Page 111 of The Christmas Yes List

James sitting there, quietly, in the rocking chair on our front porch. He looks like he’s been sitting here for days.

I almost (thank goodness I don’t) drop the duck. “James,” I exclaim.

He’s rocking slightly, a wrapped package resting on his lap. Clearly he hasn’t been outside the entire time, given the cup of coffee in his hands. He looks content. Well.

“I thought you left,” I say.

“I did,” he says. “I came back.”

“I see that. I’m . . . glad you did.”

He smiles lightly, then puts his cup of coffee on the floor beside him. “Wanna sit?”

And forgoing a coat I wander over slowly, numbly, and sit beside him. The slats of the seat are cold beneath my jeans. But all I can think about are his eyes. On mine.

After a moment, he pauses. Lifts a finger. Gets up wordlessly. Goes inside.

When he returns, it’s with a cup of steaming coffee and a warm blanket.

He tucks the blanket around me, hands me the mug. “So what’s on the agenda for today?”

My mouth pops open slightly. “Well . . .”

What does this mean?

“Are you staying?”

“You did invite me to be here.”

“I did.” Technically Čedomir did, but it isn’t best to bring that up right now.

“And Čedomir did say this was the most exclusive event to be at in Maple Hills.”

“He did.”

“And it is Christmas Eve.”

“It is.”

“So . . .” He spreads out his hands, as though that sums it up.

“So you are staying,” I say, and he shrugs like it’s the only logical conclusion.

I can’t believe it.

I really . . . can’t believe it.

We sip our coffee in silence for a little while, me trying hard to work out just what to say next. More specifically, just how not to mess this up.

“I got you something,” he says at last. Then adds, “Do you realize that the closest box store is, like, a hundred miles away?”

I turn pink, taking his gift. “Believe me, when I was younger, I was highly aware. I didn’t get a pair of flare jeans until the world had already moved on.” I swallow. I don’t have anything for him. “James, you really didn’t need to—”

“I wanted to. Open it.”

I pull open the paper to reveal, of all things, a record player. With a vinyl sitting on top. As I read the band, I grin. “The Bill Charlap Trio. Very nice.”

“For a fellow jazz aficionado,” he says. “Maybe . . . if you’re up for it . . . you would want to come see a show in New York with me sometime.”