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Waking up next to Shannon is like Christmas morning already. The fact that it is actually Christmas makes it doubly exciting. Sappy? Sure.

But true.

I insisted that this year, Christmas is all about us. Later today, we’ll make the annoying drive out to Mendon and spend the day with family. Dad is off in Costa Rica at a resort. Andrew and Amanda took Pam on a special trip to visit some relative of theirs in Oregon. Terry’s in Mexico at a conference that explores consciousness and creativity, which I suspect is more herb-driven than art-driven.

It’s the perfect year to spend the holiday with as little involvement from others as possible.

I kiss Shannon’s shoulder blade as she turns over, obviously starting to awake. “Is it time to get up?”

“Only if you want to.” My hand goes under the sheet, finding the rounded top of her belly. As she moves, her loose breast rolls over the back of my hand, trapping it in a delicious warmth that makes me smile.

I don’t move.

Why the hell would I?

Yesterday we took in the Holiday Pops at Symphony Hall. Shannon asked to go, and this is the first year I didn’t come up with some excuse. Mom took us every year, faithfully, making Dad break away from work for the holiday tradition. I haven’t had the heart to explain this to Shannon, the feeling too painful. I will.

Some day.

Just not now.

“Coffee?” I ask her as she sits up, her pajama shirt stretched down low, one gorgeous boob begging to be kissed. I restrain myself.

“Merry Christmas,” she says with a yawning stretch, arms over her head, that breast looking me right in the eye, nipple attentive like it’s saying, Hey there, old friend.

Shannon reaches for a hug. I give it a handshake.

“That’s one way to wake me up.”

“That’s the best way to wake you up,” I correct her.

“Coffee first. Inappropriate passes second.”

“What if I think your priorities are out of order?”

“I cannot have this discussion without caffeine, Declan.”

“So it’s up for debate?” I call over my shoulder as I go into the kitchen. I’m not stupid. If caffeine is her aphrodisiac of choice this morning, coffee it is.

Wrapped in a red bathrobe with white and green tassels all over the cuffs and pockets, Shannon comes into the kitchen and gives me a cheek kiss just as I start the coffee machine. “We have wood, right?” she asks.

I look down at my pajama bottoms. “Sure do.”

“I meant real wood.”

I point.”What do you call this?”

“You want me to stack that with kindling and newspaper and set it on fire?”

“Why would you even suggest that?” I curl my pelvis away from her. “Have you been reading those feminist dystopian novels again? Like the one where women spontaneously have electricity inside them?”

“I wish I did,” she says as she starts a fire in the fireplace. “I could just bzzzzt!” She holds her index finger and thumb an inch apart. “Light this.”

That sound she made makes my butt clench.

“This is such a cheery Christmas topic,” I call out over the brewing coffee. For our first cup, we’ll do drip. Next cup: pour over. Before we head to Marie and Jason’s: triple espresso.

Shannon’s laugh unclenches me. “Merry Christmas, honey. Let’s talk more about setting your penith on fire.” The mispronunciation takes me back a few years, to when our oldest nephew, Jeffrey, had a lisp. A lithp, if you will. The reminder makes us both laugh, but it’s also tinged with a new feeling, one of shared history that has enough years to truly stretch back.

“They were so little,” she says, eyes bright and wistful. “Now they’ll be big cousins to our little one. I remember when Jeffrey was born. I was still in high school. They can teach our baby how to play in the backyard. Walk them to the ice cream stand in the summer. Go to the creek at the state park and throw rocks. Mom and Dad are going to love having a house full of grandchildren.”

“Three isn’t exactly full,” I point out.

“We want more, right?” she asks candidly.

“Yes.”

We smile at each other, lost in emotion.

The coffee beeps.

Priorities.

Soon, we’re in front of a roaring fire, the leather couch softening with body heat, Chuckles taking his place of honor in my lap as we finish our first mugs of coffee. The moment is almost too good to ruin by moving, but Shannon stands and plucks our now-full stockings off the mantel.

“When did you fill these?” I ask her.

“After you went to bed.”

“Anything good in there?”

“Look and find out.”

We reach into our respective stockings and find sealed envelopes. Mine is red. Hers is white. Mine has my name on it in her handwriting. Hers has her name on it in mine.

This is our true Christmas gift to each other.

Baby names.

Shannon asked me to write my top five choices on a card. She did the same. We put them in each other’s stockings.

Not my idea. Trust me.

Not.

My.

Idea.

This is booby trap material for a guy. Landmine times a thousand. Admiral Ackbar in Star Wars “It’s a trap!” level.

Because none of the names I want for our child is going to be what Shannon wants.

And therein lies the rub.

“You go first,” she says in that high, raspy voice that says she’s excited.

I open the note slowly, avoiding paper cuts. No use in injuring myself even more. Whatever comes next is going to hurt no matter what.

“Wait.” I look at her. “Open yours, too. Let’s do this simultaneously.”

“Like orgasms!”

“Yeah. Exactly like orgasms, Shannon.”

Eagerly, she opens her card. I open mine. My eyes orient to the first name.

She gasps.

We burst out laughing.

“Phineas?” I choke out.

“Phineas?” she giggles.

“FINN?” we shout together.

She points to the card I gave her. “You even did it the same way I did! You wrote ‘Finn’ in parentheses next to Phineas!”

“Is this – is this some kind of joke, Shannon? Did you read my card and just -- ”

“NO! I swear! I cannot believe this.” Gripping my knees, she glows with happiness. “You really like the name Phineas? Finn for short?”

“It’s an old, old McCormick family name,” I confess. “And it’s become more popular lately. A nickname like Finn won’t get him teased. I was saddled with Declan long before it became popular. I was always jealous of Andrew. That’s an easy name.”

“What about Terry?”

“He got teased for having a ‘girl’ name.”

“Kids are mean.”

“They’re meaner when you give them something to pick at.”

“Adults are just as bad,” she sighs.

“Shannon isn’t the kind of name that is easy to poke at.”

“No. Kids in school found other reasons to tease me.” She points at her breasts.

And... now I’m staring at her breasts.

By direct invitation.

“Is it really that easy?” she asks.

“To stare at your rack?”

“Declan!”

“What?”

“I’m talking about baby names!”

“Oh. Right. I think it is.”

“Phineas McCormick. Finn McCormick. I love it. How about Phineas Declan McCormick.”

“It has a nice ring.”

She frowns. “This is eerie. Every baby book talks about how the name is one of the biggest sources of conflict for expectant parents.”

Gesturing at the cards, I shrug. “Seems easy enough. We both like the same name. Done deal. Move on to the next issue.”

“Presents!”

“I was going to say sex.”

“How about we have sex as a Christmas present?” she purrs, bending down so I get a great shot at her cleavage.

“That depends.” I nuzzle her neck.

“On what?”

“Whether you belong in the naughty or the nice column.”

“How about both?”

“Then we need to have twice as much sex.”

“Is that one of Hot Santa’s rules?”

“Yes. At the North Pole,” I say, moving her hand to it, “every list gets made and checked twice.”

“I wouldn’t mind being checked,” she says, now breathlessly excited for a very different reason, “twice.”

That is how we have the best Christmas ever.

And our last without children.