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“Your family does not strike me as the type to hate you, especially not when you went through the trouble of stalking their social media pages and identifying the best gifts for each person. The attention to detail made me fall in love with you all over again.”
“If you really loved me, you’d snap my ankle so I don’t have to go. Send my most pathetic regards. Bring the pastries we made yesterday as an apology.”
I frown. “No. Those are mine.”
“I can stay here and make you more.”
“With a broken ankle? What kind of husband would I be to abandon you in such distress then demand you make me pastries amidst your pain?”
Her smile brightens her dark eyes until they’re glittering. “A very, very mean one. My biggest dream. The best Christmas gift.”
I tut. “What a shame you forbade me from getting you Christmas gifts.”
“This is an exception. Besides, would it really be a Christmas gift if I’ve been asking for it for so long?”
“If it’s given at Christmas, yes.”
She rolls over, twisting her leg in my hands, and mutters incoherently about social constructs. When she’s finished, she lifts her head and declares, “Pickles. Get thee hence without me. Apologize on the behalf of your temperamental wife. Say I was livid and started threatening to throw knives at you.”
“They wouldn’t believe me.”
Casting a look over her shoulder, she arches a brow. “Why not? It’s a very believable thing for me to do.”
“Too believable to end with threats. I’d require a stab wound.”
Unpretzeling herself, very careful not to hurt Copper, Marcella scoots closer to me on the couch. “Finn…”
“No.”
Her lip juts. “You don’t love me anymore?”
I pinch her chin. “You may stab me tomorrow if it so pleases you. But never to get out of meeting with your family, who loves you, very much. Also, using the safe word flippantly is not allowed in this household. I’m putting my foot down, on behalf of our son.”
She melts herself into my side, head plopping atop my shoulder. Letting our son curl around her wrist, she mutters, “I don’t know if you deserve it right now, but I got you a gift.”
“I got you one, too.”
“You suck.”
I murmur, “Forehead,” then kiss her there. “I love you.”
Huffing, she stands and marches away. When she returns, she has exchanged Copper for a scrapbook. Unceremoniously, she drops it on my lap, folds her arms, and peers down her nose at me. “I didn’t wrap it, because that’s dumb.”
My lips part as I turn to the first page.
Our First Year Together
Pictures. Notes. Memos.
My throat closes as I take every tediously-placed item in.
Our wedding.
Our honeymoon.
My…mother. A tribute to her, using the photos from the funeral.
“You made this?” I whisper.
