The weeks leading up to Christmas were a blur of tinsel and tears.
At Radiance, the holiday rush hit like a glittery freight train. Lines out the door. Panicked boyfriends. Mothers buying “just a little something” for themselves.
“Why are all men incapable of buying jewelry before December twenty‑third,” Leah demanded, shoving a tray of empty ring boxes at Tessa. “It’s like they think time is a myth.”
“Capitalism teaches procrastination,” Tessa said, stuffing tissue paper into bags. “Basic supply‑and‑demand anxiety.”
“Don’t use econ words at me,” Leah said. “I’m fragile.”
As assistant manager, Tessa found herself juggling more than just sales. Schedules. Complaints. Corporate emails about upselling warranties.
At home, design class assignments piled up. Marla had assigned them a final project: design a small collection of three pieces with a unifying theme.
“Keep it simple,” she’d said. “You’re not launching Cartier. Three pieces. Story first.”
Tessa’s mind whirled with possibilities. Threads. Paths. Things she could say with metal that she couldn’t with words.
Her sketchbook filled with circles. Lines. Leaf shapes. Little notations—*bridge,* *fault line,* *knot.*
Caleb, for his part, was buried in end‑of‑year chaos. Budget meetings. Performance reviews. Tenant leases. The charity initiative he’d spearheaded.
They saw each other. But less. Snatches of time. Late‑night calls. Shared coffees.
Their rule about saying “I need more of you” got tested.
> Tessa: hey. i miss you. (don’t @ me. I know it’s against the rules)
His reply was immediate.
> Caleb: Rules are evolving. I miss you too.
> Caleb: Friday night. Non‑negotiable. You, me, no work, no gala, no other humans.
> Tessa: make it pizza and I’ll consider it.
> Caleb: Done.
Friday came. And with it, the flu.
“You have to go home,” Cynthia said, crossing her arms as Tessa dabbed at her nose for the twentieth time. “You’re a walking biohazard.”
“I’m fine,” Tessa croaked. “Also, we’re down two people; I can’t—”
“You are pale,” Cynthia said. “Paler. And you just tried to sell a Star of David to a woman asking for a cross. Go home. Sleep. Before you infect our entire revenue stream.”
Tessa blinked. “Wow. I’ve never heard such capitalistic concern for my health.”
“Go,” Cynthia said, gentler. “We’ll survive. Barely. I’ll tell corporate it was an act of God.”
Tessa texted Caleb from the bus, eyes aching.
> Tessa: death has visited me. cancel tonight. save yourself.
> Caleb: No.
> Tessa: ????
> Caleb: I’m coming over. With soup.
> Tessa: NO. stay away. plague.
> Caleb: You survived my snowstorm. I can survive your germs.
> Tessa: that’s not how immune systems work
> Caleb: I’ll bring hand sanitizer.
She stood no chance.
He showed up an hour later, juggling a paper bag of medicine and a Tupperware of what smelled like actual homemade soup.
“You made this,” she rasped, incredulous.
“I have a recipe,” he said. “From my grandmother. Don’t tell her I used boxed stock; she’ll disown me.”
He shooed her back to the couch, tucked a blanket around her, and set about reheating the soup on her tiny stove like he belonged there.
“You’re going to get sick,” she warned. “Then your whole company will crumble because you insisted on feeding me chicken and noodles.”
“I’ve had my flu shot,” he said. “And I’ve survived worse.”
“Have you,” she muttered.
He brought her a steaming bowl, sat on the floor next to the couch, back against it, one hand resting lightly on her shin over the blanket.
They watched some terrible Christmas movie where a big‑city lawyer fell in love with a small‑town baker over gingerbread.
“This is offensive to both law and baking,” Tessa said.
“I’m offended by the use of flannel,” Caleb replied.
At some point, she drifted. Fever making her floaty. Lulled by the sound of his voice, his laugh, the solid presence of him at her feet.
She woke to find the credits rolling and his head tipped back against the couch, eyes closed. The soup bowl sat empty on the table.
She watched him for a minute. The way his lashes lay against his cheeks. The faint stubble on his jaw. The small groove between his brows that never quite went away.
“I love you,” she whispered. Too quiet for him to hear. Too loud for her to ignore.
The urge to reach out. To touch. To climb off the couch and into his lap and kiss him until they both forgot their names…
It was bone‑deep.
Also: irresponsible. Fever. Germs. Rules.
She stayed put.
The next week, he got sick anyway.
“You jinxed me,” he sniffled into the phone. “I sound like a dying walrus.”
“Sexy,” she said. “Should I bring soup.”
“No,” he said. “You’ll catch a second strain and we’ll both die.”
They joked. They complained. They whined.
But under it, the strain of the season pressed.
One night, a few days before Christmas, it snapped.
It started small. As these things often did.
Tessa texted him from the stockroom, surrounded by mountains of incoming boxes.
> Tessa: corporate sent us a surprise shipment. help.
> Caleb: I’m in a board meeting. Help how?
> Tessa: emotional support. memes.
He didn’t reply for forty minutes.
In that time, Cynthia asked her to stay an extra hour. A woman yelled at her because the exact necklace she’d seen on Instagram was backordered. A kid knocked over an entire earring display.
By the time her break rolled around, Tessa was vibrating with stress. She checked her phone.
Nothing.
Her anxiety, already high, latched onto it.
> Tessa: busy?
> Tessa: ignore me. I know you are. sorry.
She shoved the phone back in her pocket.
When she finally clocked out, two hours later than scheduled, there was a text.
> Caleb: Sorry. Meeting ran long. Then Dad pulled me into something. You okay?
She stared at it on the bus, exhausted.
Her thumbs moved before her brain could filter.
> Tessa: i needed you. you weren’t there.
Three dots. Erased. Reappeared.
> Caleb: Call?
She hit dial.
He picked up on the second ring.
“Hey,” he said, voice tight. “What happened.”
“I know you’re busy,” she said, throat thick. “I know. I *know.* But I was… drowning. And you were… gone.”
“I was in a meeting,” he said quietly. “I wasn’t… on a beach.”
“I’m not asking you to… be on call 24/7,” she said. “I’m just… saying… when you say ‘I’m here, whatever you need,’ and then you’re… not… it… hurts.”
He was silent for a second.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Truly. I… meant it. When I said that. I just… also have… obligations… I can’t… bail on. Every time.”
“I know that,” she said. “Logically. Emotionally, my inner eight‑year‑old is like ‘cool, another man who wasn’t there when I needed him.’”
He inhaled. “That’s… not… fair.”
“It’s… not,” she agreed. “To you. It’s… about… my dad. And… all the times he… didn’t show. I… know that. I’m… working on it. I just… can’t… always… stop the feeling.”
“I don’t want to be… compared to him,” Caleb said. “Even in your head. Especially there.”
“I don’t either,” she whispered.
He let out a breath. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s… try something. Practical. You… texted me. I didn’t see it for forty minutes. That’s… on me to… manage your expectations better. But maybe… we can build in… some… understanding.”
“Like what,” she asked.
“Like…” He thought. “If I’m in a meeting, I’ll set my phone to send you an auto‑reply. ‘In meeting, out in an hour.’ So you know… I’m not just… staring at the wall ignoring you.”
She huffed a laugh despite herself. “An out‑of‑office for my feelings.”
“Basically,” he said. “On your side… maybe… if it’s… truly an emergency, you call. Not… text. So I know… to step out. Or… send a one‑word code.”
“A code,” she echoed.
“Yes,” he said. “Like… ‘red.’ Or… ‘avocado.’ Something that tells me… this is not… a meme request. This is… drowning. I need… oxygen.”
“You’re really big on systems,” she said. “Even for… panic.”
“Systems keep me… from defaulting to… old habits,” he said. “If I know… ‘avocado’ means ‘get the hell out of the room and call her,’ I can… move.”
“Why avocado,” she asked.
“Because you hate them,” he said. “You’d never use it casually.”
She smiled weakly. “Okay,” she said. “Avocado. But if I text ‘avocado,’ and you… don’t… respond…”
“I will,” he said.* “I promise. That… gets priority. Over… most things.”
“Most,” she said.
“Not… if I’m driving,” he amended. “Or… at a funeral. Or… actively on fire.”
“You better not be on fire,” she said.
He laughed softly. “You… needed me,” he said, circling back. “And I… wasn’t… there. I’m… sorry. That’s going to happen. Sometimes. On both sides. But… I want you to know… I *want* to be. That’s… new. For me.”
Her heart twinged. “That… helps,” she said quietly. “A little.”
“We’re… going to fuck up,” he said. “A lot. I just… don’t want… fuck‑ups to… fester. I want them… aired. Like this.”
“You and Elise with your metaphors,” she murmured.
He smiled into the phone. “We’re very on‑brand.”
***