Harriet
Three days until Christmas and I am faking it until I make it.
I told Nolan I'll be fine because I don't want him to worry. I want him to go into his afterlife without any hesitations. He deserves that.
But the truth is, saying goodbye is going to devastate me. It doesn't matter that he says I won't remember him when he's gone. My heart will. I know it.
Nolan doesn't say anything about my forced cheerfulness, choosing instead to kiss me wildly every time I suggest another festive activity.
I ask him if he wants to make gingerbread houses and he pins my hips to the kitchen table.
I ask him if he wants to go ice skating, and we make out in my car for fifteen minutes.
I catch him humming along to a Christmas song and I grin so hard my cheeks hurt.
"What?" he asks.
"You're singing."
"I'm not."
"You're singing a Christmas song."
"I'm not."
"So you do like Christmas. Even after all that rumbling and grumbling."
"Or perhaps"—he snaps his fingers and a sprig of mistletoe slowly grows from the lamp above my head—"you're rubbing off on me."
We don't act like there's a deadline barreling down on us. We're just two people enjoying the holiday season, doing our best to be ignorant of the last remaining grains of sand in our hourglass. I don't want my final moments with Nolan to be spent waiting. I don't want to anticipate the goodbye.
Which is exactly how we find ourselves celebrating Christmas early, spread out on my living room floor with a pile of blankets in front of my fireplace and enough Chinese food to feed a small army.
I know I'm not supposed to remember anything, but I study him beneath my tree like if I try hard enough, I will.
How he looks like this, sitting with his legs crossed at the ankle under the glow of the lights, a box of lo mein open on his lap and a paper crown crooked atop his head.
"You have such interesting traditions," he tells me with a sideways grin, piercing a piece of broccoli on his fork. He pops it into his mouth.
"Were you expecting fine silverware? Maybe a candlestick or two?"
He shakes his head. "I was expecting plates in the shape of sugarplum fairies, at the very least."
I sit up in eager interest. "Have you seen those somewhere?" He rolls his eyes. I point my fork at him. "There's that infamous Holiday Spirit enthusiasm again."
"There's only so many times one can hear Crabs for Christmas' before the holiday season begins to lose some of its sparkle."
I gasp. "You take that back. It's a Maryland tradition."
"It's a Maryland travesty."
I clap a hand over my mouth and laugh so hard I topple backward.
Nolan sets his plate to the side and crawls over me with a grin, settling in the cradle of my hips, one edge of his paper crown drooping over his forehead. My heart turns painfully in my chest, a key twisting in a rusty lock.
"You're so beautiful," he says. "I haven't told you that enough."
It's the closest we've come to acknowledging the inevitable in days and pressure burns behind my eyes.
"You have," I assure him, my voice thick.
Of course I had to fall in love with a ghost. I've always loved the broken and forgotten things best.
"I got you a present," he tells me, his voice low. "Do you want to see it?"
I snicker. "Why does it sound like you're about to open your pants?"
"That's not what I'm talking about." He pauses. "Though, good to know. For later."
Heat simmers low in my belly. "Later," I repeat.
I keep experiencing bittersweet fragments of what could be. Maybe somewhere in an alternate universe, a different Harriet and Nolan are sitting in front of the fireplace without any ultimatums hanging over their heads. Maybe they're happy.
Nolan pushes off of me, settling on the blankets, his eyes growing serious.
There's a lick of warmth, a brief shower of sparks, and a box appears in my lap.
It's imperfectly wrapped—kraft paper with duct tape holding uneven edges together—and my heart gives another painful thud in my chest. I imagine Nolan wrapping it himself. No magic. Just him.
I pick at the tape carefully and peel the paper back.
"It's not that great," he says as a precursor. "I don't want you to get excited."
"Too late," I singsong. "My expectations have spun wildly out of control."
"No pressure," he murmurs, his hand rising to scratch roughly at the back of his head. I laugh when I finally peel away the paper.
It's an old tackle box. Navy blue and faded. Marks at the place where his hand has picked it up and put it down, likely hundreds of times. I fit my fingers to his and smile at the match.
"I think I've had quite enough of the open water," I say, tapping my fingers over the handle. "But it's lovely. Thank you."
I'll use it for spices in the kitchen, maybe. Or maybe my jewelry upstairs.
He rolls his eyes to the ceiling and reaches for the small latch at the front of the metal box. "It's holding the present, you beast. Didn't have any proper boxes. It's been a while since I've given anyone a gift." He flicks open the front and lifts the lid.
Inside is a neatly folded square of fabric, the same material as his mittens that are still shoved in the pockets of my pink coat by the door. I pass my hand over the butter-soft material.
"It's a scarf," he explains. "That store I told you about? In 1978? They were selling scarves, too. I, ah, I found this at my flat. Thought you'd like to have the matching set."
I pull it out of the box. The material is thick and cozy, not worn down with age like the mittens. The color is also slightly brighter, like the yarn was purchased recently. I run my hands over the uneven rows. "I thought you said it was 1976."
"What?"
"You told me you got the mittens in 1976 at a mercantile store."
"Oh. Well …" He swallows heavily. "Must have gotten the scarf at the same time and misplaced it."
I twist the scarf neatly around my neck. There are initials stitched at the very bottom. NC. I love that even though he's insisting on lying to me about where he got the scarf, he's selfish enough to want me to walk around with a piece of him.
"Thank you," I whisper. "I love it."
"You don't have to love it."
"I do. I love it," I say again. "It's mine now. Stop hating on my scarf."
He ducks his chin to hide his smile and I lean sideways, grabbing a wrapped package from beneath my tree. I hand it to him, immediately clasping my hands together beneath my chin. I've been buzzing about my gift since I found it two mornings ago at the shop, anxiously awaiting his reaction.
He stares down at the parcel in his hands, brow furrowed. "You got me a gift?"
"Of course I got you a gift. It's Christmas." I run my hand over my scarf. "You got me a gift."
His long fingers trail over the pretty gold paper. "No one's gotten me a gift in"—he tilts his head to the side—"in a very long time."
I pause, then say, "Is that why you hate Christmas radio so much?" He snorts a laugh. "No. I hate Christmas radio because I can't stand the song about the Christmas shoes." He shudders, then murmurs to himself. "Who makes such a depressing song? I'll never understand."
"Get over the damn song." I laugh. "And open your present."
Nolan grins at me and tears into his gift like a madman, gold paper falling to my hardwood like tiny, fallen stars. It reminds me of his magic. The way it sparks and glows and burns brighter whenever I laugh.
I chew on my bottom lip and stare hard at the box in his hands. There's a part of me that wants to toss it out the window and keep living in this quilt of denial we've wrapped ourselves in. But I know what's coming. I knew it as soon as I saw his gift at the shop.
Our ending is inevitable.
I can't keep playing pretend.
Much as I'd like to.
Nolan opens the small white box and goes absolutely still.
"Harriet," he breathes.
I lean forward so I can see the compass nestled in the middle of the box.
"I found it in the storage closet at the shop. Can you believe it? It was under an old jam crate. This whole time and it was there." I laugh, but it sounds wooden.
Hollow. "I can't be sure, but I think it might be yours.
And if it's not, it's a pretty good replica.
It doesn't even work. Just like you said. Remember?"
He doesn't look up from the compass. "Aye. I remember."
He recognizes it. I know he does. Awareness sends goose bumps scattering up my arms, my throat thick. My pulse skitters into doubletime and that clock that hangs heavy over my head begins to chime.
Our time is up, I think sadly. I can't hold on to him any longer.
"It only ever points in one direction. Isn't that—" I saw my teeth over my bottom lip, trying so damn hard not to cry. This is what I wanted. This is what I hoped for. So why is it so damned hard? "Isn't that funny?" I ask, my voice wobbling.
Nolan twists the compass back and forth lightly, watching the arrow at the top of it. When I was holding it, it only ever pointed at my chest. It didn't matter which way I stood, it always pointed in one direction. Now that Nolan is holding it, though, it points—
"It points to you," he says, his voice low. Blue eyes flick up and hold mine. A sad, knowing smile edges at one side of his mouth. "It points right at you."
"Oh. That can't be—"
"This compass is mine," Nolan cuts me off gently. "You were right. About everything, you were right. You are the key to moving me forward, just as you thought. You and your little shop."
My face crumples. "I'm so glad," I say, my voice breaking.
Nolan curses, closing the space between us, his forehead finding my shoulder. "Don't cry."
"I'm not," I say, absolutely crying. Silent tears spill down my cheeks.
I sniff and drag the back of my hand under my nose. "I'm so happy I could give this to you. Best Christmas present ever, am I right?"
Nolan snorts. But there's no humor there. Only frustration. Resignation. "Aye. It would have been, if I hadn't found it first."