After dinner, when we lie in bed together, I help Adam form chords with his fingers. We sing Air Supply songs to the ceiling and strum our imaginary guitars until our voices get sleepy and hoarse.

— Chapter 22 —

In my head all morning, I celebrate my one-month anniversary of being at Adam’s place. While I’m taking orders and making espressos, there are lyrics about home and the sound of coffeepots gurgling and beers in the fridge (that I finally have the courage to take) swimming in my mind, trying to put themselves together. Four whole weeks, and it’s almost Christmas, and I’ve bought him a present—a record player I found at a thrift store, some Dylan records, a best of Simon & Garfunkel, and an Air Supply LP—and tonight after I’m done with work, we’re going to get an actual Christmas tree of our very own and decorate it with strings of popcorn and make stars out of egg cartons and glitter, because Adam can’t believe I’ve never made an egg carton star.

I didn’t tell him that I’ve never had a Christmas tree. Margo always invited me over when she decorated hers: a vintage aluminum one with pink lights, and feather ornaments that all came from the same set and match perfectly. I tell him about Margo’s tree like it was really mine. Like I belonged at her place.

And I certainly don’t tell him about the first time I walked in the door of my dad’s new place with Irene and there was a Christmas tree right there in the middle of the living room with lights and ugly ornaments the boy made and a star way up top, so close to the ceiling that my dad was the only one who could have hung it there. When I saw the tree, I could see the whole situation of it in my mind—them singing and decorating, being warm and family and all that crap. It’s not like I wanted to spend an afternoon listening to Irene coo about the boy hanging painted pinecones all over the tree while a Buck Owens Christmas album played on repeat in the background. It’s just that I couldn’t help but remember all the times my dad told me we couldn’t have a tree because it was a waste of money or a waste of trees or there was no point in giving a fuck anyway.

So when we’re eating breakfast before work and Adam says we should go get a tree, I just smile and say, “Sounds great,” and tell him I’ll pick up some cider on the way home. Because it sounds like a normal thing to do, and the eggnog Margo always had when we decorated her tree used to sit in my stomach like a brick for hours.