(15) We Don’t Celebrate Christmas

Middle aged men love to monolgue, as I have come to learn. “You know, the great thing about your dad’s company is how we’ve managed to stay nimble in a rapidly evolving market,” Lewis Walker says. “Most cybersecurity firms, once they hit our scale, they stagnate. Bureaucracy, silos, all that. But not us. We pride ourselves on our agility.”

“Right,” I say, licking my spoon. I look around for Jaron but don’t find him. My dad stands next to Lewis, looking entirely agreeable and not bored at all, thrilled by the word “agility.”

Lewis stabs his fork into a slice of roast beef and points it like it’s a PowerPoint clicker. “We don’t think of ourselves as a software provider. We’re a solution ecosystem. That’s the difference. Anyone can sell a product. What we sell is peace of mind.”

“That’s good,” I murmur. I don’t know how to make it stop

“You know,” he continues. “I tell my interns all the time, cybersecurity isn’t about code, it’s about trust. Trust and vision. That’s what your dad understood early on. That’s why we’re partnering with Microsoft again next quarter. They trust us. We’re not just consultants, we’re collaborators.”

“How fascinating, please go on,” I encourage, and stab myself in the arm with a butter knife. Well, I drop it strategically. “Whoops, butter fingers. Butter knife…fingers.”

Dad and Lewis stare helplessly as the a thin line of blood seeps through my dress shirt.

“As you can see, Lewis—Mr. Walker—while I am devastated to say it since our conversation was captivating, I have to find a bandaid…or five.”

My Dad hurries to carry my jacket. “I’ll come with you—”

“No. You should stay and enjoy your conversation. If your riveting debate on solution ecosystems fizzled out, how could I live with myself?”

My dad gives me a dirty look. Lewis blinks like I’ve spoken another language. I reclaim my jacket, bow, and make my bloody exit.

I’m only halfway down the hallway when Jaron rushes up behind me. “Indra–wait!”

“What?” I say.

“You’re bleeding!”

“I might have stabbed myself harder than I intended,” I mutter.

“You what?”

Nothing,” I said. “I misspoke. I definitely did not stab myself. Who would do that? I’m not crazy.”

“Debatable,” Jaron says.

I shrug and step into the bathroom. Here, he tries to roll up my sleeve but that gets blood all over it, so he unbuttons it instead and pulls one side of it down. I’m half shirtless which is deeply embarrassing because I’ve never been shirtless around him before.

But also he sucked my dick like an hour ago so maybe I shouldn’t be embarrassed.

“Shirt is ruined,” he proclaims.

I know.

He runs water over mt wound and cleans it himself, and then presses paper towels to it. We sit down next to each other against the wall as he applies the pressure to my arm. “You’re so stupid,” he says once the bleeding slows down. “Why would you stab yourself to get out of a conversation.”

“It was boring.”

“So you couldn’t have excused yourself?”

“I tried!” I complain. “Those corporate types don’t get it!”

He sighs. “Ridiculous,” he mutters. “I cannot believe I’m in love with you.”

My heart falls out of my chest. He just looks away and scowls, maybe not realizing what he’s said. “Whatever,” I announce.

“Whatever,” he repeats. He shakes his head. “Ridiculous man.”

I rest my head on his shoulder. And he rests his head atop mine.

I could stay like this forever, my dad’s party and corporate optics be damned. I’ll just text him I feel sick. I pull out my phone and quickly text Dad: Feeling lightheaded. Too much stress. Going to take Jaron to my car and lie down for a bit.

My phone immediately buzzes with a reply: Don’t leave. This is important. Just get a drink and come back. Now.

"He says I can't leave," I mutter, shoving the phone back in my pocket.

Jaron sighs, his chest rumbling beneath my head. "Right. The corporate machine needs its heir." He shifts, pushing himself up. "Come on, idiot. We can't stay in the bathroom forever, or they'll think we're doing drugs."

"I wish we were," I grumble, though I reluctantly let him help me to my feet.

He hands me my jacket, which I drape carefully over my injured arm. "I'll go get you that non-alcoholic drink. You stand right here, near the exit, and if anyone tries to monologue, just point at your wound dramatically."

"I might actually cry if I have to hear the word 'agility' one more time," I warn him.

"You won't," he says, giving my forehead a quick, tender kiss. "Because you're going to be looking at me."

He leaves, and I watch him walk toward the bar. He’s already effortlessly mingling, his genuine, easy smile and handsome suit drawing attention. He’s everything these corporate types pretend to be: charming, athletic, agreeable. He’s also everything they can’t be: rebellious, honest, and completely dedicated to a guy who stabs himself with butter knives.

———

Jaron and I leave the party early of course. He stays the night at my place after the party. And that’s how how the rest of the week goes. He comes over to my place, stays the night, and the next day I go to his place and stay the night. We switch like that. Right until the day before Christmas Eve. As per our routine, I ask him to come over, thinking he’ll say yes as he did all the previous times.

But he just shakes his head. “Christmas Eve. Big deal in my house, you know.”

I feel dumb for asking. I feel even dumber for forgetting. Christmas isn’t really a thing in my house. My parents aren’t religious anymore, but they did grow up in Hindu households in India, so they never celebrated Christmas. And they still don’t. My dad only hosts his Chirstmas party cause it’s a corporate thing.

I always wanted Christmas to be a thing in my house when I was kid since all the other kids would brag about setting up trees and presents and all, but it just never was.

Not that winter break was depressing in my house. We did the gifts and celebrations on New Year’s even if I didn’t have a tree or Santa to look forward to.

“Oh okay,” I say And now I don’t want to ask about him coming over after that anymore in case he says ‘no,’ even though it’s really not that deep. We’ll see each other in school in January anyway.

He bites my ear and sucks on it which is really fucking weird but I don’t say anything.

“I have a gift for you,” he says teasingly.

I hadn’t gotten him anything. Hadn’t even thought about it. Him being a good almost-boyfriend was so unfair. It meant I had to do stuff too. Not that I am opposed to doing nice things, I just don’t know how to do it. Or what’s an appropriate gift for the place we’re at in this relationship.

“Okay,” I say. “Thanks.” Now I’ve got to figure out what to get him. What a jerk he was, putting me in this position.

“If I give it to you now, will you open it with me over FaceTime on Christmas?”

That is so thoughtful. It’s irritating. “Sure.”

He gets this stupid, excited smile on his face. He doesn’t even get off the bed, just feels around his nightstand, and gives me a wrapped box. It’s about the size of my palms put together and wrapped up sort of messily, held together with weirdly placed tape. It’s kind of endearing, I guess. I decide not to comment on it because I’m practicing being nice.

“Don’t open it yet,” he says again. “With me, on Christmas.”

I scratch at the tape. “Yes. With you.” I frown. “Um, I’ll give you your gift later.”

He kisses my jaw, and trails his lips down to my chin, and then to my own lips. “Kay.” Then he sticks his tongue in my mouth.

I flinch back, startled. Romantic to horny in like two seconds. This guy didn’t know how to ease into things. I kiss him back, tongue and all.

After a moment, I elbow him away and climb out of the bed. “Hold on, let me get you your gift.”

“I thought you said later?”

“There’s not time. You just had to be a thoughtful stupid jerk. I can’t slack off.”

He grins. “You don’t have to.”

“Shut up.”

I sit at his desk and sort through his papers. “You don’t need these right?”

He shakes his head, still smiling.

“Good.” I grab a handful of printer paper and a pair of scissors from his pencil cup.

Jaron props himself up on an elbow, watching me. “What are you doing?”

“Art,” I say. “Don’t look. It’s a surprise”

He laughs softly, but I ignore him. I fold, twist, cut. The first rose looks like something you’d find in a recycling bin. The second one’s slightly less pathetic. By the third, my hands are cramped and there are paper curls all over his floor.

Jaron starts dozing off while I work. Every so often, he murmurs something like “you’re insane” or “you could’ve just drawn me something,” but I’m committed now. There’s no going back.

Forty-five minutes later, I’ve made six slightly lopsided paper roses and tied them together with a rubber band I stole from his drawer. I stick them in his coffee mug for lack of a vase.

When I finally turn around, he’s half-asleep, scrolling on his phone with one eye open.

“Hey,” I say, nudging him. “Pay attention to me loser. Look.”

He blinks, then sits up slowly. “You made that?”

“No, a team of elves came in while you were being useless.”

He takes the mug carefully, turning it in his hands like it’s something valuable instead of six mangled office supplies. “They’re perfect.”

“They’re crooked,” I say. “Don’t lie.”

“I said perfect, not straight,” he says, smiling against the rim of the mug.

I stare at him for a second, at the way his hair falls over his forehead and the soft curve of his grin. My chest aches, but in a stupidly good way.

“Fine,” I mutter. “Merry Christmas, weirdo.”

He tucks the paper roses against his chest. “Merry Christmas, sweetheart.”

———

On Christmas day, it’s business as usual my house. Nothing special. Except this Christmas, I’m waiting for Jaron’s call. He’s got to be with his family and all, so I guess I won’t be getting a call until later, but I fret about it anyway.

I want to open his gift so badly. I dig my nails into the shiny green wrapping, still holding the box in my hands. Is it just art supplies? Most people defaulted to giving me art supplies, so maybe he did that too. It would make sense. But if that were the case, why did he want to make me wait?

At around two, my phone buzzes. The contact photo—him squinting into sunlight, hand over his forehead—fills the screen.

I try to sound casual when I answer. “You’re late.”

He laughs. “Hi to you too. Family brunch. My dad wanted to say grace for ten minutes straight.”

“Tragic.”

“Open your gift.”

“Bossy.” I balance the phone against my lamp and tear the paper carefully, even though I’ve been itching to rip it to shreds all morning. Inside the box is…a sketchbook. Not new—its corners are dented, the cover soft from use.

I open it. On the first page it says ‘Will you be my boyfriend?’ then has check marks for ‘yes’ and ‘no.’ I grin. I can’t help it, even though I want to look composed. I look up at him through the camera. He’s grinning too. “Yeah,” I say. “I mean yes.”

How stupidly cute.

He narrows his eyes. “But you didn’t check the box.”

For once, I can’t think of anything snarky. I color it in with a pencil and show it to him. “Happy?”

“Yeah.”

I can’t find anything else to say, and I can’t stop smiling either, so I just stare down into the sketchbook. He also doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Eventually: “Look, I put them in a vase,” he says, bringing the vase of my paper flowers into the camera.

“I could make a better looking vase than that,” I mutter. “You really have no eye for decor.”

He smiles loopsidedly. “It’s why I need you. You make my life more beautiful.”

“Hmph.” My throat’s tight. “You’re such a sap.”

I always thought I’d never fall for such cheesy lines. I guess I was wrong.