I’ve always loved Christmas. I love sitting around the tree watching my little cousins open their presents and listening to my uncle’s bad jokes. There’s a certain warmness to it that you don’t get anywhere else. But this year it’s just not there. I mean, I feel it, I’m perfectly happy, but today doesn’t feel like the peak of my happiness the way it usually does. Something’s different. Something’s off.
As I refill my cup of punch, I look into our living room and see everyone coupled off, smiling and laughing together…totally in sync. My aunts and uncles and cousins had all managed it, had all completed that magical, confusing, and distressing journey we call finding the person who feels like home. Maybe that’s it.
I had found her.
She just wasn’t here.
I know I’m a loud and proud Buffalo native, but the truth is only my immediate family has spent any time there. The whole Atkins family has been living in Seattle since my grandparents were kids, and only a couple of years ago my parents moved back here too. Having a huge family to help you adjust to the big city was certainly nice when I was younger, but now that I’m older, some of their activities could be pretty draining. We’re really into the family thing, with color-coordinated outfits and professional portraits and everything. But what am I gonna do, right?
As I drive up to Marissa’s house I get a queasy and excited feeling in my stomach. I haven’t quite processed the fact that I had actually asked her to do this monumentally insane favor for me, and that she actually agreed to it. I mean, any other girl on the planet would have looked at me like I was insane. Not Marissa though. She loved adventure and risk no matter what the cost.
I pull up my Jaguar in front of Marissa’s apartment complex and text her to let her know that I’m here. A few minutes later she emerges bundled up in a red coat and knee-high black boots, barely able to hide the grin on her face.
“Hey boyfriend,” she says with a laugh as she slides into the passenger seat. I’m so taken aback by her words that I nearly forget about our plan.
“Hey,” I say, feeling warm in the face. “Thanks for this again, you look great.”
“Of course,” Marissa smiles, her sing-song voice already bouncing off the walls of the car. I’m unsure of how I’m even going to operate the vehicle with her sitting there. She should come with a warning, I mean, really.
“So,” Marissa says, grinning at me. “Do we have to make up a backstory?” The look on her face tells me she’s already made one up, and to be honest, it’s a little bit terrifying.
“Shoot,” I say, morbidly curious.
“It’s last summer, right?” Marissa starts. “And we’re at one of those cute little vintage record stores…”
“Okay,” I interrupt, “This sounds way too cute to be believable.”
Cuter than we met in high school biology class?
“Fine.” Marissa says. “A dive bar?”
“Not cute enough.”
“You spilled coffee on me?”
“Still too cute.”
“Alright then…” Marissa says, biting her lip adorably. “Our friends set us up. We had our first date at a Greek restaurant this summer. We split a baklava and the rest is history.”
“Perfect,” I grin.
“Not quite,” Marissa says. “What is the history, exactly?”
There’s an awkward silence as we parse the accidental double meaning of her words. We had a history that could never be summed up in such a cute and convenient anecdote.
“Hm,” I ponder for a minute, figuring that it was my turn to add some ideas. “We like to go to concerts together, and Thai restaurants, and you always beat me at Mario Kart.”
Marissa raises an eyebrow, evidently impressed. “Sounds good to me.”
The tension in the car is there, no matter how much either of us would try to deny it. We’re both curious as to how our little charade will play out—it could go forward without a single fault or it could end in complete disaster.
To be honest, I didn’t care. Marissa was here, and I was happy.
“So, go over the family game plan,” Marissa requests as we brake at a stoplight behind a minivan carrying a fat Christmas tree.
“Gameplan?”
“You know, avoid the pervy uncle, complement so and so’s cookies, all of that stuff.”
“Oh,” I say, thinking over all of my extended family and my mother’s friends who usually show up at the potluck. “My family is not so much perverts as much as cutesy grandma types that will pinch your cheeks and ask us when we’re getting married and making more kids with cheeks they can pinch.”
Marissa blushed a bit at this suggestion. “Got it.”
We only have about ten minutes left to go until we reach my parent’s house, a quaint colonial nestled in the suburbs. Marissa looks happy and content, gazing out the window as the winter light illuminates her face. I’m terrified to let words fall out of my mouth, terrified that anything could possibly threaten the calm, lovely silence surrounding us as we wind up and down the tree-lined roads.
It’s that same happy silence we had in Biology class, I think, chiding myself for letting my mind return there. That unexplainable, impossibly wonderful peace and understanding that only comes from true instant chemistry.
The silence breaks as we turn into my parent’s neighborhood, where the houses are adorned with all of the usual tacky Christmas decorations. We pull onto the side of the road next to my house behind a row of cars already parked there. Fifteen minutes in, and the Atkins family potluck is already in full swing.
I get out of the Jaguar and walk over to the passenger side to let Marissa out. She steps onto the sidewalk and turns to me, holding out her hand, and I just stare at her quizzically.
“Yes?” I ask.
“Hold my hand,” Marissa says.
I slip my bare hand into Marissa’s, which is covered by a cashmere glove but still somehow emanating a kind of warmth from it, and I feel a thrill already.
“Let’s go,” she says, and smiles up at me, as if to indicate that she likes holding my hand as much as I do hers, and we walk up to the wreath-covered door to ring the bell. I feel her give my hand a squeeze, as if she senses I’m a little nervous about this whole thing.
The door cracks open and it’s my cousin Daryl, who immediately undresses Marissa with his eyes as subtly as he can, and I’m tempted to glare at him.
“Hey Kirk,” he says, shaking my hand.
“Hey,” I swallow nervously. “This is my girlfriend, Marissa Hayes.” The words feel like molasses leaving my mouth—far too sweet and sinful to be real.
“Nice to meet you,” Daryl says, shaking Marissa’s hand warmly. “Let me take your coats.”
Marissa slips her red coat off and I nearly lose my breath at how stunning she looks underneath it. She’s wearing a tan-colored sweater dress that fits her curves in all the right places, and I’m dumbstruck. Her brunette waves are falling over her shoulders down to just above her cleavage, and her dangling gold earrings match the accents on her gold over-the-knee boots.
I gloated to myself. These people are going to think she’s my girlfriend.
Marissa smiles up at me, and my heart jumps as she slips her arm inside mine. I’m wearing a red and tan argyle sweater that matches her dress, and hell, I think we might even pass for a couple, a good looking one at that.
We follow Daryl into the living room, where all of the potluck festivities go on. The room is the same as it’s looked every year, with a towering Christmas tree covered in tinsel, a lit fireplace in the corner, and my mom’s favorite Celine Dion Christmas album playing in the background. The table is full of potluck goodies—the old classics, like my Grandma’s sweet potato casserole with marshmallows and Aunt Lynn’s watercress sandwiches, as well as some new additions. There’s something that looks like lamb kabobs and something else that might qualify as stuffing but I didn’t want to be the one to check for sure.
I feel my stomach turn as people break up their conversation to acknowledge the two new guests in the room. It’s Marissa they notice first—the almost unbearably beautiful stranger. It’s when they see her clinging onto my arm that the puzzle pieces fall into place, and people’s reactions seem to range from confused to thrilled.
My mother walks up to us first, her eyes almost rabid with excitement. “So, who might this be?” she asks, and the room has quieted as people watch our interaction with hungry eyes.
“Mom, this is Marissa Hayes,” I say. “She works with me at Torver.”
“Nice to meet you, baby,” my mother says, wrapping Marissa in a hug. “Well I’ll be damned,” she says, looking Marissa up and down. “I never thought Kirk would bring home a girl as pretty as you.”
Marissa blushes and then reaches into her tote bag to pull out a blue Tupperware container. “I made a potato casserole,” she says, handing the container to my mother. “It just needs to be microwaved for a couple of minutes.”
My mother beams at me as she makes her way to the kitchen. “Ah! I love her already. Kirk, where’s your dish?”
“Um,” I start. Oh, crap. In all of the excitement over Marissa I had completely forgotten.
“Mmhm,” my mother says, giving me an admonishing glare. “Next year Kirk, you better remember.” She touches Marissa on the shoulder and gives her an affectionate smile. “I’ll talk to you later, honey.”
Marissa blushes again and I’m all of a sudden at a loss for words. “Sorry,” I stutter. “She’s a bit…enthusiastic sometimes.”
She just laughs. “I like her.”
We make our way over to the couch, and I’m still uncomfortably aware of the many sets of eyes fixed on us. We’re seated in the corner of the room, farther away from most of the guests, so we have no choice but to talk amongst ourselves…and we both seemed to be at a loss for words.
“I really don’t mind doing this, you know,” Marissa says, and gingerly places her hand on my thigh. “This is actually pretty amusing.”
My heart races as I watch her neatly manicured hands run up and down my leg. Was this real, or was this just a show for my relatives?
“Well, I’m glad,” I say, and smile at her. Marissa’s eyes are fixed on me in a deep, intentional kind of way that makes me think that maybe she has devious intentions after all.
I’m just about to launch into some small talk about the history of the Atkins family potluck dinners when we’re suddenly interrupted by Janet, my six-year-old cousin. She’s a bouncing ball of energy with a head full of cornrows and a snowman sweater, and she’s staring at us both with bubbling curiosity.
“Hi Kirk,” she says rather flatly, keeping her eyes fixed on Marissa.
“Hey Janet,” I say, smiling at her. Marissa beams at her and smiles. “Nice to meet you,” she says warmly. “I like your sweater.”
Janet looks back at me. “Are you married?” she asks.
“Uh, no,” I say, and I notice that Marissa is trying her hardest to hold back a laugh. I was familiar with Janet’s adorable but occasionally uncomfortable habit of posing impertinent questions.
“Are you girlfriend and boyfriend?”
“Yes,” Marissa answers with a confident smile before I even have time to jump in.
“Um, Janet, why don’t you go and—”
“Do you ever kiss?”
Marissa blushes and looks down at the floor. “Sure, sometimes,” she says, and I can’t help but wonder if she’s thinking back to…
…well.
“That’s gross,” Janet says. “I’m never gonna do that.”
Marissa laughs. “You don’t have to, sweetie.”
“Good,” Janet says, and then suddenly she’s gone off to question someone else. I’m afraid of being left in the silence with Marissa again, but I hear the ring of the tiny silver bell my mother has always used to signal dinner, so Marissa and I get up to retrieve our helpings of food from the potluck table before sitting down in the dining room for the formal meal.
People show off their cooking talents, or their ability to disguise something from the supermarket deli in an antique pottery dish, by pointing and explaining as we all make our way through the long table. I’m no idiot, and I can see everyone watching Marissa carefully, taking in every detail, each turn of her head and each scoop of potatoes on her plate. Nothing went unnoticed, I knew, when it came to potential new additions to the Atkins family.
We walked into the dining room with heavy plates balanced in our hands to find the table beautifully arranged with a cornucopia in the center, bursting with all its Norman Rockwell-esqe glory. Tiny white nametags with everyone’s name written on them in silver gel pen were placed, I knew, with political precision, around the outside of the table. My mother was always old-fashioned, and went by the archaic rule that one is forbidden from being seated next to their spouse or their partner…which meant, of course, that Marissa and I would inevitably end up separated, with her probably sandwiched between whatever two relatives my mom thought could get the most information out of her.
I find my place sandwiched in between Janet and Daryl and wait nervously for Marissa to locate her seat. She was seated diagonally across from me, a little bit to the right, and I watched nervously to see who would take their place next to her. I find myself horrified when I see my grandmother and Aunt Diana seat themselves next to her…they’re already offering her compliment after compliment, priming themselves for the attack.
I uncomfortably stab at a potato on my plate and try to listen in, but the conversation between Marissa and my grandmother is drowned out by the sound of my cousin’s baby yowling and our neighbor’s guttural laughter at every other thing that’s said. Aunt Diana and Grandma are already trying to win her trust and friendship, stroking her arms affectionately and pointing at her earrings, probably piling on the compliments. I had seen this routine go down with other girlfriends and boyfriends who had stepped into this house over the years…they would start with compliments and all of the polite and expected questions…how long have you lived here? Do you have a dog? Have you read that book? And then all of a sudden, the unfortunate victim would be asked about their plans for children or what kind of wedding they would like, and even worse, they would be compelled to answer.
I small talk with Daryl about his job and start eyeing the minutes passing on my watch. I was bored and separated from Marissa, and what was worse, she was at the mercy of my relatives. The table was big enough to prevent a universal conversation from going on, and instead we were stuck talking to our immediate neighbors, a flurry of words circling around my head.
Janet starts talking to Marissa across the table, asking her a series of questions that range from her opinions on Legos to her favorite kind of ice cream. Janet seems to be fascinated with her, like she’s a princess who has suddenly appeared at the table. It takes me a while to realize I have a dopey smile on my face, but I can’t help it. Seeing Marissa blend into the complicated woodwork of my family so seamlessly was an intoxicating thing to watch. Part of me never believed I could bring a girl home so lovely and so warm, someone who would enter my life as if she had always been a part of it. And Marissa, well, I guess in way she has.
I have to remind myself she’s not really mine.
The dinner slowly winds down into dessert, and we all move back into the living room to sit around and sample an assortment of pies my mother’s friends have spread out across the table. My mother emerged, according to ancient Atkins family tradition, from the closet with piles of different board games, some with boxes that looked like they were from the 60s and 70s and most of them missing pieces. But it wouldn’t be a Christmas potluck without them.
Marissa and I settle on a couch in front of a table where my grandmother and my mother’s friend Mrs. Burnett are setting up an ancient-looking Scrabble board. The fire has nearly burned out, and the room is a bit chilly. There’s an old crocheted blanket next to Marissa, and I watch as she drapes it over herself, and then over me, while my grandmother distributes Scrabble tiles with shaking hands.
While Mrs. Burnett puts her first tiles down, Marissa puts her head on my chest and cuddles into me underneath the blanket, a smile on her face like a contented cat. Something about the move startles me—it somehow doesn’t feel like part of the fake girlfriend act—and it feels genuine in a way that surprises me.
“Your go, my dear,” my grandmother says, as if afraid to wake Marissa up from her snooze on my shoulder. I watch as she stretches out and spells out ‘NEW’ on the board with her tiles, before returning her head to my chest to see what move I would make.
So strange, the hangman, the scrabble…with Marissa and I it always seemed to come back to word games…
…And yet all the important things could never quite be spelled out.
I look at the strange assemblage of consonants laid out before me and only one word stands out.
I reach forward and bisect Marissa’s ‘NEW’ with my tiles, spelling out ‘YES’ and then sinking back into my seat.
Marissa smiles up at me when she sees my word, and I smile back.
I don’t know exactly what I’m saying yes to, but hell yes, yes, yes, am I saying it.