LISA

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Christmas

"I'm nervous," Jennie says as we pull into my parents' circle drive nested in a neighborhood of older homes with spacious lots.

"Don't be."

"They live in a mansion."

I chuckle, killing the engine to my Mercedes sedan. "It's not a mansion, but it has been in our family for three generations."

Jennie opens her door and makes a sloth's exit. Her jaw drags on the ground as she gawks at the white two-story with six garland-wrapped pillars framing the entry. An enormous chandelier hangs a few feet from the black-painted door adorned with a lush pine and winterberry wreath.

It's all just home to me. What must she be thinking after living out of her car? I'm so glad she's here. Rosé would be too. But now, I think I'm glad for myself more than Rosé.

Jennie is no longer Rosé's friend; she's my friend. And my wife. She's not a charity case. She's more. That definition of more still needs time to work itself out in my head.

"Are you going to help me carry the presents? Or are you too busy tinkling in your pants and chattering your teeth?" I ask Jennie.

She shoots me her best scowl before loading her arms with presents.

"Breathe, Jennie. You know them and they know you."

"As the maid. Maids don't attend the family Christmases of their clients." She follows me to the front door.

"You're my roommate. We're friends. That's what they think of you. I promise you won't have to do the dishes or any manual labor today."

"I'm going to do my part. That's just good manners."

I balance a pile of gifts on my lifted knee and give her a quick glance before opening the door. "Your part is being my guest. No dishes for you tonight."

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"Merry Christmas!" My parents greet us in the foyer along with my brother.

They don't know we're married, but Jennie is freaking the fuck out on the inside. I can see it on her face.

"Merry Christmas. Thank you so much for having me," she says with a shaky and timid voice.

Chan and my dad take the gifts from our arms.

"You have such a lovely home." Jennie slips off her lightweight coat.

I take it from her before she even gets it all the way off.

"Thank you," she whispers, glancing back at me.

I wink, hoping it will ease her mind. A "just relax" wink. But her wide eyes don't convey my wink is doing anything to put her at ease.

She blushes.

The wink might have been the wrong move.

"We're so glad you're joining us," my mom says as she pulls Jennie in for a hug.

Jennie's fingers dig into my mom's back, like she's holding on for life … like she needs a hug.

"You okay?" Mom asks as she pulls away from Jennie and holds her at arm's length.

Jennie nods and quickly wipes the corners of her eyes. "Yeah. Sorry, Cecilia. I get a little sappy on holidays. That's all. I love your earrings, by the way."

My mom touches said earrings and grins. "Thank you," she replies, almost with a bit of surprise. "Come in, honey. Let's get you a drink." Mom takes Jennie's hand and guides her out of the parquet floor entry to a grand living room furnished with vintage sofas and chairs, wood tables with intricately carved legs, floral porcelain lamps, fringed area rugs—and a ginormous Christmas tree. From the size of Jennie's bugged out eyes, I'd say it's the biggest tree she has ever seen.

Mom loves her tree adorned with hundreds of ornaments and lights weighting its beautiful pine branches. Chan likes to give her crap about the room resembling a swanky department store at Christmastime.

As I grab drinks, I hear Jennie complimenting my dad's ugly Christmas sweater and Chan's nothing-special striped socks. She's giving everyone a little bounce in their step.

"Here you go." I hand her a glass mug. "It's my mom's famous slow cooker hot buttered rum."

Jennie eyes me for a few seconds, probably because she's managed to put an unstoppable grin on my face in a matter of minutes since our arrival. She takes the drink from me and brings it close to her lips, inhaling the fragrant spices. "Mmm …"

We sit together on the sofa, not at opposite ends like at home. She keeps a death grip on her mug while scraping her teeth along her lower lip over and over. The gloss is nearly gone.

"Lisa told us you're going to Hawaii next month for a new job. Congratulations." My dad takes a seat next to my mom on the opposing sofa, and Chan plunks into a high back chair adjacent to us.

"Lisa." Jennie's eyes narrow at me. "I don't have the job yet."

I smirk and shrug. "You will."

Her head inches side to side as she returns her attention to my parents. "If I get the job, then yes … I'm going to Hawaii next month. But thank you, William. I hope congratulations are in order."

I'm happy for her. Rosé would be too. I'm also a little sad. Jennie's been a distraction.

A distraction from my grief.

A distraction from the silent void in my house.

A distraction from the crippling realization that my life is, in some ways, starting over again.

"To Jennie, for finding a great new job." Dad holds up his glass mug in a toast before taking a drink.

"To Jennie." Everyone else holds up their mugs.

"Thank you. I hope," she murmurs, her hand a little shaky as she raises her mug.

My parents shift the conversation to Chan, questioning him about his recent change in jobs from an EMT to working with a horse trainer. "Chan has half a medical degree and two years of an architecture degree … and ADHD." Cecilia eyes Chan playfully. "The way he talks sometimes … I suspect he's looking into designing new humans."

Everyone laughs, even Chan, who shrugs like she's not wrong.

After they exhaust all questions pointed at Chan, Mom suggests we move to the dining room for dinner, letting me off the hook for now. It's possible they still think I'm doing nothing but mourning the loss of Rosé when I'm not working, so who wants to bring up that subject?

Tonight … sitting around a beautifully decorated dining room table, savoring good food, sipping homemade drinks, engaging in laughter and conversing about lighter topics like who knows the history of Georgia better … I yearn for a sense of normalcy and peace again. I want to go a full day without feeling guilty about Rosé.

Did I save her from more pain?

Did I cut her life short?

Do I need to tell someone so they can give me permission to truly let her go?

Will it ever stop eating me alive?

When our bellies are topped off with pecan and pumpkin pie, we return to the main room to open presents.

"Everything okay?" I lean closer to Jennie and whisper in her ear.

She clears her throat and nods several times. "Just a lot of … kindness."

"That's good, right?"

Again, she nods.

Kindness. She's doesn't have much experience with it, and that's its own tragedy because now she doesn't know what to do with it. Kindness is the hardest thing to accept because it requires true vulnerability to feel it. Jennie is afraid to be vulnerable, to truly feel.

"My goodness … someone had help wrapping presents. I was going to say something when you arrived." Mom picks up one of the gifts Jennie rewrapped and hands it to Dad.

"I take offense." I attempt to feign outrage, but I can't keep a straight face. In fact, my cheesy grin, the one that shows all my teeth, seems to be my go-to when I'm with Jennie.

While giving her a quick glance to admit she did a great job wrapping the gifts, I rest my hand on her knee and give it a gentle—playful—squeeze.

She stiffens under my grip, and her face turns red, matching the color of her off-the-shoulder sweater. Did I overstep again? She's my wife, but I'm not allowed to touch her leg, right?

My fucking brain, crippled with unsorted emotions, runs amuck. I don't know what to do with these feelings—the ones that include Rosé, the ones that have been driving my generosity toward Jennie, the ones that exist for the sole purpose of destroying my sanity.

I don't love Jennie, but like feels inadequate. I'm doing this for Rosé, and clearly for Jennie, but I'm doing this for me too. Rosé was right; it does feel good to do something selfless, to make someone's life better. But here's the crux: I don't want to just make anyone's life better; I want to make Jennie's life better because it's making my life better. And that realization scares the hell out of me.

"Well, look at this." Dad unwraps the gift from me and holds it up. It's an umbrella with an animal head carved in wood on the handle.

"It's a James Smith Sons," Mom says. "I bet someone was in London."

I grin and return an easy nod.

My family continues to exchange presents. Mom opens hers next. It's painted linens and a one-off porcelain pitcher in a unique glazed rose color from a shop I visited in Notting Hill. Chan opens his two bottles of Jensen's Gin from Bermondsey and wastes no time twisting the lid to one, despite Mom's exaggerated eye roll.

As the present opening continues, I revel in the moment. I gobble up every glance Jennie gives me. She assumed the gifts to my family were predictable—things they put on their lists—but I've surprised her.

She pinned me as predictable when I'm anything but.

The final gift of the night is for me. A reverent silence blankets the room as I open it. I don't like silence or people staring at me. And I definitely don't like my mom blotting a rogue tear from her cheek as I remove a black book from the box. My entire heart catapults from my chest to my throat when I open to the first page, the only one that seems to have anything on it. As I read it, Jennie leans toward me to read it too.

Lisa,

Make plans, my love. Life is too short.

Yours, Chaeng.

"It's a little black book," Chan says.

Cecilia nods. "She wanted us to wait until Christmas to give it to you." Again, she blots another tear and smiles as I glance up for a split second before thumbing through the blank pages of the planner.

The muscles in my jaw work overtime to keep my emotions in check. There's not a soul in this room who hasn't seen me cry over Rosé. I'm better now, not awesome, but fully functional. I'm moving forward. Do I have to make actual plans?

Chan jumps up and disappears for a few seconds before returning with a pen in his hand. He plucks the planner from me, flips to the first Wednesday in January, and writes: 7 pm - drinks with your favorite brother.

This brings a tiny smile to my face.

Then my mom takes the journal and pen and sets a date for Brunch with Mom on a Sunday in February. Dad adds Golf with Dad on a Friday in March. And when he stands to hand the planner back to me, Jennie steals it and the pen then turns to a page in January.

Take Jen to the airport.

After she hands the journal back to me, I stare at her words on that day. "Thank you," I whisper.

I'm not sure who I'm thanking.

My family?

Jennie?

Rosé?

By some miracle, this Christmas isn't awful. The loss of Rosé's presence is felt, but it hasn't robbed everyone of their Christmas spirit. As we gather our belongings and say our goodbyes, I take a minute to observe Jennie interact with my family. They adore her.

I adore her.

When she moves on, when she follows her dreams, it will be bittersweet.

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