fifth
29th December
The fifth day of Christmas
Christen wakes on her birthday to the sound of birds singing on her windowsill.
She’s warm and cozy, and snuggles further into her pillow secure in the knowledge that the winter sun is shining outside and the light will flood in the second she opens the curtains. And, more importantly, because Tobin is lying next to her and she looks so comfortable Christen can’t bear to wake her up. Her hair smells of the same drugstore shampoo she’s used since she was ten, and it’s familiar in a way that Christen feels deep in her bones.
She’s almost dozing off again when Tobin shifts and uncurls and rolls over, blinking at her happily. ‘You’re awake.’
‘I can’t believe that after all this time, you’re still surprised when I wake up before you.’
‘One of these days, Ms Press, I promise I’ll astonish you.’
Tobin reaches down beside the bed and rolls back onto her stomach, propped up on her elbows. Still half asleep, Christen suddenly finds her eyeline full of the dip of Tobin’s collarbones and the hollow at the base of her throat, the delicate line of her neck -
‘Chris.’
‘Mm?’
She’s so busy staring that she’s completely missed the white cardboard box in Tobin’s hands, the lid open to reveal a little cake. Not a cupcake, but a proper layer cake in miniature, perfectly iced: Happy Birthday Christen.
‘It’s lovely,’ she bursts out, then hesitates. ‘Um - you didn’t make this yourself, did you?’
Tobin smirks. ‘If I said yes, would you still eat it? Since I’d worked so hard?’
‘I’d quite like to make it to twenty-five, so no.’
‘Harsh, but fair. Don’t worry, this is a Mama Heath special. You’re safe.’ Tobin kisses her cheek affectionately - Christen wonders if she’s imagining the way her lips linger just a tiny bit - and rolls out of bed. ‘I’ll start some coffee.’
It’s a perfect lazy morning. Christen takes charge of breakfast - ‘But it’s your birthday, Chris’ - because Tobin has a stellar track record for burning pancakes, and there are frost patterns on the French windows that make her hug herself a little tighter to be indoors. It’s quiet - neither of them are particularly talkative in the mornings - but the birds are still there, perched on the garden furniture, singing away. Christen counts a family of wrens and a couple of sparrows, a thrush, and what she thinks might be an oriole.
‘Did you drop any food outside when you came over last night?’
‘Don’t think so, why?’
‘I don’t remember there being so many birds in the garden before.’
Tobin makes a non-committal sound and suddenly seems very interested in her coffee.
Christen had agreed to go to the Heaths for festive birthday lunch, which had seemed like a nice idea at the time but she now resents immensely that it means they have to get dressed. Tobin hasn’t brought any fresh clothes, obviously, so she wanders out of the bathroom in a towel to ask if she can borrow a t-shirt. It might be December, but her tan lines indicate that she’s been photographing somewhere extremely sunny and wearing plenty of tank tops while she does it. They literally lived in each other’s pockets for six years of boarding school so this should be fine, totally normal, but she’s barely even wrung out her hair and the water drips down the muscles of her shoulders in a way that makes Christen want to put her tongue on her.
The feeling strikes her so hard and so suddenly that she practically throws the shirt at Tobin and dives out of the room for a reason she’ll think up later.
She’s composed herself by the time Tobin finally comes downstairs, hair semi-dry and dressed neatly and tidily enough that her mom won’t fuss. ‘Ready to go?’
‘I was ready half an hour ago, and I had to straighten my hair.’
Tobin just laughs, because the constant struggle to be ready at the same time as each other is one of the running themes of their relationship. Friendship. ‘Okay, princess, point taken. Let’s go.’
***
Christen does her best to practise thankfulness at all times, in all areas of her life. It’s a habit she’s consciously cultivated, even in the last few months when it became hard sometimes to see any light at all. She is deeply fortunate in so many ways, privileged to an almost unconscionable degree, and she tries to acknowledge it every day.
Even so, there are times when it particularly strikes her. She sits down beside her best friend, at a family table, stripped of her own parents but welcomed in unquestioningly and unconditionally by somebody else’s, and attempts to swallow the lump in her throat as every Heath within reach tries to serve her food at once.
It’s one of those lunches which takes forever because no one can stop talking long enough to eat more than one bite in succession. Christen joins in eagerly and naturally enough - it’s not hard work, like it can be with some people - but the months of grieving and shutting herself away have left her out of practice, and she’s tired when they finally clear the table and move to the couches, Tobin’s mom calling something about fetching a new bottle of wine and her sisters gleefully setting out the Monopoly board.
‘No,’ says Tobin firmly, ‘absolutely not.’
‘You are a sore loser.’
‘I don’t mind the losing but I still have a scar where Perry scratched me. Look. Why can’t we play Pictionary?’
‘Because you’re the only one who can draw, and you know perfectly well I didn’t mean to scratch you, I was just reaching for the money -’
‘- your thievery -’
‘- my lawfully incurred rent, and your arm was just in the way of my fingernail.’
‘Tobin,’ calls Cindy again, ‘the wine!’
‘Yeah, mom, I heard you. Give me a hand, Chris?’
Christen recognizes an out when she sees one, and follows Tobin into the library, which is dark and snug as the light fades. Christen navigates around a map table covered in paper and paint and heads for the wine rack on the far wall, but Tobin intercepts her and herds her into one of the fat leather armchairs, her eyes big and excited. ‘Can I give you your present now?’
She has to laugh. ‘Tobin, you’ve already given me enough presents for at least the next five years.’
‘Oops.’ Tobin pulls a flat blue box from the pocket of her jeans, spinning it casually between two fingers. ‘My bad. Should I just keep it?’
‘You’re really annoying, you know that.’
Tobin just smiles at her and hands her the box. It’s jewelry, obviously, which is unusually conventional for Tobin - not to mention risky, given how selective Christen can be about what she wears - so she prises it open and prepares to make equally conventional grateful noises. But although there’s nothing showy about what she finds, it’s not boring either; in fact, it’s entirely her, a matching set of five slim gold rings, subtle enough to glint rather than flash.
‘Delicate but strong,’ explains Tobin quietly. ‘Like you.’
‘They’re so pretty. Thank you.’
Tobin lifts each ring from the box and slides them, very precisely, one after the other onto Christen’s fingers. Christen can’t quite identify why it leaves her so breathless. And then Tobin lifts her hand and kisses her knuckles, just once, just casually, there,all done, and oh, that’s why.
And then Tobin doesn’t let go straight away, thumb brushing the spot where her lips had been just a second before, and Christen wonders if this is what a heart attack feels like.
‘Happy birthday, Chris.’