Knowledge. Possibility. Magic.”
I couldn’t believe my beloved snarly Dash had spoken such blasphemy. I propped myself halfway up from the floor and looked down at his amazing face. (And beheld Boris’s amazing smoosh face next to Dash’s, too. I was such a lucky girl!) “You believe in magic?” I said to Dash. Those two faces. My boyfriend and my dog. They were my magic.
“Yes,” said Dash. Then, solemnly, he added, “But please don’t ever tell anyone I said that.”
“I heard it!” squealed Langston as he walked through the living room toward the kitchen. He singsonged, “Dash believes in magic. Must be love!”
Benny followed my brother into the room. Seeing Dash and me lying on the floor together, Benny did a mock bump and grind against Langston’s hip. To me, Benny said, “Boyfriend staying over now? You’re lucky Mami and Papi are still in Connecticut!” He looked at Dash, then back at Langston. “Should we beat Dash up now or later?”
“We’re nice to Dash now,” said Langston with a sigh.
“¡Ñoña es!” said Benny, which I believe was Puerto Rican for “No fucking way.”
“It’s love, I guess,” Langston said with a sneer.
Benny said, “¡Diantre! Is it too soon to give the Christmas present?”
Langston shrugged. “If you must.” He turned to Dash. “You may thank us for letting you open this now instead of later, in front of your girlfriend’s parents.”
Dash said nothing.
“Ingrate,” said Langston.
Benny stepped to the pile of Christmas presents and took out a box covered in multicolored gift paper from the Strand. He tossed the box to Dash. Dash unwrapped. It was clearly a box set of books, so I didn�
��t know why Dash’s face turned so red. He held up the box set for me to see: the Collected Works of D. H. Lawrence.
“¡Feliz Navidad!” said Benny.
I didn’t know what about D. H. Lawrence could cause such an embarrassed face from my boyfriend (and I’d surely be Googling immediately after to find out). “Be sexy, be safe, dear literary Dash!” said Langston, laughing.
“Said from the person moving to Hoboken,” retorted Dash. “Sexy. Safe. Hoboken. Hmmm, which of these words does not belong?”
“HOBOKEN?” I yelled. The reaction was so instinctive, I didn’t have time to process that Boris was lying next to me. Hearing my cry, Boris immediately jumped to his feet and pummeled Benny, the least familiar person to him in the room, to the ground.
“Did I forget to tell you the location part of our new apartment?” Langston asked me.
“Willful nondisclosure,” I accused him. But I knew I was equally at fault. I’d been so upset by Langston telling me he was moving out that I’d neglected to ask where.
Langston said, “Manhattan and Brooklyn are way too expensive. And Queens and the Bronx are just too far from downtown.”
“¡Hola!” said Benny. “¡Ayúdame!”
“Heel,” I commanded Boris, who then unpinned Benny.
“Breakfast,” said Dash.
“I’ll make some,” said Langston. “You’re welcome.”
“Not with you,” said Dash. He took my hand. “We have a morning date with Mrs. Basil E. She wants to discuss plans for her Christmas-night party.” The excitement on Dash’s face was clear. For a guy who used to hate Christmas, he’d certainly turned over a new leaf. Or a new holly. Gift idea! Mistletoe-laden books. Dash pulled my hand to his face and placed a kiss on my palm. If he’d had them available, I believe he would have sprinkled the kiss with candy cane bits.
Dash believed in magic. Dash loved Christmas. Dash loved me!
I am indeed so shallow that I was much too concerned with the love in my heart and the promise of breakfast to dwell on my brother moving to godforsaken Hoboken. Whatever. Go already, Langston. What did I care? I had Dash. My real worry was that my relationship with my boyfriend was actually a ruse for Dash to spend more time with his real true love, my octogenarian great-aunt.
Langston told Dash, “I liked you better when you were snarly.”
Dash said, “You didn’t like me at all.”
“Exactly,” said Langston.
—
It pained me to admit it. But I did. “Grandpa looks great,” I said to Mrs. Basil E. privately as she ushered us from her drawing room to her dining room for breakfast. He walked ahead of us with Dash, and there was a spring in his step again, and his eyes were sparkling with his old cheer and mischief when he’d greeted us.
Mrs. Basil E. said, “It was wearing on him, all the care you’ve been giving him. He doesn’t want to be a burden, and he felt guilt all the time.”
“He’s not!” I said, about to defend our health care situation, until Mrs. Basil E. shushed me.
“He belongs to me, too,” she said. “And you need to be young and taking care of yourself. I’m interviewing home health aide candidates next week to pick up the slack with Grandpa’s needs.”
Somehow I felt like I’d let Grandpa down. “But I can do the job,” I said.
“I know you can, dear. But for now, your family would like your job to go back to being a teenager.”
“And dog walker.”
“If you insist.”
A glorious breakfast spread was set out on the dining table. Eggs, bagels, coffee, juice, fruit salad, and plenty of Dash’s favorite, yogurt. We sat down to dig in.
Mrs. Basil E. told me, “Have some of the lox on your bagel, Lily Bear. I had it brought down from Barney Greengrass this morning. It’s the best.”
Often when Mrs. Basil E. instructs me to eat something on her table that once had eyes, I politely put some of the cooked flesh on my plate and move it around there but never eat it. This time I didn’t. I said, “I’d like to not be called Lily Bear anymore, please. And I’m a vegetarian.”
“You don’t even eat fish?” asked Mrs. Basil E. I will never understand why meat eaters always ask that question when I say I’m a vegetarian. If she next asked where I got my protein, I’d be tempted to toss my plate at the wall like the ungrateful-but-sick-of-that-question not–Lily Bear that I am.
“No, I don’t eat fish,” I said sweetly.
“Why didn’t you say so before?” said Mrs. Basil E. “No use wasting this glory on your dull palate.”
She placed an additional slice of lox on Grandpa’s bagel. “Good!” said Grandpa between bites.
“And she’s no longer our bear,” Mrs. Basil E. said to Grandpa. They shook their heads sadly. “Is this your doing?” Mrs. Basil E. asked Dash.
Dash said, “I had nothing to do with it. Lily’s been a vegetarian since kindergarten.”
Mrs. Basil E. gasped. “No one ever told me!”
I’ve told her a million times. I’ve been to vegetarian restaurants with her. She’s sharp as a tack, my great-aunt—but, like Grandpa, she’s getting more forgetful. It’s worrisome. Right then I made up my mind. If my parents moved to Connecticut, I’d accept Mrs. Basil E.’s invitation to live at her house, with her and Grandpa. They needed me. Five stories of townhouse was more than enough room for us all. And Boris. Five stories of stairs would be a problem for Grandpa. But we’d figure out a way to keep him mobile.
Dash said, “The bagels are delicious.”
“Of course they are,” said Mrs. Basil E. “I don’t trifle with subpar carbs.”
“So how can we help you with your Christmas party?” Dash asked Mrs. Basil E.
“You show up,” she said, like it was obvious.
“I thought you asked us here because you need our help. We’d be glad to help,” Dash offered.
“I hire help for my parties, young man.” She looked at him, then at me, then back at Dash again. “So, it’s love now?”
“One-year anniversary!” I said proudly. A lark of a red Moleskine dare had led me to this wondrous boy. Now here we were a year later. Stronger than ever. Love officially declared.
“Hand me the list, brother,” Mrs. Basil E. said to Grandpa.
Grandpa reached into his pocket and extracted a folded piece of paper, which he handed to Mrs. Basil E. She unfolded the paper and pressed down the creases to straighten it, and then she handed the piece of paper to Dash. “If you’re to be official with Lily, here is the list of holidays, in descending order of importance. My Christmas-night party is at the top, obviously.”
I couldn’t believe Dash had gotten a copy of the List. Usually prospective members of our family didn’t get it until they were engaged to one of our relatives. And registered at a wedding gift store that met Mrs. Basil E.’s approval.
“I don’t understand,” said Dash.
“It’s the attendance sheet,” Grandpa told Dash, laughing. “Good luck, kid.”
“It’s no such thing,” Mrs. Basil E. chided. “It’s merely a list of holidays you are expected to celebrate with us if you are part of this family, ranked by order of importance. The asterisks denote optional holidays, and the footnotes indicate floating holidays that you are allowed to attend with your own family on a rotating basis.”
Dash scanned the list and then looked up, askance. “Canadian Thanksgiving is a footnote holiday?”
“Not to Canadians,” said Mrs. Basil E.
Dash said, “My father will be relieved. He’s Canadian.”
A shocked silence fell over the breakfast table. Finally, almost feeling betrayed, I said, “You never told me your father is Canadian.”
“Does it matter?” Dash asked.
“Of course it matters!” said Grandpa. But it was a defensive reaction. We all knew it didn’t matter.
The shock was, we all knew about Dash’s dad. “But your dad’s—” I didn’t want to come out and say it. Such a rhymes-with-ick.
/> Mrs. Basil E. spared me having to speak the harsh language aloud. She snapped, “Not all Canadians are nice, Lily. Don’t be so naïve. Dashiell, we’ll take custody of you on Canadian Thanksgiving. You may direct your father to me if he has any concerns.”
“I love this family!” Dash said, beaming.
Mrs. Basil E. and I nodded knowingly at each other. We knew Dash meant he loved us the most. We knew he’d choose us for Canadian Thanksgiving.
Dash’s beam of happiness flooded my heart with joy, once again. He’d given me so much happiness yesterday.
But I owned Christmas. Everyone knew that. I couldn’t let Dash out-Christmas me in romantic gestures. I wanted to shout out my love for him from the rooftops. And now that I knew Dash was part Canadian, I knew exactly which rooftop I wanted to shout it from.
“How’s Mr. Zamboni?” I asked Grandpa.
—
Grandpa’s a ladies’ man, but he hasn’t acquired any new girlfriends since his heart attack. His bromances are still going strong, though. He has a standing weekly date with his buddies at our local Italian pork store, where the guys meet to sip espresso and play backgammon. Since I was a kid, I always referred to Grandpa’s friends by the names of their businesses instead of their proper names. Mr. Dumpling, the retired Chinese restaurant owner, prefers tea over coffee. Mr. Borscht, the retired Polish deli owner, bets too hard on his backgammon prowess and has lost many rolls of quarters to his pals as a result. (The Żubrówka—bison grass vodka—that he adds to his sparkling water might also contribute to his losses.) Mr. Zamboni, the aging-but-not-yet-retired real estate developer, has gone gluten-free, so no pastries for him at their games anymore, but he goes “nuts” for the gluten-free peanut butter cookies I regularly make for him. Mr. Zamboni loves the cookies so much that he’s long been saying he owes me a favor, which I was ready to cash in on.
Despite my name for him, Mr. Zamboni isn’t really involved in the ice-skating business. But a few years ago he built a new condo building on the far west side of Manhattan, overlooking the High Line, with a communal rooftop that’s converted to an ice-skating rink during the winter. Personally, I prefer to pay a few Andrew Jacksons for a skate session at Rockefeller Center or Wollman Rink, but some people need to spend several million on a condo to get that Christmas ice-skating feeling, I guess. They like their holidays cold with exclusivity and privilege. But their obscene wealth was beneficial to me, today at least.
