Merry Christmas! Don't worry, this story is still kickin'! I love it and these characters too much to let them go. Read on and let me know what you think!

November

Erik

There is something electric about rehearsals for a large production. It's been years since I've collaborated with a group larger than three individuals. I had performed with some larger groups in college, playing piano for various music theater productions and orchestral concerts, but it's been a while. I've grown accustomed to practicing on my own, concerning myself with only my own writing or arrangements, and using Nadir to communicate or coordinate. But now, my schedule is dictated by the director; I sit and watch as a section of the orchestra reviews a section; I wait for the lighting crew to adjust blocking on stage with the actors.

All this wasted time and inefficiency and yet… I'm surprised I don't hate it.

Being part of something much bigger than myself—a production I could never pull off alone, no matter how hard I practiced—is electric. Everyone is a professional at their craft. Everyone is incredibly talented. And everyone wants us to succeed.

I am tucked under the stage in the orchestra pit, cloaked in darkness and away from the audience's eyes. Away from the spotlight. But heard. It's all I've ever wanted.

I play the piano as well as the harpsichord and electric keys when the score calls for it. I've been practicing for weeks, itching to play and settle into my new role. I feel more prepared than I ever have for any other gig or performance. It's tempting to go into autopilot since I nearly have the entire opera down to muscle memory—to allow my hands to play and let my mind compose its own song—but I force myself to be present and listen to everything around me.

I'm physically near the strings section, which I have an affinity for. They say violins are the closest instrument to the human voice. I do my best to match their emotion. I hear the actors' and dancers' footsteps on the stage above me in choreographed synchronization. I see the director's baton in my peripheral vision, keeping us in tempo. The score book smells like an old library and I catch whiffs of rosin from the stringed instruments' bows.

Have you ever been nostalgic for something while it's happening? I think this has only happened to me one other time—the first time I kissed Christine. It's recognizing that something so precious and unique is happening before your eyes and you don't want the moment to end so desperately that you start mourning it before it's even over.

I can't let Nadir know how right he was about this job.

During a break, I wait for the orchestra pit to clear out before stretching my legs. I grab my notebook to clear the compositions from my mind before rehearsal begins again. Once I take a lap around the exterior halls, I return to a seat in the theater and write out a couple pages of a score.

"You're doing well," a voice startles me slightly from my concentration. I glance over to see Leonard sitting a few seats down from me. How long has he been there?

"Peachy," I say, deadpan, and return to my notebook.

"What do you think of that backdrop with this scene's set design?"

I pause my writing and glance back up at Leonard. He's staring intently at the stage, so I follow his gaze and take in his question. My head tilts.

"It isn't the backdrop, the decor is wrong," I reply after a moment. "They wouldn't have that style of chair in this Dickens era—it's far too late."

"Precisely, that's it. I knew something was off. I'll go talk to set design now." He stands up to leave but looks at me once more with a small nod. "Thank you, Erik."

"Have you ever heard of orphans' Thanksgiving?" Christine asks me over dinner of shawarma, grape leaves, and baba ganoush at Lena's cafe.

"No, that sounds depressing," I try not to laugh.

"It's when people who don't have family living or in town get together and have their own Thanksgiving meal."

"I think most people just call that 'Friendsgiving,' Christine."

She rolls her eyes playfully, "Fine, Friendsgiving then. Listen, neither of us have siblings or parents, the Giry's are going out of town, Nadir's family is overseas. Let's invite him over. I'll plan the whole thing, I promise I won't go overboard." She reaches across the table to take my hands and sticks out her bottom lip to pout.

Family holidays were not a happy time for me growing up. They were dramatic, tension-filled gatherings; they were depressing; they were empty. But I need to remember that what Christine is suggesting is not my family. I do enjoy giving in to Christine's ideas—they are often not things I would ever do on my own.

"Of course we can host Friendsgiving with Nadir."

Christine gently squeezes my hands. "You won't regret it!"

"I'll never regret making traditions with you," I murmur, bringing one of her hands to my mouth. I brush my lips over her knuckles. A flush crosses her freckled cheeks, a charming reaction. She laces our fingers together, my hand engulfs hers.

"I didn't have many traditions after my dad died," Christine says, still looking at our intertwined hands. "Each year was different as I was shuffled around among different extended family groups that felt obligated to take in the orphan. I never felt like a burden when I got to go to the Giry's but I never felt fully settled since I was a guest."

Of course Christine's holidays weren't perfect either. They might not have been as tension-filled as my own, but they certainly weren't always joyful occasions. She's simply trying to make the most out of our time together, new memories. The least I can do is support her.

"My first contribution to our new traditions will be to volunteer to make stuffing and mashed potatoes."

Christine smiles up at me with glassy eyes.

Now to learn how to make the perfect stuffing and mashed potatoes…

Christine

Thanksgiving morning is cold and drizzly. I watch the parade on TV and drink coffee, thinking about my father. For as long as I could remember, he would make a whole roasted chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, and lingonberry sauce—my Swedish grandparents' recipe—for Thanksgiving. We would watch the parade in our pajamas, him drinking coffee and me hot cocoa. After spending the day eating and watching Christmas movies, he would send me to bed early so we could get up early and busk at the Plaza for Black Friday shoppers. He would play the violin or guitar and I would sing, usually Christmas carols. Anything we earned from that day would go directly to my Christmas presents. We certainly weren't rich, but I never felt poor.

I check on the turkey again; it's my first time making one and I'm incredibly nervous to ruin it. In addition to Erik's stuffing and mashed potatoes, I'm making a very Midwest green bean casserole—something neither Erik nor Nadir have tried before, being transplants. And lingonberry sauce, to carry on Dad's tradition. Nadir is bringing pie and "a variety of wine."

Erik arrives early—he's overly punctual, to a fault sometimes. I still have my apron on over my chocolate-colored bodysuit, maroon corduroy mini skirt, and brown tights. I asked him to wear brown or maroon so we could match—he's wearing a maroon sweater with a collared chambray shirt underneath and slacks and I don't think I have ever found him more attractive. Even his mask goes with his ensemble. Casually academic. Erik sets down his platters of food on the counter and his blue gray eyes glide up and down my body.

"You are positively breathtaking," he says before his lips meet mine. I feel his large hand splay against the small of my back, pulling me close. He smells like fresh paper and amber. I breathe him in and deepen the kiss. Erik's hands move to my hips and my mind starts to go hazy.

But I snap out of it and pull back for just a moment. "Don't take this the wrong way… I want this. I love this, but… the turkey," I murmur, glancing at the oven.

Erik breathes a laugh and pulls me into a hug. "The turkey," he says. He rests his forehead against mine, tilting slightly to avoid touching me with the mask. I wish he wouldn't do that. "For the record, I want you too, my love."

My stomach flutters at every part of that sentence.

I kiss him once more and we release each other from our heated spell.

"What do you need?" Erik asks, rolling up his sleeves. I bite my lip, sneaking a glance at his lean forearms.

We work together in the kitchen for the next hour basting and carving the turkey, making the lingonberries, setting the table, and putting all the remaining dishes in the oven to keep warm. Before I get a chance to sit down, I get a video call from the Giry's who are visiting Anne's family in upstate New York. They show me the gorgeous foliage and I show them our spread.

"Hiiiii, Erik, I like your apron," Meg sing-songs when he's caught in the background.

"Hello, Meg, Mrs. Giry," he gives a wave with greasy hands. I made him put on my floral patterned apron to carve the turkey.

"Please call me Anne, don't make me feel any older than I already am. You seem handy around the kitchen, Erik. What do you say you come to my kitchen and help us bake cookies this Christmas?"

His jaw drops for a moment and so does mine. After a beat, he recovers: "I'd be honored, Mrs.—Anne. Count me in."

"Sound good to you, Chris?"

I turn the camera back to myself. I can see the blush high on my cheeks. "Yes! Um, I would love that."

"That includes midnight service on Christmas Eve, Erik," Anne says, knowing he can still hear.

"Is that really—" I start.

"I'd be delighted," Erik interrupts. "It sounds like a lovely tradition." We meet eyes and I want to kiss him all over again.

"How goes the Opera, Erik?" Nadir asks over our full Thanksgiving spread. Then as an aside to me in mock-melodramatics: "We hardly even speak anymore now that he has a real job with those cushy benefits. It's been days…"

Erik rolls his eyes and takes a drink of wine. "Perfectly cushy, Nadir."

I smirk knowingly. Erik told me earlier this week how at home he felt at the opera, how alive he feels. And how Nadir can't know how right he was. Erik is too proud for his own good.

"I expect Christine and I will receive our box seat tickets in our Christmas stockings?" Nadir asks, pressing for more.

"I don't know, I haven't discussed how many tickets I receive per show."

Nadir acts offended. "We're going to be there opening night for A Christmas Carol whether you like it or not, right Christine?"

I nod emphatically, "That's right! And we'll need the grand behind-the-scenes tour as well." Erik's eyes flick to me and I wink at him.

"If you won't give us the tickets or tour, I'm sure Leonard would be happy to oblige me." Nadir's voice is too upbeat to sound threatening.

"Please don't give that man any more pleasure about me in this position than you already have. I get enough of this bullshit from you." Erik's fork jabs in Nadir's direction. There's a sparkle in his eye behind the mask, he loves this repartee with his friend.

"It wouldn't be so pleasant if you weren't so sensitive about selling out." Now there's a sparkle in Nadir's eye.

"Don't call me a sellout for accepting the 'dream job' you pushed—no shoved—me into."

"Pushed into or dragged you kicking and screaming into the career you deserved?"

"Or masterminded with Leonard with super villain-level orchestrations?"

It feels like I'm watching a tennis match with these two. "Who wants pie?" I interrupt.

"To be fair, Erik 'sold out' a long time ago," Nadir says as I hand him a dessert plate. "It was the early years—for both of us—and the best paying jobs at the time were in marketing and advertising." He's already starting to laugh.

"You convinced me that it was a lucrative opportunity," Erik accuses, hiding his smile behind a glass.

"It was! He wanted to be artistic and score films, but honey, we're in Kansas City, not LA. It was my job to make sure the both of us could pay rent. So I got him this gig… writing jingles for commercials."

I nearly spit out my pie. "No way!"

Nadir's giggles somehow make this story even funnier. "Way. So here I made poor Erik, the brooding artist, sell out on one of his first jobs. Writing jingles for car dealerships, cat food, and sewage line companies. I felt so bad… but it got you two month's rent, did it not?"

"Please sing me one, Erik, please," I beg, swiping the tears from my eyes. I can tell he thinks this story is just as funny as Nadir does.

Erik pauses dramatically to refill his wine glass. Then he hums a tune and sings under his breath, "When you're in a toot, give us a hoot. We're Stanley Sewage!"

"TOOT!"

Nadir slaps the table in silent laughter and I double over, my sides in stitches.

"I still get a residual check for that each year they reuse it," Erik says proudly.

After dinner I return from the bathroom to Erik washing dishes at my sink. His sleeves are cuffed to his elbows, exposing his sinewy forearms. I grab a towel and stand next to him to dry the dishes. We work in silence for a minute or so, lost in our own thoughts.

"Thank you for making this Thanksgiving special, Christine. I don't have many fond memories of family holidays, but this will be one I look back on and treasure."

I lean my body against his side. He wipes his hands dry on a towel and wraps his arm around me. My cheek presses against his bony sternum and I feel his heartbeat. Erik's spindly hands run over my hair.

"You are positively breathtaking," he whispers over my ear. I lift my lips to meet his. Slow and drawn. Need grows within me when I taste his tongue. I touch his bare jaw and pull him closer to me. His leg nudges between my knees and we both sigh as I lean into him. Heat pools there. His broad hands grasp my shoulders and slowly draw over the swell of my breasts. I let my head roll back and Erik's mouth is at my neck, kissing, nipping, tasting.

I grab a fistful of his hair and squeeze gently. He hums deeply against my throat, sending a thrill of desire down my stomach. "Do you want…" I begin breathlessly.

"I meant what I said, Christine. I want you." We lock eyes and his are stormy, pupils dilated and dark.

There's a storm within me as well. "I want you, Erik."

He picks me up by the waist and sets me on the counter in one fluid motion.

I have never wanted him more.

"Five, six, seven, eight!"

We are a week away from our Holiday concert and James is doing his best to help the students memorize choreography, but the winter break is on everyone's minds.

For the first time this year I'm getting anxious that they won't be able to pull it together. I briefly consider cutting out a song, but I don't want to just give up when things look tough. I want to push them, but they are just middle schoolers—it's a delicate line. And they just. Won't. Stop. Talking.

I am at my wit's end with them today and I want to yell at them, but I know that never solves anything, especially with preteens. I remember an old high school choir teacher of mine screeching and banging on the piano keys—half of us were scared of her and the other half rolled their eyes and giggled behind their hands.

I climb up to the front of the stage and sit down. One by one they start noticing me and quiet down.

"My dudes," I say in a forced even tone, "When you talk over Mr. Sorelli during rehearsal, that doesn't show respect for his time. When you choose not to participate in rehearsal, that tells me you don't want to be in or get credit for the show. Please show me otherwise."

I still get a mixture of wide eyes and mean girl giggles, but at least I didn't lose my temper.

"I don't know how you do it every day," James says after the last of the students have been picked up. "I want to smack some of these kids!" He immediately covers his mouth like he can't believe what came out of it.

"Girl, same," I reply. "But we don't, and that's what counts."

James chuckles and tries to lasso me with my own scarf. "I'm getting tikka masala and watching Real Housewives if you want to come over and decompress," he offers.

"Tempting, truly. But I need to go home and write my last paper for the semester."

"Enjoy the torture, babe. Tell Erik he owes me a karaoke duet," James points at me and heads out of the auditorium.

I finish packing up my things in silence—it feels strange that there were over fifty kids in here singing and dancing to songs about Old Saint Nick no more than half an hour ago. I turn out the lights and lock up for the night. When I finally get to my car and wait for the heater to warm up, I pull out my phone to call Erik about dinner plans. Tikka masala sounds good, as does a repeat of Thanksgiving night.

Before I can, though, I see multiple missed calls from an unfamiliar number, as well as a voicemail. I almost delete it, assuming it's spam. But the multiple calls compel me to listen to it anyway.

"Christine, it's Nadir. Uh, Erik's had a seizure and he's in the hospital. It's not life threatening, but he's not doing well. I—uh, I doubt he wants visitors, but I think it would be good for him—"

My stomach is on the floor and my heart is on the ceiling. I sit there in shock for a moment, unable to hear the rest of Nadir's voicemail. Erik had a seizure. Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god. I speed to the hospital. Somehow my mind is racing but I feel like I'm on autopilot. What kind of damage does a seizure do? What caused it? This is what he warned me about. This is what he was afraid of happening. Is he ok? People have seizures all the time and are fine. But Nadir said he's not doing well. What does that even mean?!

I find parking and the front desk and ask for his room number—all in a daze. It doesn't feel real. When the elevator doors open to his floor, it hits me. The unmistakable scent of hospital. Disinfectant and illness. I haven't been in a hospital since my dad died. My legs go weak and my head swims for a moment, the shock wearing off and all feelings return at once. I lean against the wall as sudden waves of grief and nausea wash over me…

It started out as a run-of-the-mill illness, then he had pneumonia and a slew of infections, he was in the hospital for a month, and then he was gone. It all happened so fast, but the time I spent in the hospital with him felt like forever…

I swallow and stand up straight. Now is not the time.

When I finally find Erik's room, I see Nadir talking quietly on his phone in the corner. I move toward Erik asleep in the hospital bed. But something is wrong. His face. Its texture is off. Too smooth in some spots, too puckered in others. I blanch when I realize what I'm seeing; he isn't wearing his mask. I can't help the combination of disgust and guilt I feel. I shouldn't be seeing him like this. I shouldn't be here—

I quickly stumble out of the doorway back into the hall. Pressing the heels of my hands onto my eyes and breathing deeply. I can't get the image of his face out of my head. All the while horror, guilt, sympathy, anger, and confusion keep rushing over me again and again. I want to scream! This can't be happening! Hot tears squeeze from behind my hands and roll down my cheeks. Someone gently grabs my arms to pull my hands away from my face. I blink and find Nadir.

My mouth falls open but no words come.

He holds my hands. "It's okay."

"I saw… I shouldn't—" I squeak.

"I put his mask back on. It's okay."

The guilt returns. For thinking he was hideous, for my revulsion. For seeing him without his permission. I violated him. I don't want Nadir to think I'm a monster. I don't want Erik to know.

I'm crying more. I can't catch my breath. "I'm sorry—"

"It's okay, Christine."

Nadir hugs me, and I try to release it all. He must feel guilty too. Nadir protects Erik, whether Erik wants him to or not. With every "it's okay," I feel like he's trying to undo something that cannot be undone. Like trying to unspill blood from a gaping wound.

"It's okay," I croak in unison.

Nadir releases me and looks me in the eye. "I put his mask back on. Please come back in."

I swallow. "I will. Give me a minute."

He nods, looking at me carefully and returns to the room.

I take a steadying breath, quickly swipe at the tears on my cheeks, and try to compose myself. A vending machine hums down the hall, so I buy myself a ginger ale. I want to smell something other than disinfectant and death. I hope it calms my stomach.

After a few sips, I return to the doorway of Erik's room. He hasn't moved, but his mask now covers his face. I watch him as I step across the threshold, waiting for him to stir. He doesn't. Nadir shifts between his feet.

"He usually sleeps very deeply after… after."

I stand at the foot of the hospital bed, still watching him. His thinness reads as gaunt in the hospital bed. His skin looks sallow. "How many seizures has he had?"

"This is his third in three years."

That can't be good. "Is it related to… his genetic condition?"

"Yes. Seizures are common for his condition, but they are more unique to his case. They're new. That's why he hasn't been able to drive lately."

I remember all the shared drives and Ubers and understand. Erik never explained. I just figured he didn't have a car or didn't like driving, not that he wasn't medically cleared to. He was probably embarrassed by that, I realize with a new wave of unease. I watch the rise and fall of his chest. Steady. Gentle. "How did you know?"

Nadir runs a hand through his hair. "After his last seizure, I made a habit to call him every day. To check in and make sure he's all right. He hates it but… When he didn't answer my third call, I went to his apartment and found him blacked out on the floor."

Tears prick my eyes again and I take a sip of the ginger ale. I don't want to imagine… "How long was he there for? Was he hurt?"

"It's hard to say," Nadir's voice breaks. "There are just a few bruises from the fall. He's sleeping harder than last time, which concerns me. The doctors are more concerned about running a few tests and getting him on the proper medication."

I inch my way toward Erik.

"I'm sorry I left you such a rash voicemail. I made it sound so much worse than—"

"No, thank you, Nadir." I look over my shoulder at him. "Thank you for calling me."

He looks relieved. Haggard, but relieved.

"Why don't you go home and get some rest. I'll stay with him tonight."

Nadir doesn't even politely fight me on it. He smiles gently, kisses the top of my head, and leaves.

The shock of Erik's face wears off the longer I sit next to him and think about it.

He told me about it; just never in detail, which is understandable. I never knew what to expect. I never thought about what it would be like when the time came. He acknowledged it and I wasn't curious to know more. He was enough. He is enough.

I picture Erik and Nadir sitting at my kitchen table, laughing raucously at their memories. It was only just a few days ago. I remember his lips on my body, how he made me feel that night. We made love with the lights off and his mask on, but I didn't feel his shame. It was like a cloak of protection around us both. Comforting and safe. Warm and gentle. I feel safe with him...

My chin jerks out of my hand, again. I've lost count of how many times I've nodded off. I blink a few times and check my phone. 1:32 AM. I may as well stay for the night. My sore eyes slide back over to Erik, still sleeping deeply. I don't think it's against the rules for me to join him. I take off my shoes and carefully climb onto the emptier side of the hospital bed. Erik doesn't stir. I settle next to him on top of the covers, allowing my body to relax and curve along with his. I breathe deeply and smell his cologne, finally something other than disinfectant.

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