Before we can continue the conversation that could lead to full-on stripping, I slink into my bedroom to change into hiking clothes. Once I’m dressed, Tristan hands me the keys and we’re out the door.
The SUV smells like polished leather and handles smoothly considering it feels like I’m driving a tank.
“We could get a deal on a bunch of booster seats,” Tristan jokes, referring to my inability to see over the dashboard. He’s smiling wide. The pop-pom over his festive beanie wiggles side to side.
I swat his arm in retaliation, but I’m grinning, too.
We park at Sugarcreek MetroPark, where the trails are quiet the way one would expect on a Christmas afternoon.
“I forgot how pretty it is in the winter,” Tristan says.
The leafless trees stretch upward like lace, their bare branches dusted with last week’s snow. The ground crunches under our boots, the sound rhythmic and satisfying. We’re alone on this Christmas Day, just the sharp wind, cold earth, and each other for company.
Tristan walks beside me, hands shoved into the pockets of his puffer jacket, eyes scanning the path ahead.
“Were you really going to spend the rest of Christmas alone?” he probes.
“There’s an open invitation to head to my parents for dinner, but I think I’d rather hunker down and rest. The best thing about winter break is lying in my bed.”
His step stutters, and I realize what I said. Scrambling to cover my unintended innuendo, I add, “Where I watch Netflix and eat sour cream and ketchup chips.”
“Objectively, that’s the grossest way to watch Netflix.”
“Tristan, are you disparaging my Netflix and chill vibe?”
He shrugs in a wordlessyup.
We fall into silence again, but it’s a companionable one, as if we’ve walked this path a thousand times. He kicks a pebble off the trail.
“So when should we tell my parents?”
“That’s up to you,” I answer.
“Would you like to be there? The way we did it with Orlando and Cathy?”
“Sure, if that’s what you want.”
He stops and looks at me. “I would love for you to be there, but you know my parents. They’re cold and annoying and shitty. If you’d rather get your teeth pulled instead of seeing them, I wouldn’t blame you.”
I guffaw at his concern. “Don’t worry about me.”
“Then yes, let’s do it together. Just don’t expect it to go the same way as your family.”
“You mean they aren’t going to knit tiny hockey jerseys for the babies?” I tease.
“Or start a Pinterest board like your mom? No. None of those things will happen.”
He talks nonchalantly and yet I hear a raw edge every time he talks about them. What kind of parents could be that indifferent to their son? Maybe he’s underestimating them. At least, I hope so.
There’s a bench on which Tristan invites me to sit. Automatically, I slide close, and he wraps an arm over my back. I lean my cheek on his shoulder and put my hand on his leg, the long and sturdy muscles on his thigh under my palm. I can feel his breath on my forehead. It would take a fraction of an inch to lift my chin and line up our mouths.
Body:Me like.
Brain:This is a good time to set boundaries. Talk about expectations and express your concerns.
Uterus:Working on overtime here. Babies want a snack.
The park bench overlooks a half-frozen stream, the hush of late winter pressing around us. The trees are skeletal and still, their bare limbs casting long shadows in the low, pale light. A lone jogger passes behind us on the path, his rhythmic steps fading quickly into silence.
