Last Minute Christmas

I get the idea for the blue soup, omelet, and marmalade from Bridget Jones’ Diary. 

At the time, I’m sure I’m being clever, celebrating my 29^th year and the upcoming Christmas season this way. It’s the perfect way to give my twenties one last hurrah while demonstrating my vast maturity—one can’t have a dinner party if one isn’t mature, after all. If I’m being very honest, I also hope, desperately hope, that this small reenactment will attract my very own Mr. Darcy. I prefer the Colin Firth Mr. Darcy for his wavy hair and moody je ne sais quoi, but would happily take the 2005 Matthew Macfadyen version as well, should he come around and be interested.

I spend the afternoon buying red and gold streamers and matching paper plates with little trumpets on them, and hanging streamers around my tiny kitchen. For an interior decorator at one of the city’s top firms, I am positively dreadful at decorating my home. In my defense, I’ve just come back from a week-long work trip and 650 sq feet isn’t a lot to work with. Still, the streamers and I do our best. I add five plate settings and four bottles of fancy-sounding wine to the table; it’s taken up half my grocery budget for the month, but the bottles do look very posh sitting there and that alone is worth it. I fluff the napkins one more time before turning my attention to a shabby little Christmas tree from Trader Joe’s that is as unstable as I feel. 

I decorate him with tiny ornaments and fallen strands of streamers that I use as tinsel, and when it comes time to top him with something I reach for a small felt snowman my gram gave me one Christmas, and up Edward the Snowman goes, atop the tree, overlooking our very own little Christmas wonderland. 

House Beautiful Magazine wouldn’t take a second glance at this place but, I think it’s pretty good for $50 bucks and a deadline.

“Should we have done the whole tarts and vicars theme?” Mellie asks when she arrives. Her coat slinks off her narrow shoulders and into my arms. “Love what you’ve done here, by the way.”

“Thanks. I thought about the tarts and vicars thing —it would have been a great time to pull out that Playboy Bunny outfit I’ve been dying to wear.”

“You do look hot in that.” 

“But then I thought…it might be too much. It’s sort of asking a lot just to get people to understand the blue soup thing, you know?”

Mellie nods. “For real though, you should totally still wear that outfit.”

I give her a playful slap before heading towards the bedroom to change. 

“Did you invite Benny?” Mellie shouts from the kitchen. 

“He’s out of town.”

“That’s too bad. I always enjoy having him around, even if you do prefer him over me.” She pouts at this just long enough for me to throw a t-shirt at her, sending her into a fit of giggles.

 “I know you say I’m your best friend but it’s so obvious it’s Benny. You two are inseparable.”

I peek my head out of my bedroom. There’s no point in denying it. Ever since we met in college, Benny and I have done everything together. We've stood by each other during heartbreak, life challenges, and even mourning. He’s the anchor I cling to when anything goes wrong, and he’s the first person I toast with a bottle of champagne when there’s a reason to celebrate. 

“I get it,” Mellie continues. “If I had the choice between me or drop-dead gorgeous Benny, I’d choose Benny every time. You know, he kind of looks like—” 

“Don’t say it.”

“Mr. Darcy,” she finishes. “You know, all brooding and wavy-haired, dorky but somehow hot. If I wasn’t with Steve —” 

“Please stop.” 

“You know when you guys first met he had that awful haircut. What did he used to do again?”

“Straighten it, yes.”

“And those clothes! What the fuck was that? All baggy t-shirts and jeans that were two sizes too big. For such a gorgeous man, he had no fashion sense.”

I side-eye her as I reappear in the living room, tying my hair up into a ponytail. She’s not wrong. 

“Now he’s all trench coats this and Burberry scarves that.”

“Benny would never wear Burberry.”

“He could afford it though,” her voice lowers, like this is a secret. “All that lawyer money.” She swipes her thumb across her forefingers, making the universally acknowledged symbol for money. I cringe on Benny’s behalf.

“Family law, Mellie. Not corporate law.”

“All I’m saying is…hot.” 

I glance at a photo of Benny and me that’s taped to the fridge. It’s from last summer, a rare day that we both played hooky from our responsibilities in favor of an afternoon at the amusement park. It’s one of those horrific-looking snapshots they take as you’re going down the roller coaster, faces twisted into a kind of elated panic that says “I MIGHT DIE BUT FUCK AM I HAVING THE TIME OF MY LIFE!” I’m looking at Benny and laughing, his olive eyes fixed ahead, face twisted into a horrified expression that suggests he might lean more towards the “I might die” side of the spectrum. His dark hair is whipping around his head so that the waves have nearly all come undone, little bends and loops of hair pressed against his forehead. Even now I can see how the white of his knuckles clashes with the red of the safety bar.

He is still so beautiful. 

--

Forty-five minutes and several glasses of my very expensive wine later, Mellie is ushering in our friends with the uninhibited exuberance that might be reserved for a child on Christmas Day or a dog about to get a vat of peanut butter. 

“Welcome,” she shouts across the music. “To Emme’s humble abode!” She twirls her arm and bends, and I mouth my apologies as the four of them enter. There’s no need, though. We’ve been friends long enough to know that Mellie is at her best when she’s just a little drunk.

“I see someone’s started early,” Jonathan cracks as he hugs Mellie, handing me a poinsettia.

“You know I hate these.”

“Precisely.”

“Emme, sweetie, how are you?” Tasha wraps her arms around me, the cool December air coming off her. “Look what you’ve done with the place! It’s gorgeous.” 

“Positively festive!” cooes her girlfriend Sami. 

“House Beautiful was crazy not to pick you for their Christmas feature. Do they know how much you love Christmas? That every year you buy a new pair of Christmas pajamas and mugs and sweaters and make us go to every single light display in town no matter how lame?”

“Or that you spend every Christmas Eve baking cookies and humming those dreadful — sorry — lovely holiday tunes?!”

“Or that you and Benny once drove five hours to witness the lighting of the Rockafeller Christmas tree, only to head home and go to work the next day?”

I groan, burying my head in my hands. “Don’t remind me. I was this close and then, of course, the other firm got it. A five-page spread in the industry’s leading publication? It would have been a career-maker.”

“That firm should have hired you by the way,” says Jonathan. “Though maybe if they’d seen this fine display…” he waves his glass around the flimsy streamers and the tiny tree. “I bet they’re kicking themselves that your home won’t be representing them.”

“Oh shut up! I’ve been traveling for work non-stop this year. It’s the best I could do!”

“Yes, yes, tell me more about how terrible you have it.”

I throw a rogue noodle at Jonathan, and he ducks, barely escaping it.

“They missed out is what I’m saying!” His smile is shallow and smarmy, and I pull him in for a hug. 

They are my closest friends, and they are the very best parts of me.

“Alright. Take your seats, anywhere you’d like. The first course is….”

Mellie drumrolls for effect.

“Blue soup!”

Ignoring the groan that erupts from the crowd — they need no explanation about the blue soup, but it tells them all they need to know about the evening ahead — I place a bowl in front of each of them before taking my seat. 

Faces twist in disappointment as one by one they sip their first course, lips pursed, smiles tight, nodding in mock approval. It’s not the face you want to see associated with your cooking, so I focus instead on how the room comes alive with their voices. It is, as it’s always been, the easy conversation of best friends. 

Between the courses, there are comfortable silences marked by the sounds of forks and knives pushing up against plates. Shared laughter gives way to inside jokes, things that don’t retain their meaning anymore, references we can’t recall ever coming up with, but that we still laugh at all the same.

--

“I’d like to propose a toast,” Mellie is nearly a bottle deep when she slings her glass up. “To Emme. She can’t cook for shit and her friends are questionable at best, but she throws a goddamn good dinner party.”

“To Emme!” Our glasses clink, and as the conversation fades in different directions, Tasha turns to me.

“What’ll you do for Christmas this year, Em? Will Benny make it home in time for your parents' visit?”

Ever since Benny lost his parents a few years ago, he’s been joining us for Christmases that are characterized by disagreements about the precise thickness of carrot slices and the required cooking time for ham. However, nothing is more captivating than my love life. Every year without fail we’ll be asked the same question: “Why aren’t you guys an item?”

“Even their names sound like they should be a couple!” they’ll joke, and we’ll laugh like we haven’t heard this a million times. We've been dancing around this conversation since the day we met.

"Emme works too much for that," Benny will say. “Besides, she’s my best friend. I never want to lose that.” I will cringe at how casual it sounds, the way the excuse falls easily off his tongue. 

“I always kind of thought you two would end up together,” Sami says. 

“We’re just friends,” I say lamely, then pick up my phone to distract myself. 

“Alright Ems. We better get going. Early day and all that.” 

“Hold up—” I say, phone in hand. “Is this…read this. Am I hallucinating?!” 

Jonathan takes the phone from me, squinting over the email in front of him. 

“Holy shit!! Emme is this for real?!”

“I don’t know!! Is it?!”

“Holy shit House Beautiful is coming to YOUR APARTMENT! The other firm had to bail last minute, something about the flu, god bless this time of year, and HOLY FUCK they're showing up tomorrow!!”

In those initial seconds, all I feel is the release of pent-up electricity running through my body. Static moves down through my shoulders, my arms, my chest, my stomach—wild emotions dying to be let free. Energy and joy and happiness and nowhere for them to go. 

The thing with moments like these is the way your whole body can come alive at the prospect of something exciting, only to eventually bring you crashing back down to reality. In my case, it takes less than five seconds before I realize what this means.

“Oh they’re coming here…”

“To this house…” 

“With these…decorations.”

I groan, folding my body into my lap. “Of all the years. What am I going to do?! How am I supposed to make this house the Christmas cottage they’re expecting in less than twelve hours?!”

“You could always tell them you’re out of town?” Mellie shrugs.

“Don’t be daft Mellie,” Jonathan snaps. “This is a career-changing opportunity. Her entire career is at stake if she doesn't do this.”

With each passing moment of silence, my hopes diminish a little more. 

“We can help!” Tash offers. “It’ll be fun!”

“Thanks. But all the shops are closed now. I’ll never be able to transform this place by 10 a.m.”

More silence. More debating every life choice.

Jonathan places a hand on my shoulder. “Let us help, Em. We’re happy to hang with you until this is all sorted, aren’t we?” 

Glancing around the apartment, I take inventory of what I’m working with. It’s not much, but there’s something here. Already I’m re-arranging and re-imagining, creating a BoHo Christmas that, while not glamorous, is true to the life I’ve created. A perfect representation of me and my friends and the life we’ve built so far.

“Ok,” I say. “Let’s get started.”

--

At 10:45pm, the buzzer rings.

We are barely an hour into Operation Christmas and, despite my very best efforts, it’s not going well. This has made Jonathan cranky. It’s made everyone cranky, to be honest.

“Who the fuck is that?” 

“Serial killer, most definitely.” 

“Well, if it’s a serial killer, please tell them I can’t die, having only had blue soup, omelet, and orange marmalade for dinner.”

“I’m not sure they’ll care, but I’ll tell them.”

I trudge down the stairs and towards the door, catching myself in the hall mirror. If it is a serial killer, I want to give myself a fighting chance by making him fall madly in love with me first, thus sparing my life. If it’s anyone else, well, same.

I brush aside the stray pieces of hair that have escaped my ponytail, wipe the eyeliner from under my eyes, and after accepting that I can not fix the whole of my face, I turn and open the door. 

“Happy birthday, lady.” 

I’d know that gravelly voice anywhere.

“Benny!!” I throw myself into him, arms wrapped so tightly around his neck that he begins to mock cough his way out of it. 

“What are you doing here?! I thought you were away for work?!”

“Do you really think I’d miss your birthday? Come here,” he grabs me with one arm, pulling me back to him. He is all cedarwood and cloves and fresh December air. He tucks me under his coat and for the first time, I notice he’s not alone. 

“What is that?” Leaning against the outside of my door is five feet of tightly wound burlap, under which I suspect there lies a tree.

“Well,” he see-saws on his feet. “I figured with all the back and forth you’ve been doing for work, you may not have a proper tree yet. Am I wrong?”

"You're not wrong.” I raise my gaze to meet his, the warmth in his eyes reflecting mine. With that, I throw myself into his arms again, an overwhelming sense of relief coming over me. I don’t even realize I’m crying until he pulls away and begins wiping my tears.

“What’s wrong, Em?” 

I tell him everything. About the House Beautiful shoot, the 10 am deadline, the blue soup that has stained my best sweater, the streamers, all of it comes pouring out of me in glubs and sobs. When I’m nothing more than cracked tears and a medley of sniffles, he places a finger under my chin and tilts it towards him.

“It’s going to be ok, Em.” 

And I don’t know why, but I believe him.

--

At 4:00 am, my apartment transforms into a Winter Wonderland.

"It's beautiful, Em," Benny whispers, his arms wrapping around me tightly, eyes focused on the outcome of the past six hours. My once tiny Trader Joe's tree has transformed into a magnificent Balsam Fir, adorned with red and gold ornaments, twinkling white lights, and a beautiful golden bow atop the tree. I place Edward the Snowman beside it; he still belongs there.

“You guys better get going, get some sleep while you still can.”

This time, there is no argument. I can see the night’s festivities in their tired eyes, and their sleepy smiles remind me of the evening we’ve shared. I promise to cook them an actual meal next time we do dinner. They politely suggest takeout.

One by one, I hug them goodbye.

Everyone, that is, except Benny.

I place my hands on my hips, in mock frustration. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

“Emme,” he says, taking a step towards me. “I thought you knew. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

“But I thought you said —”

“What, that I didn’t want to lose you as a friend?” He chuckles. “Of course I don’t. That’ll never happen.” He inches closer, taking my hand in his, and pulling me against him. “You’re my best friend, Em, I could never be without you. But I’m sick of pretending not to feel the way I do. I love you. Do you know that?” 

I nod slowly. “I love you too.” 

“Now come here,” he growls, tilting my lips towards his. “I’ve waited five years to do this.”

Among the bright lights, the scent of fresh pine, and mistletoe garland hanging all around us, Benny brings his lips to mine, warm and smoky, and filled with the promise of days to come. 

“Do you kiss all your friends like that?” I tease.

He steps back, cupping my face in his hands.

“Only the ones I like very much.”

“Just as they are?”

“Just as they are.” He leans down to kiss me again, the soft hum of “All I Want For You” playing in the background. This time it’s softer, like he’s savoring it. Now that we've found each other, he knows; we have so many more of these moments ahead of us.

THE END