The idea of Foster snuggling an almost-two-year-old should not be so sexy to me or my ovaries. But it very much is. Then I see Imane on his lap, and I am unrecoverable. Her face is smooshed into the front of his hoodie while her little hands hold the strings, and he’s looking down at her with a bewildered smile.

“Where are we at with Foster now?” Roman asks as he tucks the phone away.

“I love him.” I sigh. “I have loved him, probably all along. But I think I’m finally ready to admit it. At least to you.”

Roman gives a long nod. “I’m glad you said that.”

My glare narrows, my curiosity piqued by his response. “Why does it feel like there should be more to that sentence?”

“Because there is.” He roughs up my hair before standing. “Let’s grab dinner.”

“You’re not going to tell me?”

“Nope.” On his way to the door, he glances over his shoulder and cracks a grin. “You’ll find out soon on your own.”

* * *

In the four days after Roman appeared at my door, I’ve received something from Foster every day. Flowers, a hoodie that smells like him, and a mug with a camera on it that says, Keep It Reel.

Then on Christmas Eve he sends an empty film canister which holds a key. No explanation, no indications of its purpose. I message him a picture of it with question marks, but he only sends more back.

Always cryptic and vague.

Roman convinces me to spend the holiday at his and Bea’s house. And of course, Foster shows up in parts.

His gifts are already under the tree when I arrive. He sent a toy guitar for Imane—red and black like his—to go with the drums he sent her after his visit. So I guess a bass is next on his list.

Bea and Roman receive tickets to a theater in the city for next month, along with Foster offering up my services to babysit when they go.

I want to have an opinion about it, but honestly, I’m already looking forward to it.

After I return to my apartment, my Christmas gift shows up. A delivery guy hauls in three vintage cases that scream movie set. Once he vacates with his cart, I flip the latches on the first and turn all giddy, seeing the packed-away mount. I scramble for the next and actually squeal at the studio camera from the 1930s. The third is accessories, lenses, and the original manual.

Foster’s present sits wrapped in the corner where our tree leaned last year, and I lug the cases over beside it.

The mysterious soon reveals itself the following day. Or what I’m guessing is the soon.