Page 31 of Christmas By Design

Being on the other side of it now, I can admit it was actually kind of freeing. I’ve had two years of being the only parent. Of being the only one who could feed her or calm her or get her to sleep when she was a tiny baby, and then the only one she wanted when she got a little older. I do leave her for work every day, but that feels different. It’s a necessity. Leaving her so I can have a little fun on my own? That’s revolutionary.

Maybe that’s the best I can say for this situation with Beckett—that I learned how to leave my daughter for a little while to take a bit of my life back. And, I guess, if that’s all that comes from it, it’s not too bad. I hadn’t realized how anxious I was about leaving her until last night, but I hadn’t realized how badly I needed it until then, either.

Even so, as I look at myself through the steam fogging up the bathroom mirror, I can’t help but wonder what it might have been like if we were able to have something more.

Oh well. No sense in dwelling on it, I suppose. We were in it for a fun night. We both made that clear, even if we had danced around the possibility of an extension. What’s done is done.

I cross the hallway to the room I share with Nova with a towel wrapped tightly around my torso and another in my hair. I take my time massaging product through my curls in front of the small vanity in the bedroom. As I’m doing that, the doorbell rings. It’s probably the same neighborhood carolers who come around every Christmas Eve, and I’m suddenly too tired to stand at the door smiling and pretending they sound good.

Ever-so-slowly, I pull on black leggings, a garish Christmas sweater, and fuzzy Christmas socks. I consider doing my makeup just to be sure the carolers are gone by the time I get down there but decide against it. There’s no one to impress here.

I perch myself on the edge of my bed and am just about to scroll aimlessly on my phone for a minute when the unmistakable sound of Nova banging on my parents’ piano wafts up to me. The groan that escapes me isn’t loud enough to be heard downstairs, but it’s close. Why my mother insists on leaving the upright piano open when Nova is around is beyond me. Mom plays sometimes—mostly to entertain her granddaughter—but more often than not, it’s Nova herself who puts on a concert for the family. I use the word “concert” loosely; it’s more like a cacophony of noise.

When I’ve persuaded myself that the banging is better than the carolers, I throw open the door to the bedroom. The sound suddenly stops. It’s followed almost immediately by a beautiful rendition of “O Holy Night.” It’s slightly more upbeat than Beckett’s version at the Dash house, but that doesn’t help the pang in my heart when those notes float up the stairs.

Jeez, Mom. Twist the knife, why don’t you?

Nova lets out a high-pitched giggle, which is imitated almost perfectly by the piano. It makes her laugh even harder.

That’s impressive. Mom has really been practicing.

It’s the laughter that gives me the push to turn the corner to the living room despite the sadness still tugging at me. Nova always could pull me out of whatever was getting me down. She’s magical like that.

But when I get to the living room, I stop in my tracks. Mom isn’t playing the piano. She’s standing there watching with Dad’s arm around her shoulders. I turn slowly to the upright piano against the wall of the living room, and I have to blink a few times before I can process what I’m seeing.

Beckett is sitting on the piano bench, his long fingers flying over the piano keys. Nova is on his lap between his arms, gently pushing random keys as he plays.

It’s the sweetest damn thing I’ve ever seen.

He finishes the song with a flourish. My parents applaud, and Nova also claps her chubby little hands together as she cries, “Again!”

I just stand there like an idiot. I’m not exactly sure what’s happening or why he’s here, and I’m afraid if I move, he’ll disappear up the chimney.

Beckett holds onto Nova as he spins his long legs over the back of the piano bench to face us. His ice-blue eyes meet mine immediately, like he sensed me enter the room a few minutes ago.

“Hi,” he says. As if him sitting at my mom’s piano in my parents’ living room holding my daughter on his lap is the most normal thing in the world.

“Uh, hi?”

“Oh, honey, your coworker here said you forgot this in his car, and he wanted to drop it off for you.” Mom holds a bookstore bag out to me. “Isn’t that nice?”

I take the bag with numb fingers, my eyes still on Beckett. “I… forgot this?”

“Sure,” he says. And if I’m not mistaken, his eyes sparkle with mischief. If I hadn’t spent a night with him, I’d think he was the portrait of casual nonchalance, but there’s a stiffness to his shoulders that suggests he’s wondering if he made the right choice showing up here.

Nova squirms off his lap. He hasn’t changed out of his clothes from yesterday, and on top of the wrinkles in them, there’s now a streak of flour that Nova leaves behind. I’m sure when he notices it, it’ll drive him nuts, but right now, he only has eyes for me.

“Let’s go finish those cookies, shall we? Give these two a minute.” Mom lifts Nova onto her hip.

“Any chance I can get out of it?” Dad pleads. He’s avoided cookie-pocalypse every year since I was a kid. I’m actually surprised he came out of his cave—also known as the den in the basement—to hear Beckett play knowing the cookies weren’t finished.

“Nope!” Mom uses her other arm to gently push him toward the kitchen. “I’m down a pair of hands, so yours will have to do.” She winks at me as the three of them pass by and out of the room.

Beckett stands slowly but doesn’t step away from the piano. “Sorry to ambush you.”

“I forgot… what is this?” I ask, lifting up the bag.

“A gift. For Nova,” he says gruffly.