Crosschecking

Holden

The festive spirit is rustling through my snowy streets, whispering of tree hunts and cozy cocoa moments. Yet, amidst the seasonal cheer, our Britt is battling the less glamorous side of pregnancy—hello mood swings and a boycott on beloved coffee! But fear not, because Holden's on a mission to sprinkle a little holiday magic into the mix. Today's the day we venture forth to fetch a genuine, soil-rooted Christmas tree—a first for Britt, whose notion of holiday greenery has been decidedly plastic until now. Will the scent of fresh pine coax a smile from our caffeine-starved mama-to-be? Or will the wilderness trek prove too much for her city-slicker sensibilities? Gather your mittens and your merriment—today promises to blend old traditions with new beginnings, and maybe, just maybe, turn a grumpy morning into a story worth repeating by the fire.

Playlist: "Not A Bad Thing" by Justin Timberlake

Pregnant women are supposed to glow, aren't they? Because glowing is not exactly how I would describe what Britt is doing right now. She's radiating something all right, but it isn't contentment and affection. Her hair is a mess, there's a scowl on her face, and she keeps glaring across the table at the coffeemaker while she picks at her breakfast.

"Everything okay, sweetie?" I ask.

She doesn't even glance my way. Instead, she jabs her fork at the coffeemaker. Then she stands up, moves toward it, and glares daggers at it. "You know what I love? Coffee. You know what I can't drink right? Coffee." She growls.

"I'm sorry, babe." I reach for her hand.

"Other pregnant women can drink coffee. Not much, but a little. Except me, with my blood pressure." She squeezes my hand and glares down at her own arm. "Stupid blood. Why does it have to be appropriately pressurized anyway? I'm not a steam engine."

I do my best to keep from smiling, but it's hard. She may not be glowing right now, but she's cute as hell. "I like your blood. I'm glad you have it. I'm told it's necessary."

"Just because I need it doesn't mean I have to like it!" Britt exclaims, but at least she's smiling, too.

"A really smart woman told me that pregnancy causes an extra three pounds of blood. Hence the issue with the blood pressure."

She backs her rump against my hip. "Below the waist. You're forgetting that part."

I bite back a chuckle. "Pretty sure I haven't forgotten. I've been ridden hard and put up wet, so to speak. Not that I'm complaining."

Another wiggle. "Is it possible that you might not want to complain again? Like right now? I'm pretty sure explosive orgasms trump lack of caffeine. But maybe I'm wrong…"

Placing my fingers around her waist, I yank her back against my already thickening length. "Just like Coach Duff always says, ‘Don't bitch about it, boys, just get to it.'"

Her hands grip the edge of the counter. "I think I like that man's style."

Leaning forward, I press my lips to her neck, feeling her pulse quicken beneath my touch. The heat between us is palpable, and I can"t resist the urge to tease her a little more. "Let's see if we can make you forget all about coffee, okay?" I whisper huskily in her ear.

Britt lets out a small gasp as my hand trails down her body, finding its way beneath the hem of her shirt. Her skin is soft and warm, and I revel in the sensation of her leaning back against me, seeking more of my touch. I slide her leggings and panties down until they hit her ankles and she steps out of them. With one hand caressing her curves, I use the other to undo my belt and lower my pants just enough to free myself.

She glances over her shoulder, biting her lip as she watches me pump myself slowly, the anticipation building between us. "Hold on tight, babe," I murmur, guiding her hand to where we both yearn for her touch the most. The room is filled with our heavy breaths and the sound of skin on skin as she matches my rhythm, our bodies moving as one in a dance of desire.

The tension builds with each stroke, each gasp and little mewl escaping Britt's lips driving me wild with need. I can feel her muscles tensing beneath my touch, feel how close she is to the edge. I reach around our bodies to strum her swollen clit. Ever since she found out she was pregnant, she's been insatiable. She comes quick and she comes hard. And I fucking love it. Just when I think I can't hold back any longer, she shudders in my arms, crying out in ecstasy as I follow close behind.

As we catch our breath, still tangled up in each other, I press a loving kiss to her temple. "Who needs coffee, babe? Whenever the craving hits, just let me know and I'll make it go away."

As we both adjust our clothing, she says, "I'll do my best to remain calm."

"That's the spirit. Is cocoa allowed?"

She perks up a little. "Yes. It's not the same, though."

"Guess I'll have to make you some fancy cocoa, then." I kiss the back of her hand, then get up to make her a drink. I make sure to pile on the mini marshmallows and add a candy cane for garnish. I don't know why the hell we have spray canisters of whipped cream in the fridge—although I suspect that Shep has something to do with it—so I go all in.

By the time Britt takes her first sip, she's beaming. "Thank you," she says, her cheeks pleasantly pink, her hands curled around the warm mug. "This is just what I needed."

"Anytime." I circle the table to kiss her temple. "It's festive, too. Speaking of which, are you coming today? It's time to get the tree."

"You don't have a tree?" Britt immediately reaches for her phone. "I can order one."

I return to my seat. "Hate to break it to you, but I think that's the one thing you can't have delivered. I can't really see Blink going out to cut a tree for you, even if he does have a little crush on you and you give him a big tip."

"Cut a—oh." Her eyes go round. "You mean, like, a tree tree."

"My dad and I go out together on the first weekend of December. It's tradition." I shake my head. "Let me guess, your family does fake trees?"

"My family asks the staff to put up a fake tree." Britt stirs her cocoa with her candy cane. "I've never had a real tree before. Mom says they can have bugs in them. And they're a fire hazard."

I bite my tongue. Britt has changed a lot of things about the house, mostly for the better, although I reserve judgment on the shiplap. I'm not putting one of those horrible plastic trees in the living room, though. I don't care if it has bugs and if it drops needles. This is one hill I'm willing to die on, although after how our last fight ended, I don't want to turn this topic into a debate.

Britt looks out toward the front window. "It'll be nice to have a real tree."

"So, you'll come out with us?" I ask.

She wrinkles her nose. "You want me to trek around in the wilderness to find a tree? With all the snow? And the ice? And the cold?"

I almost point out that my dad manages just fine in a wheelchair. Besides, we'll hardly be in the wilderness. Before I can open my mouth, however, I realize that I haven't actually told my dad what's going on. It would be nice to talk to him in private.

"I'll try to pick a suitably aesthetic tree," I tell her.

Britt looks up at me. There's a spot of whipped cream on the tip of her nose. "You'd better," she says.

* * *

I pick Dad up at his place around noon. Not to brag or anything, but I've become an expert wheelchair retriever. It's easier in the van than in the ancient Honda I used to drive, and there'll be plenty of space for the tree.

"You didn't bring Britt," Dad observes. "What should I infer from that?"

"Nothing, she's just not outdoorsy. And, uh." I swallow hard and grip the wheel in both hands. "To be honest, I was kind of glad we'll get to have this time together. It might be the last year where it's just the two of us."

"Oh?" Dad's eyebrows shoot up. He's not the most flexible these days, but he twists around so that he can examine my profile while I drive. "Thinking about popping the question, huh?"

I grimace. Beth made it pretty clear that I shouldn't rush a proposal. "Thinking about it. She's, you know." Why is this so hard? I guess I feel like I should have bigger news. Better news. Clearer news. "She's pregnant."

"Oh. That's wonderful, Holden." Dad clears his throat. "Unless it's not. How do you feel?"

"Excited. And scared." I add this last part like an afterthought, although it's my primary emotion at this point. "Things are up in the air. We haven't really talked about what happens next."

Dad's hand rests heavily on my shoulder, his grip firm yet reassuring. "You know, Holden," he begins, his voice tinged with a warmth that fills the cramped space of the van, "being a father is the single most terrifying and rewarding thing I've ever done. It's all about stepping into the unknown with hope, not fear." His eyes, clouded slightly with age, meet mine with an intensity that anchors me. "And as for Britt, talk to her, really talk. It's the only way you'll navigate this together. Life's about finding the courage to face what comes next, not having all the answers upfront."

I try to swallow past the lump of growing emotion. "Do you really think so?"

He gives my shoulder a squeeze, as if trying to transfer some of his strength through his fingertips. "And if things get tough," he continues, the corner of his lips tilting in a half-smile, "remember, you're my son. You've got more grit in you than you realize. This child, your family... it's your chance to build something that lasts, something forged from love and a bit of fear. Embrace it all, son. That's what makes us grow."

Dad's words, heavy with emotion and wisdom, settle around us like a comforting blanket, and as I nod, feeling the weight of his expectations and his faith, I feel a little less adrift, anchored by the love and guidance he"s always provided.

Aw, hell, I'm gonna cry. I try to bite it back, but my throat is scratchy and fucked up. I don't want her to leave me. I'm terrified she will. And if she does, I won't just be losing her. The last time I tried to confront Britt about her plans, though, we kind of fought, and she passed out, and now I'm afraid that one or the other of us is going to get their heart broken.

"What's wrong, kiddo?" Dad's voice is soft and kind, just like it was when I was little and hurting over something small, like a bee sting or a skinned knee.

"You just—you made it look easy. I have no idea how I can be as good a father as you."

Dad laughs. "Years of practice. You'll get there. You're all heart. You're halfway there. Plus, I'll let you in on a little secret."

I wipe my eyes on the back of my coat sleeve. "Tell me. I need insider knowledge."

"I made loads of mistakes. You just don't remember them." Dad squeezes my shoulder one more time before he lets go. "It'll be like that for you too. You'll make mistakes and all the times you get it right will make the mistakes completely forgettable."

"Yeah? Well, that's reassuring, because I fuck up a lot."

"You were a good kid. You're a good man. I have every confidence you'll be a good father."

I try to sniff and laugh at the same time. "Thanks for the pep talk, Dad." My nose is running, but I have a fistful of old napkins left over from takeouts of yore stuffed in the door handle. I use up half of my supply when we pull up to the Christmas tree farm.

"Are you good?" Dad asks. "There's no rush. We can sit here as long as you want."

I appreciate the sentiment. The longer we sit here, though, the more time will pass before I can get back to her.

* * *

Dad is basically moral support when it comes to loading and unloading the tree. He doesn't visit me at my place often, since the style of construction at my house means that it's not particularly accessible for him. I know I need to change that—just another thing on my endless to-do list. And now I'm gonna have to babyproof this place too. I leave the tree by the curb, along with his wheelchair, and help him up the steps and into the house before I do anything else.

Britt scrambles over when she sees us coming. "What happened?"

"Nothing at all. Holden's just giving me a hand." Dad pats my shoulder, and the three of us work together to maneuver him into the chair.

"You don't have a ramp?" Britt asks me, frowning in confusion.

"No. The stairs are a weird angle, so we've found other ways to make it work."

Britt purses her lips and reaches for her phone. I know that look. She's going to come up with a solution sometime within the next ten minutes. She's so independent and capable, sometimes I think she checks things off my to-do list before I even write them down. "Your dad should be able to visit without worrying about the porch steps," she grumbles.

I kiss her forehead. "I'll be right back."

By the time I get everything hauled up the stairs and into the living room, Dad has already decided that Britt is his favorite.

"I love what you've done with the place," he tells her. "I had no idea it could look like this. If you ever get bored, you can come give me tips. Or I'll give you a budget…"

Britt laughs. "I would love that. Rumor has it I'm going to lose my job any day now."

"Something will turn up," Dad says, reaching over to pat her knee. "It always does. Life has a funny way of working out all the time. No matter how big the challenge."

I hold the tree, Britt kneels to tighten the screws in the stand, and Dad tells me to tilt it left, then right, no left again… a little more…

Once everything's secure, Britt steps back to admire the effect. "Okay, that is nice. And I like the smell. It's kind of barren, though. What do we do now? Make popcorn and string it on twine or something? Or hang pickles from the branches? Don't laugh, Holden, I swear I'm not making this up." She whips out her phone and starts typing. "See? There's a tradition where you hide a pickle with the other ornaments."

"It's supposed to be an ornament, not a real pickle. And no, I'm not playing hide the pickle while my dad's sitting right there."

Britt's cheeks turn bright red, and Dad howls with laughter. "Wow," she mumbles, "I walked right into that one, didn't I?"

Dad wipes his streaming eyes. "Sorry, Britt, our brand of humor is a little off-color. You'll get used to us Travers men."

"It's fine." Britt tucks her feet under her as she gets comfortable on the couch. "Mine is, too. I'm just not used to this. My family doesn't, uh." She waves a hand like she's trying to clear an unpleasant smell from the room. "Get along. We're not close. We don't laugh together. We don't even cry together."

Dad nods and strokes his short beard philosophically. "That's a shame."

"I think this one is better." Britt smiles up at me, and I melt a little. My expectations regarding family shifted significantly after my mother's death. Now, they're about to change again.

I suddenly feel older, and not in the shit-man-I-just-paid-those-bills way that set in when I first started taking care of my dad. There's been a wildness in my chest for years, a hunger for something I was missing, a force that pushed and pulled at me that I didn't know how to satisfy.

After my mom's illness and my dad's injury, I had to fight to survive. Now, with Britt, I finally get to build something.

"Tinsel?" Britt asks, back to speculating about the tree. "Lights? Maybe we should get—"

A car honks in the driveway.

"Be right back," I announce. "Blink is going to need some help carrying things in."

Britt freezes with her hand halfway to her phone. "But I didn't order anything yet. Is he psychic now? Because if so, I should tip better, but also that's creepy."

"I did. It was an emergency. Lights go on first, and we needed new ones." I bend down to steal a quick, chaste kiss on my way to the door.

I may have gone a little overboard. Even with my help, it takes two trips for us to bring everything in: I bought LED lights that come with a remote so that we can change the colors… I knew Britt would want white, but I like it when they're multicolored, and this way we can have both. I ordered a Christmas tree apron to cover the stand and keep needles from getting everywhere.

As for the ornaments, I may have gone a little crazy. I have some old ones from my childhood, and we're still going to put those up, but I didn't like the idea of having a tree that was all about me and my past, with nothing of her on display, so I picked a bunch of novelty ornaments that we could both appreciate. They'll remind us of how we got together, and every year after this one, they'll also remind us of our first Christmas together.

Dad, of course, takes a shine to Blink. "And who's this young fella out there making his way in the world?"

"I'm the competition." Blink dumps an armload of lights on my side of the couch. Britt immediately starts digging through them. "Holden here thinks I'm out to take his job, and he's not wrong. I have youth on my side. Eventually, my time will come." He aims finger-guns at me as he backs out of the door for the last of the delivery.

Dad chuckles. "It's nice to see you making friends outside of your teammates."

"He's not my friend," I grumble. "He's my nemesis."

Britt looks up from her inspection and jabs a finger at me. "Don't you dare run him off. If you do, I'll make you drive all the way to the Walmart every time I want something."

I'm ready for Blink to be gone, but Britt asks if he wants a cup of cocoa, and of course, he agrees even though he's on the clock. Then she offers twenty bucks in cash to help us put up the lights. By the time he's finally gone, Dad's yawning, so I take him home.

When I pull back up to the house, a soft glow emanates from the window. Stepping into the house is like stepping back in time, to when Christmas was still magical and I didn't have to worry about the future. Being with Britt has a funny way of uniting my past and my future into one continuous thread. She brings out the safety I associate with childhood, the confidence that comes with adulthood, and the reassurance that we're making something that's meant to withstand the test of time.

Britt is snuggled up under a festive fleece blanket I just ordered, dozing on the arm of the couch. She blinks awake when I kiss her temple.

"You didn't put up the ornaments," I say.

She covers her mouth to hide her yawn. "I wanted to do it together."

So we do. I hang up the hot dog ornament that represents her first-ever cookout. She adds the pint of beer, a reference to Power Play. I found hockey ornaments, a glass ball filled with shiny packages, a lollipop that says Baby on Board… and we laugh and reminisce over every single one.

The last ornament is no ordinary decoration; it's a flat ceramic disc, elegantly simple but deeply meaningful, with a delicate ribbon threaded through a small hole at the top. Our names, Holden and Britt are beautifully scripted along the curve, and between them, the image of a quaint little family painted beneath our smiling faces—a placeholder question mark where our future child will soon be represented. The soft gleam of the Christmas lights catches its glossy surface, turning it into a reflection of our soon-to-be-expanded family, a tangible symbol of the life we're building together.

Even if she won't let me put a label on it. At least not yet.

Britt's reaction is immediate and visceral. Her eyes, usually so fierce and confident, well up with tears, the kind that glitter like the ornament in the dim light of our living room. She laughs—a soft, melodious sound that belies the depth of her emotion. "It's these damn hormones," she mumbles, wiping away a stray tear with the back of her hand, but her voice is thick, choked with the weight of the moment.

As I fumble with the ornament, my palms sweat. The words I've held back for too long push against my lips, desperate for freedom yet fearful of rejection. Drawing a deep breath, I look into Britt's eyes, searching for some hint of the same fear gnawing at me. My voice barely rises above a whisper, weighted with vulnerability. "I… I love you, Britt." The confession hangs between us, fragile and exposed. "And I love our baby. More than anything. I can't imagine my life without either of you in it."

She freezes, her breath hitching slightly. The silence stretches, taut as a wire. I wonder if this is the point where she bolts and I lose it all. Then, with a slow exhale, she shifts her gaze away from mine, focusing on something mundane in the distance—perhaps gathering her thoughts or bracing for what comes next.

"I…" she starts, her voice a rough scrape of uncertainty. "I love you too, Holden. I never imagined myself saying those words right now, but here we are." The words aren't adorned with sentimentality; they're pragmatic, almost reluctant, but they're hers, and they're real. "Got any mistletoe?" she asks, a half-smile tugging at her lips despite the wetness in her eyes. "Because right now, I really need to kiss you."

There's no mistletoe, but that doesn't matter. I close the distance between us, my kiss an answer, a promise, a leap into whatever our future holds. It's a connection filled with the gritty reality of our lives, the complexity of her admission, and the fragile hope that blooms, fierce and defiant, in the silence of our shared space.

The playfulness in her tone doesn't mask the earnestness behind it—it only makes this moment more precious, more real. I chuckle, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face, my fingers lingering on her soft skin, memorizing the feel of her. "You don't need an excuse. Not ever."

She slides her fingers along my jaw. "Good."

Tenderly, I lower my head, our breaths mingling in the scant space between us. "I'm yours, Britt. Always. Only yours. I think that might have happened the first time I saw you." The warmth of the fire behind us pales in comparison to the heat rising between us, a silent testament to the years of love and life we are promising each other in this simple act.

Her response is immediate and fervent; she rises slightly on her toes, her hands finding their way to the nape of my neck, pulling me down to her. Our lips meet in another kiss that's gentle at first, a soft press of mouths that says everything words cannot. But it quickly deepens, growing more passionate as if our souls are reaching out, intertwining with every heartbeat. Britt kisses me with a desperation that matches the pounding of my heart, her fingers threading through my hair, anchoring me to her, to this moment, to the promise of a future together.

The world narrows down to the space we occupy, to the sound of the crackling fire, to the shimmering lights of the Christmas tree, to her—Britt, the woman who has utterly transformed my existence. The kiss lingers, a slow dance of lips and breaths that speaks of shared dreams and whispered vows, a confirmation of every silent hope and spoken desire.

As we finally part, breathless and flushed, her forehead rests against mine, her breath warm against my skin. "This is more than I ever dared hope for," she murmurs, her voice laden with emotion. "I still can't believe it's real. That this is my life."

"And there's so much more to come," I whisper back, my hands sliding down to cradle her face, my thumbs caressing her cheeks. "With you, Britt, every day is a gift. Every moment with you is a chance to love you more."

Britt's eyes glimmer with unshed tears, a mirror to the emotions swirling within me. "Holden, this…" She gestures to the ornament, then to the room around us, adorned in its festive splendor, "everything here—you make it feel like home. Like a real family. And I…" She swallows hard, her voice trembling, "I've never had that before."

I tighten my hold on her, pulling her into a protective embrace. "You'll never be without it again. We're going to build something incredible together, Britt. You, me, and our little one on the way." I feel her nod against my chest, her arms encircling me with equal fervor. "No matter what life throws at us—what challenges or how hard they are—we'll make it work."

The room is silent except for the soft crackle of the fire and our quiet breathing. I reach for the ornament again, holding it out between us, our reflections smiling back through the glossy surface. "This will be our first family Christmas ornament," I say, my voice thick with emotion. "But it's just the start. Every year, we'll add more memories, more milestones. And one day, we'll be able to tell our kid about each one, about how this all began with a leap of faith."

Her smile is radiant, wiping away the remnants of tears. She reaches up to touch the ornament, her finger tracing the outline of our painted faces. "Then let's start now. Let's make every moment count."

Together, under the twinkling lights of our first shared Christmas tree, we step into a future ripe with potential, our hearts and hands entwined. In this moment, with the chill of December outside and the warmth of our declarations inside, I know with unshakable certainty that we are exactly where we are meant to be.

The glow in her eyes reflects not just the Christmas lights but also the depth of what we feel, an endless ocean of love that promises to carry us through whatever may come.