These days, there were conversations flying around all the time that weren’t said.
Hopefully not too long.
Hopefully before I’m dead.
* * * * *
2025
Christmas was whiter than usual with a blizzard that meant the tractor was used as a plough, fashioning a pathway between our house and the Wilsons.
Ice laced window frames, and trees were sacrificed to burn to keep the chill at bay.
This year, with Jacob three and Nina eleven, we opted to have Christmas at our place where the sparse amount of furniture meant opening presents and reaping season carnage wasn’t nearly as destructive as in John’s house with its over-packed bookcases and rooms that held more than just mementoes; it held entire lifetimes.
Ren and I had yet to create that amount of clutter, and the main point of decoration was a small pine tree Ren had cut down, potted, and taken me shopping to buy as many gaudy baubles as I wanted.
I had to admit, I’d gone a bit overboard with the tinsel.
But watching our son laugh and rip into brightly printed paper, revealing a remote-control car, books that could be read in the bath, and a set of miniature diggers to play in the dirt, it was worth it.
“I still remember our first Christmas,” Ren murmured, slotting himself beside me as I leaned against the kitchen bench after serving warm apple and cinnamon muffins. We’d had a big lunch of roasted veggies, turkey, and all the trimmings, so appetites weren’t all that hungry.
I wrapped my arms around his waist. “I remember it, too.”
I remembered how Cassie had come into our room and made fun of me for sleeping in the same bed as Ren. How her tone had been weird, and I didn’t like it whenever she looked at the boy who was mine.
“You kissed me under the mistletoe.” He chuckled as Jacob fell over the plush rug by the fireplace, chasing his remote-control car as Nina careened it into things, kamikaze style. “Remember?”
I didn’t actually.
My five-year-old brain had been obsessing about Cassie and the strangers I didn’t like, rather than the comforting presence of my beloved brother. I scrunched up my nose, pretending I did. “I think it was you who kissed me, not the other way around.”
He pursed his lips, his excellent memory that would’ve made him worthy of any scholar or doctor or any profession he chose whisking through time to a different Christmas and snowy night.
“You know…you’re right.” He turned me to face him, planting possessive hands on my hips. “I scooped you up and asked you to kiss me.” His face glowed with fondness. “I gave you my cheek, but you smacked my lips instead.”
“Like this?” I stood on tiptoes, pressing my mouth to his.
But this time, I didn’t smack like a child.
I kissed like a wife.
And there was nothing innocent about it.
He groaned, his body tensing for more. “Exactly like that.”
We laughed together, enjoying our inside joke of five-year-olds kissing fifteen-year-olds—both totally unaware what existed in their future.
Our lips parted, tongues touched, and later, once everyone had left and Jacob was asleep in his bed, Ren took me in all the ways he could.
It was the best Christmas present even though he’d bought me a new laptop and I’d bought him a new oil skin jacket.
Every touch was precious.
Every thrust was infinite.
Every year more treasured than the last.
* * * * *
2026
We hadn’t celebrated our shared birthday in a while, thanks to parenthood, hospital visits, farm running, horse businesses, and all the other things that made up a hectic life, but on 27th of June—our official date of creation (even if Ren had borrowed it from me)—we asked Cassie to babysit our monster four-year-old and headed to a local diner for our tradition.
The meal of greasy food and naughty but oh-so-delicious burgers was a flashback to a lifetime of togetherness.
Halfway through the meal, Ren tugged at the ribbon holding my braid together, unravelling it with a look of intensity.
I gulped, burning up in the coffee fire of his gaze, then tears welled as he pulled a fresh string of blue from his pocket. “I’m afraid I’ve been rather slack on replacing your ribbon the past few years. This one is looking a little faded.” With swift fingers—used to tying bows from my childhood—he retied my braid with new, bright cobalt, then went back to eating as if nothing had happened.
I’d wanted to pounce on him there and then, but it was almost a game to him. A game to see how much he could seduce me by not even touching me.
By the time we’d polished off a chocolate brownie for dessert, I was ready to fool around in the back of the second-hand pick-up truck we’d bought two years ago.
However, Ren took my hand and guided me down Main Street.
My skin itched for his touch. My lips watered for his kiss. My patience was stretched with need.