Don't Kiss the Bride

She smiles up at me. “That’s debatable. You’ve been rockin’ the sinful Santa vibes all day.”

As hard as it is, I don’t take the flirting bait. The vibe is good right now and I don’t want it ruined.

I change the subject. “Do you want your present now?”

She jumps up. “Yes! I’ll go get yours.”

“While you’re up there, grab yours off the top of my dresser,” I call after her as she runs upstairs.

Seconds later she comes back down carrying two small, gift-wrapped boxes. One red, one silver. She hands me the red one.

“Open yours first,” I say as we move to the couch.

She holds the thin, silver box to her ear and gently shakes it. “Full disclosure,” she says. “You’re the first guy to ever give me a Christmas present. Other than my dad and my grandfather, I mean.”

“Great. I’m glad there’s no pressure.”

She smiles, totally unaware that I’m drowning in regret. This gift-giving milestone should’ve been between her and a guy her age—one she’s actually romantically involved with. It would’ve been cute and special like young firsts are supposed to be.

I wonder—for the millionth time—if I’ve ruined more for her than I’ve helped her.

Her fingers tremble a bit as she carefully unwraps the present like it’s the crown jewel. I can’t tell if she’s excited or nervous.

I wonder if the gift is enough. Maybe it’s not enough.

Maybe it’s too much.

Gift shopping was a new level of confusing I wasn’t prepared for. What do you buy for the woman you’re married to, not involved with, but falling in love with? What kind of gift says, hey, I’m crazy about you, but I’m too much of a pussy to tell you?

You give her exactly what she’s holding up in her hands right now—a small, glass tube topped with a vintage, sterling hinged cap hanging from a thin chain. Inside it are a bunch of miniscule letters jumbled together.

“Jude…” she breathes. “It’s beautiful.” She turns it carefully in her palm, examining the necklace as if it’s the most fascinating thing she’s ever seen. “Do the letters inside spell something?”

“They do. A short message.”

Her eyes flit from the necklace to meet mine. “A message from you?”

“Yeah.”

When she moves her fingertips to unclasp the lid of the tube, I grab her hand.

“I want you to wait. Save it for a day when you really want to know what it says.”

Her brows pinch together. “I want to know what it says now, though.”

“I think if you wait for a time when you really, really want to know what it says, it’ll mean more.”

She studies my face, and I can’t tell if she’s disappointed, mad, or intrigued. “Only you would give me a gift that can’t say what it’s really meant to say,” she says.

“Fitting, huh?”

“Very.” She smiles crookedly. “I love it.” Leaning closer, she kisses my cheek. Her lips stay pressed against me, sticky from the marshmallow, and I want to turn, capture her mouth with mine, drag her onto the floor, and slowly undress her under the Christmas tree. I want to see the glow of the lights on her perfect skin, kiss her everywhere, taste the chocolate and peppermint on her lips.

“Will you put it on me?” she asks, turning away and lifting her long hair up, exposing the back of her neck, in a slow, sensual swoop. My large fingers fumble with the delicate clasp at the nape of her neck.

“There ya go,” I say, struggling not to pull her back against my chest and put my lips on her.

“It’s perfect.” Facing me, she fingers the glass tube. “I promise I’ll wait to put the little letters together. The mystery of it is very intriguing. I like it.”

“I thought you would.” I pull two lottery scratch tickets out of my pocket. “These are for you, too.”

She plucks them from my hands with a big smile on her face. “Maybe one of these will be my coveted thousand-dollar win.”

So far, she hasn’t won more than a hundred dollars on a ticket, but her mission is to win a grand.

I wink at her. “Ya never know.”

“I’ll scratch them later. I want you to open your prezzie.”

Wasting no time, I rip the wrapping paper off to find a small, gray box. Inside is a matte black custom lighter with an etched image of a gargoyle holding a red heart.

It’s cool. Probably one of the coolest things I’ll ever own.

“Wow.” I slowly rub my thumb over it. “I dig this a lot.”

“I had it made for you. Turn it over,” she says.

I do, and engraved with our wedding date, are the words: Thank you for being the best bad husband ever. Love always, Skylar ? . There’s a tiny sparkle at the end of her name like I put in our text messages.

“I thought I’d give you a souvenir of our fake marriage. It seemed a little more appropriate when I bought it, before…” She doesn’t finish her thought.