The air, chillier than it has been over the past few days, smells faintly of plastic pine needles and Styrofoam balls dunked in glitter. It is a smell you associate more with Christmas than the juicy, lemon-grass aroma of the roasted pig that is most likely lying on a long buffet table covered in a white tablecloth with gold embroidery along the edges.
You take an unsteady step into the empty living room as voices engaged in small talk about the country’s sorry political state rise and fall in bursts of laughter. You put one foot in front of the other, sucking in your stomach, hoping your strapless dress doesn’t fall victim to gravity and slide lower than propriety allows. You glance around to make sure no one is watching, tug the daring neckline up a few centimeters, and run your tongue over your lips that have suddenly turned dry.
Don’t fall, don’t fall. You don’t know why you chose this night of all nights, Christmas Eve, to wear five-inch heels and a dress that hugged you so tight, you don’t know if you can trust yourself to pop a bite of ensaymada into your mouth.
“You’re here! You actually came.” His lola comes walking toward you, her hair teased into heights that defy the very gravity you are afraid would be your downfall tonight. As she wraps her skinny arms around you, you are swallowed in a cloud of rich, cloying perfume. A sickly sweet odor you can now taste on the back of your tongue.
“Hi, Lola.” You smile, hoping it reaches your eyes, the eyes you lined in dark pencil as you held your breath, hoping to keep your hand steady. “Merry Christmas.”
“It isn’t Christmas yet. Not for a few hours. Have you seen Felipe?” She puts her hands on your upper arms, squeezing a little. You notice the wistful look in her eyes as she gazes at you. Your heart pinches a little and you take a deep breath. You are here for a reason and you are going to be strong.
“Not yet, Lola.”
She releases her grip on you and pats your bare shoulder. “Good luck, hija.”
Oh, Lola. If only you knew how much courage it took for me to put on this dress, line my eyes, slip on the highest heels in my closet, and come here. To your house. To see him again. To see you all again. But you don’t tell her this. You glance at her once more and as she smiles at you, you think she knows. She must know.
You take a few more steps through the guests standing around in small circles of conversation, more tinkling laughter, glittering jewelry, and bold choices of color. You smile, nod your head, and remind yourself to keep your chin up. Easy does it.
You enter the garden, where the rest of the party is held. You release the breath you were holding and allow yourself to go back in time. When you had first entered this cozy home that welcomed you as if it had always known you were going to be part of its family. The wrought iron gates to the garden were closed, Felipe had to take out an old-fashioned looking key from his pocket and insert it into the lock. He laughed and told you about how he kept a copy in his room so he had access to the garden whenever he wanted to sketch or dream. You giggled, knowing he was more comfortable with a gadget in his hands. You were the artist. You were the dreamer.
As you put one foot on the soft, damp grass, you feel the thin heel of your stilettos sink into the ground. You gasp and shoot an arm out to grab the person standing next to you. As your fingers close around air, you feel a large, warm set of hands grip your arms. You are lifted a few inches and placed back on tiled ground. You spin around and your eyes widen as they land on the person you have come here to see. Of course he finds you before you can take him by surprise. This is his home. This is his family.
“Felipe.” It comes out in a breath. A whisper.
“You’re here.”
His eyes are the same deep shade of brown, just like the damp earth you almost sank into a few seconds ago. But this time, there are small lines of worry by their sides. Were you the one who put them there? Probably. His hair, longer than you had ever seen it before, is now peppered with a few silver strands. You resist the urge to touch them, to convince yourself they’re real. You feel your lips tug upwards at his dark blue dress shirt and black pants. He always loved dressing up for Christmas. It was the day he believed nothing could go wrong. The day miracles happened.
He takes your hand and leads you into a small room next to the garden. The study. You remember nights when both of you would curl up on the plump, gray sofa, textbooks on your laps open but ignored as you explored each other’s mouths instead. A blush creeps up your cheeks as you recall the time Lola pushed the door open without knocking and you had to pull down your shirt and button up your jeans behind a throw pillow as she demanded to know why the lights were so dim when you were supposed to be studying.
Felipe leads you to the same couch, but this time the lights are bright, white beams stretching all over the room, illuminating every dusty corner. You sit on the edge of the sofa, your knees touching, your back straight. You don’t look at him. Instead your eyes caress the different photos on display in mismatched picture frames. Photos you had asked him about before—the stories behind them, the people in them, the memories you wanted to absorb into your heart too.
He reaches for your hand and you flinch. You don’t mean to. It’s an automatic response. “Sorry,” you say.
“Why are you here?”
Don’t fall. You lift your gaze to his. Too late. Years too late.
Neither of you speaks. Till your eyes drop to his left hand. The light bounces off the small, shiny band around his finger.
He notices and brings it forward to place over yours. “I never take it off.” Pause. “I never took it off.”
You turn your hand so your palms face each other, so your fingers sink into the spaces in between his. You remember the first time you took his hand, how wrapping your fingers around his felt like a miniature embrace. You marvel at how it feels exactly the same now. Years and years later.
His unanswered question tugs at your heart. “Felipe.”
He tightens his grip around your hand.
“You told me you’d be here. You told me you’d wait.” Your voice is shaky.
“I am.” He nods, inching closer to you on the couch. You heart begins to hammer.
“I’m hoping, I’m hoping…” You can’t continue. You know you were the one who asked to end things. You tossed your wedding ring in his face and told him you didn’t want to take the pain anymore. You were the one who refused to keep trying. “I’m so sorry.” You feel his arms close around you, and all the anxiety seeps from your body like air from a punctured balloon.
“You have nothing to be sorry about,” he whispers into your hair. “We can always try again. Or we don’t have to try anymore. I just want to be with you.”
“I thought having a baby was the be all and end all of my existence. And when we lost our second one, I just couldn’t—”
“You don’t have to explain to me. I was there. It hurt me too.” He begins to kiss your brow and you feel the calcified pain lodged in your heart begin to chip away.
You lift your face to his and put your hands on his cheeks, running your fingers over the rough stubble that has grown along his jaw. “I’ve missed you so much.”
“I’ve missed you too.”
When you lean forward and press your lips against his, you remember all of it. All the pain, all the heartache, but you also remember what you thought you had forgotten: the joy, the love, and most of all, the hope that came with this wonderful, forgiving man.
“I didn’t think you’d ever take me back. Not after the way I behaved, not after all the awful things I said to you.”
But you took that risk. You came here, to his house, on Christmas Eve, the night he said miracles happen.
He leans back and reaches into his pocket. He pulls out his dark brown, leather wallet, the same one you had given him on your first wedding anniversary. It was now worn and creased, and tears prick your eyes when you realize he hasn’t let go of that either. He flips it open and pulls out something round, shiny, in white gold with a row of diamonds sparkling in the bright light. You swallow hard. You thought you had lost it forever, together with your right to lay claim to the man holding it out to you.
“After you threw it at me, I looked for it. I didn’t give up until I found it. It was buried in between Lola’s flowerbeds. I keep it on my nightstand. But this evening, I put it in my wallet, hoping for a Christmas miracle.” He doesn’t move toward you or take your hand. You realize it’s because he’s unsure.
You hold our your left hand and watch him slip it onto your ring finger, the way he had on your wedding day as you exchanged vows before your families. His fingers tremble slightly as they push the band down the length of yours. A teardrop lands on your hand and you giggle, embarrassed. You dab at it with your other hand but before you can wipe the tears from your eyes, his lips find their way to your cheeks, kissing away the saltwater, kissing away the pain.
“I love you, Felipe,” you breathe.
“I’ve always loved you,” he whispers, now kissing your eyelids, your forehead, your nose, your mouth. “I knew all I had to do was wait. And believe.”
You tighten your arms around his neck as you deepen the kiss. It’s now clear why you chose this night to wear this tight dress and these outrageously high heels. Because even if you thought everything was hopeless, you had to trust in this night. You had to trust that because the man you loved believed in Christmas miracles, they could happen for you too.
