A Toast to the Good Times

Chapter 13



I slide my arm out from under Mila and roll off the futon as soundlessly as possible, trying so hard not to wake her.

She looks peaceful when she sleeps, just like I knew she would. What does Mila have to worry about? She’s secure with her life, with her choices, and I’m glad that she’s sleeping soundly after last night. I fell asleep lying in the darkness, my arms around her, listening to Mom and Paisley have it out upstairs over her mission trip.

I laid awake in the dark all night, wanting Mila to sleep so I could watch her, but also wanting her to wake so that I could touch her again and have her touch me.

So that I could see that smile that changed everything for me and hear the laugh that makes me determined to never have her or it very far from me.

My feet meet the icy floor as I pull my sweats on and pad across the room. It’s Christmas morning and for some reason, Mila has chosen to spend it with me and my crazy-ass family. It dawned on me sometime during the night that I have nothing to give her. Sure, Mom has the closet full of random junk she can present to an uninvited guest up in her craft room, but I’m not giving Mila a bottle of body wash, or a candle, or a gift certificate to Cracker Barrel.

Other than the stash of booze up in the attic (which is a non-option; I’m not even considering presenting a bottle to Mila as a gift, no matter what the vintage,) there isn’t much up here. Just a row of dusty boxes in the corner and a few piles of old clothes.

Most of the boxes are our old toys and baby items that Mom swears she’s hanging onto for when Henry or Paisley or I have a few little brats of our own, but I think she’s just a sap and can’t bring herself to get rid of Paisley’s laughing Elmo doll or Henry and my Matchbox cars.

I skip over those boxes, and instead, reach for one that I know will have something I can give to Mila.

I take a deep breath and pull it across the floor, leaving a trail behind it as the box slides over the dust. I’m sure there are some boxes of old jewelry, some valuable and even more useless tchotchkes, but those aren’t the things that I’m after.

I know there’s something in here that would mean more to Mila than any cheesy heart-shaped lab-created stone.

This box has all of the things that Grandma left us kids when she passed away, three years before Granddad did.

I pull out a small, round container and lift the lid. It’s full of tiny, intricate snowflakes that my grandma crocheted. Each one is unique from the others, and Grandma carefully doused each white flake in a layer of silver glitter. These belong to Paisley now. Someday, when she has a home of her own, hopefully not with Calvin, her kids will help hang these snowflakes on their tree, just like we did at our grandparents’ house.

I set aside the box of baseball cards that she left to Henry. Gram may have been a crocheting fool, but she also appreciated a good fastball, and never missed a Yankees’ game. I don’t want to risk bending any of the mint condition cards that Henry will undoubtedly need to pawn someday for quick cash, or to finance a surf trip, or something equally important.

Eureka.

I find what I’m looking for at the bottom of the box.

It’s wrapped in thin, blue paper that offers little protection for something so valuable, but Gram wasn’t hanging on to it for the bucks. She left it to me because I said it was cool once when I was nine.

That’s all it took for my generous-to-a-fault grandmother to write my name on the back in her messy, loopy handwriting and proclaim that someday, it would be mine.

It didn’t matter that writing my name on it, even so small, diminished its monetary worth. Gram was all about family and seeing us smile. And now, I can’t wait to hand it over to Mila and watch that smile that I put there light up her face.

I crack the door open and peek in to see if Mila is still sleeping. She isn’t. Instead, she’s lying in bed, whispering to herself and waving her hands around while she apparently tries to talk herself out of leaving.

“Hey,” she says when she notices me looking in. Mila pulls herself up to a sitting position and wraps the thin blanket around her shoulders. “Morning, I was just…”

“Talking to yourself?” I raise my brows and chuckle.

“Pretty much,” she admits. She cracks a small, embarrassed smile and runs her hand through her long hair, nervously trying to work some of the tangles out with her fingers. “Where’ve you been? And, um, why are you sparkling? Is that glitter?”

I look down at my black t-shirt and, sure enough, the front is sprinkled with the silver glitter from the crocheted snowflakes.

“I was upstairs in the attic, and there’s lots of glitter. And dust. Nevermind…I have something for you.”

I feel like I’m eight years old again, sure I’m getting a new bike, rushing down the stairs and seeing just the front of the wheel and a huge red bow. I remember feeling like my heart was going to explode out of my chest. That’s exactly the way I feel right now, waiting to show her what I have for her.

“Landry, you didn’t need to buy me anything. Really. Last night was…it was so, so good. Seriously. It was amazing. And happy. And thank you. I truly appreciate what we...did together. I do.”

“Merry Christmas,” I say, interrupting her babbling. I place the drawing on her bare legs. She’s still wearing nothing but a camisole and panties, though she must’ve gotten cold in the middle of the night because her un-sexy socks are back on. “I didn’t buy it, but I do want you to have it.”

“Merry Christmas,” she answers uncertainly. She inspects the gift with careful attention.

It’s a simple sketch, done on what used to be plain white paper, but it’s now yellowed and wrinkled in the corners. It has seven boxes, each with a sequential drawing, a comic strip done on the fly while the artist sat at my grandfather’s bar.

“What is this?” Mila asks, but her voice quivers like she knows half of what I’m going to say before I tell it, because half of the reason this gift is amazing would be common knowledge to a fan-girl like her.

But the other half is part of a story that I want to share with her and make part of our own story, the story of the two of us and how we did this crazy thing together.

She stares down at the drawing of the familiar scene.

There’s a pretty simple arc. A woman, in love, dreamy-eyed, with a man looking bleary and worn. The man’s obvious surprise and upset and the woman’s furious reaction. A huge fight, and a couple divided. Moping. Missing each other. The man sheepishly returning, with a simple gift of hand-picked daisies. A passionate embrace.

A simple story of lovers finding their way back to each other plays out in the sketch.

I know she can recognize the craftsmanship of the drawings, and I know she recognizes other elements that are now familiar to her, mainly the interior of what’s presently my father’s bar, right down to the old gilt mirror and the intricately carved wooden bar counter.

“This belonged to my grandmother. A man walked into their bar...” I pause when Mila’s brows pull together. “And no, that’s not the start of a joke.”

She traces a finger over the smooth paper and smiles down at it. “That’s a relief. You’re a terrible joke teller.”

“You always laugh at my jokes!” I exclaim, a little shocked that I’m apparently way less funny than she’s been pretending.

“Well, you’re funny.” She tries to wink, and that baby panda sneeze face is staring back at me. “And you’re super cute. So I always laugh. At you. With you.” She laughs.

Which makes me laugh, automatically, like her laugh’s the trigger and mine’s the bullet.

“Okay, enough outta you, smartass. Anyway, back to the comic. So, this stranger walked into the bar on the worst night of Grandpa’s life. He’d pissed off my grandmother...like royally pissed her off by forgetting their anniversary. So, this man was from out of town, just looking for a quiet place to collect his thoughts or whatever. He had a few drinks, and eventually told Gramps that he had had a rough night, too.”

I take her hand and thread my fingers through hers. She stares at our two hands, locked together. “Gramps tried to give him his drinks on the house after the poor guy sat there and listened to him whine all night about how Gram might not be there when he got home, but the guy insisted on paying. And then, he insisted on helping him smooth things over with Gram. So, he asked for some paper, and drew her this romantic little comic strip so Gramps didn’t have to go home empty-handed after all. And, you know, my gram didn’t have a heart of stone. She totally loved it, and it was all good.”

It had hung on the wall in my grandparents’ house from that night on, right above the breakfast table where they drank their coffee together every morning.

Mila traces the messy signature in the right hand corner of the sketch, then holds it closer to inspect. She pulls it away and gasps.

“Landry! This is Will Eisner! Will-freaking-Eisner!”

I nod. I thought comics were cool as a kid, and that’s why Gram left it to me. Now, the sentimental aspect of the drawing appeals to me, but I really don’t know much about Will Eisner. All I know is that Mila is thrilled.

Mission accomplished.

“Will Eisner was in your grandparents’ bar? I can’t accept this! Are you insane? It’s got to be worth thousands of dollars! He never did stuff like this!”

I squeeze her hand and smile. “I want you to have it. Really.”

“Landry, Will Eisner was the father of the graphic novel. This is…this is just too much. I got you a belt buckle, Landry. A belt buckle.”

She has a crazily startled look on her face that is seriously cracking me up.

“A Wolverine belt buckle,” I qualify. “You’ll appreciate this drawing more than I ever would. You’ll take better care of it. And Mila?” She glances up from under thick lashes. I suck in a deep breath, nervous as hell to say what I’m thinking. I promise I’ll appreciate you more than you ever thought I could. “I hope you like it.”

“Are you kidding? This is amazing. Will Eisner? Gah! This is unbelievable. I feel like I can never repay you for this, though.” She strokes the paper lovingly, shaking her head in wonder.

Perfect.

Mila is perfect, and I love that the reason this drawing meant so much to me might, if I play my cards right, be part of the reason she loves it, too. Because, if I’m lucky as hell, the perfect memory of my grandparents’ romance will be this amazing jumpstart to the beginning of ours.

“You could kiss me,” I say, edging her closer to me.

“Done.”

She leans in, and, before her lips meet mine and before I close my eyes, I catch a glimpse of that smile.

This girl is my Christmas miracle.