tenth
3 January
The tenth day of Christmas
Christen wakes before dawn. It’s still dark and the birds aren’t singing yet. She stretches out luxuriously under the covers, blinking the room into focus, and rolls over to see Tobin curled up precariously in the armchair by the window. She’s asleep, judging by the sound of her breathing, so Christen wonders whether to just leave her be, but she looks so scrunched up and uncomfortable that it seems kinder to wake her. ‘Tobin.’ No response. ‘Tobin.’
Tobin shifts slightly and mumbles something, but doesn’t wake. Christen balls up one of her socks and lobs it across the room, intending to gently encourage Tobin into the land of the living, but manages instead to hit her in the face and startle her so badly she falls out of the chair. ‘Oh, god, I’m so sorry -’
‘Ow,’ says Tobin absently, rubbing the back of her head. She looks so utterly confused to find herself on the floor that it would be funny if Christen wasn’t a little bit worried about damaging her. ‘Was I asleep?’
‘Have you been there all night?’
Tobin stretches stiffly and stifles a yawn. ‘Um. I guess?’
‘Why?’
‘Well, you fell asleep, but I wanted to be here in case you needed anything, and I was reading but I must have been more tired than I thought, and -’
‘No, I mean, why were you in the chair?’ Tobin’s forehead creases in confusion. ‘You should have gotten in with me.’
It’s hard to tell in the gloom, but she thinks that Tobin maybe blushes. ‘I wasn’t sure you’d want me to.’
Christen’s whole body aches at that, or maybe it’s not the words so much as the rough sleepiness of Tobin’s voice. She could try to keep it light, make a joke about how if she’s contagious Tobin has definitely caught it by now, but she just holds out a hand. ‘You look exhausted. Get in.’ Tobin blinks up at her uncertainly. ‘Please?’
Tobin takes her hand and gets up gingerly. The bed dips as she sits down, Christen pulling the comforter out of the way, but then she draws back. ‘Um, Chris?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Can I take my jeans off?’
Maybe this is, in fact, how Christen dies: her skin suddenly feeling like it’s on fire just from the prospect of Tobin half-naked in her bed, her brain exploding with all the ways she wants to pin her down and kiss her senseless, but too fluey to do anything but combust quietly to herself.
‘Fine,’ she manages, ‘but hurry up, I rolled into a cold spot to make room for you.’
Tobin doesn’t hurry up, or at least it feels like it takes a tortuously long time. Christen averts her eyes out of self-preservation as much as anything, but she still hears the soft thud as the jeans land on the floor before Tobin climbs into bed seemingly in slow motion, and she can’t avoid seeing delicate ankles and strong thighs and enough exposed hip to make her bite back a whimper.
Not that it would sound like a whimper in her current state. More like a snuffle. A gross, hugely unsexy snuffle.
Tobin sighs as she lies down, comfortable at last. The blankets have ended up twisted at the foot of the bed, and in straightening them Christen’s legs somehow ends up tangled together with Tobin’s, and fuck she’s so warm. Their knees clash as Tobin rolls over to find the right position. Her skin is soft and smooth, but every touch makes Christen shiver.
‘If you don’t stop fidgeting you’re back in the chair.’
‘I never fidget,’ mumbles Tobin.
She’s asleep before Christen can summon the strength to deny that with the force it deserves.
***
Tobin does the egg round and brings Christen a completely absurd breakfast in bed: a fried egg - goose, Christen diagnoses - decorated with a sriracha smiley face, and dozens of pieces of toast cut into increasingly complicated shapes.
Christen is already smiling so hard she can feel her cheeks stretching with it, but she can’t resist the usual dig. ‘Is this safe to eat?’
‘Chris. I can manage toast. Look, I even scraped the burnt bits off that one.’
‘You’re a real charmer.’
‘I know. Is it working?’
‘Depends what you’re trying to achieve, I guess.’
Tobin shrugs, curling up against the headboard with coffee in hand. ‘Just to make you happy.’
It’s characteristically Tobin, that: she’s so laid-back on the surface that her sincerity can take people by surprise. Christen isn’t one of those people, but Tobin seems to think she’s gone too deep and backtracks. ‘Cheer you up, I mean. Because you’re sick.’
‘I know what you meant,’ says Christen gently.
She offers Tobin a little piece of toast in the shape of a flower, and Tobin eats it straight from her fingers with a grin Christen was not prepared for.
***
Tobin sticks around for the rest of the day, like she often does, and she refuses to let Christen lift a finger to the point where it’s almost suspicious. She sets Christen up on the couch with blankets and kleenex and warm socks and hot tea, but still trots eagerly back and forth to the kitchen whenever Christen so much as looks like she might want a snack or a hot chocolate.
‘What’s up?’
‘Hmm?’
‘Why are you being so nice to me?’
Tobin blinks and pauses the movie. ‘Er. You’re my best friend, and you’re sick?’
‘No, but - why are you being so nice to me?’
‘You should be careful what you wish for. Maybe next time I’ll totally ignore you.’
‘Tobs. I mean it. You’re not… like, still trying to make amends? Because you don’t need to, you know.’
Something does clear in Tobin’s face, then, some tiny wrinkle in her forehead that Christen hadn’t even noticed. ‘Promise? Because I - I am sorry, Chris.’
‘You’ve already said, and yes, I promise.’ Tobin had borrowed some joggers and a sweatshirt instead of putting her jeans back on, and she looks so soft and sleepy in Christen’s clothes that Christen can’t help but hold out her arm. ‘I promise. Come here.’
Tobin presses play and shuffles across to join Christen under the blanket, her cheek brushing Christen’s shoulder as she leans in, and it makes Christen feel so tender it’s hard to breathe.
Tobin dozes off about halfway through the second movie and Christen disentangles herself carefully, piling up the finished mugs and cookie plate to take back to the kitchen. The hall looks out over the yard to the barn, and she suddenly knows why Tobin has been keeping her on the other side of the house: there’s a truck parked outside and men going back and forth to the barn with boxes, assisted by - oddly - Becky and Emily with armfuls of what look like fairy lights.
She opens the side door. ‘What’s going on?’
Emily’s eyes widen. ‘Go back inside! You’re not meant to be in the cold!’
‘I’m not a Victorian heroine, Em -’
‘No, but you’re sick,’ says Becky firmly. ‘Where’s Tobin?’
‘Asleep on the couch. Seriously, what is all this?’
‘Let us put this stuff down and we’ll tell you. Inside. I mean it.’
‘Fine,’ grumbles Christen, shutting the door obediently. Becky is not to be disobeyed when she uses that tone of voice.
She retreats to the warm kitchen and rinses out the mugs. The noise of the water must wake Tobin, because she appears blinking in the doorway and freezes as Becky and Emily simultaneously arrive from the hall. ‘Ah.’
‘Afternoon,’ says Emily cheerfully. ‘You’ve been busted.’
‘Turns out Christen can outwit you even with flu,’ adds Becky.
‘I don’t have flu.’
Tobin drops mournfully into a chair. ‘I guess you were bound to find out. I just wanted it all to be ready first.’
‘Well, it is something to do with my barn.’
‘Tobin was meant to be distracting you.’
‘She tried, believe me.’ Tobin pouts and Christen takes pity. ‘Can I see?’
***
She can’t help but gasp when they walk her out to the barn. Her mom had just finished renovating it before the accident, planning to turn it into some kind of library/studio area, and it's been empty ever since. Now there are lights strung all over the rafters, greenery curled around the windows, a stage set up at one end and a bar at the other. There’s a band puttingtogethertheir soundsystem. It’s insane.
‘This is amazing,’ she breathes. ‘But why - ?’
Tobin shrugs. ‘I figured it might be nice for you to be able to see people without having to go anywhere. Like, it’s your house. You don’t have to wear heels and you can escape if you get bored and go to bed whenever you like.’ She points across the room. ‘Plus, there’s going to be a potluck, so you don’t have to take the risk on me cooking you dinner.’
‘My hero.’ Christen gazes around the room again, then reaches instinctively for Tobin’s hand. ‘Genuinely. Thank you. It’s so beautiful.’
And it is. It’s wonderful. It’s Friday night and people start arriving just after dark: the O’Haras descend in force closely followed by the Heaths, the Horans, the Sonnetts bearing a vat of potato salad, Crystal and her boyfriend with a trayful of slightly wonky homebaked croissants. Christen realizes she must still look like shit, either that or Tobin has laid down the law, because nobody monopolizes her for too long or pressures her to dance or drink or to try just one more dish from the groaning table of food. They’re all just eager to see her. She sits at the side of the room watching everybody else dance and jump around and catches up with all her friends, her parents’ friends, even some of her old teachers who still live in town. She smiles hard for the whole evening and enjoys herself, truly, until she almost falls asleep in a plate of Mrs Horan’s cookies.
‘Alright, girl,’ whispers Crystal beside her, squeezing her arm. ‘Let’s get you to bed.’
‘I haven’t had a bedtime since I was twelve.’
‘I know, but Tobin will kill me if I let you get sicker. She’s counting on you being at the game tomorrow.’
‘Where is Tobin?’ Christen cranes her head, scanning the throng of people. ‘I need to thank her for all of this.’
‘Playing host somewhere. Last I saw she’d just been ambushed by Mrs Morgan. You know what she’s like, won’t shut up until she’s explained all the new conspiracy theories she read up on this week.’
Christen spots Tobin leaning against the bar, nodding mechanically at the blonde woman opposite her and drinking a beer slightly too intently. She’s used to this - Tobin has always been in demand at parties because she can talk to anyone, could charm the most boring person alive into thinking they’re fascinating - and she’s also used to the way Tobin glances over at her, like clockwork, like she’s sensed Christen’s eyes on her. Tobin smirks with the corner of her mouth and gives her a little wave, and Christen’s stomach flips.
Christen just watches her for a moment: the line of her jaw, and the movement of her neck as she drinks, and the way her hair shines under the lights.
It’s been wonderful. It’s been the loveliest evening.
Because now Christen knows exactly what she wants.