12 Days 'til Christmas ✓

chapter thirty

We walk hand in hand to the plaza, where I well up at the sight of the enormous Christmas tree that looms over the ice skating rink, thirty metres high. I can hardly see the tree for the lights, branches bowing under the weight of strings of fairy lights and a massive glowing star right at the top. It's a spectacular sight, one that I never thought I'd ever get to see in person.

Casper takes a selfie of the two of us with the tree behind us, the lights a blurry halo, and he presses his lips to my cheek for a second picture as he says, "Happy birthday, Beth."

"Happy birthday, Cas," I say in response, still amused by the fact that we share this day.

He waves over a fellow tourist, holding out his phone, and asks for a photo of the two of us. The man eagerly obliges, snapping several photos of us from multiple angles, a right little amateur photographer. He beams when we give him the all clear – they're really good photos, actually. Casper and me, cheeks pressed together, our bodies an indistinct blur of black coats and scarves.

"We'll come back here later, once it's dark. It'll be even more impressive, and we can skate," he says with a grin. "We all know how amazing I am at skating. Such a natural on the ice."

I frown at him and say, "I don't know if that's a good idea. I'd really rather not have to deal with insurance companies and American hospitals if you end up breaking your legs when you attempt a spin."

"No spins, I promise." He loops his little finger through mine, two layers of thick gloves separating skin from skin.

"What do you want to do today? It's your birthday as much as it is mine. Big one, too."

"Twenty-eight's a big one?" He raises his eyebrows at me. I can't tear my gaze from his, twinkling lights reflected in dark irises. "I don't buy it."

"I'm sure somewhere in the world, there's some reason for twenty-eight to be a big deal, so we're going to celebrate like it is. You survived the curse of twenty-seven!"

He gives me a dry look and snorts a laugh. "Pretty sure that only applies to singers."

"I've heard you sing in the shower." I pat his chest and say, "You've got a good set of lungs on you, Mr Boutayeb. Pretty good set of lips, too."

"All the better to kiss you with." He leans in close, so slowly that he manages to build anticipation from only a metre away, and I close my eyes as we kiss in front of the Rockefeller Christmas tree.

When Casper steps back, my glasses are fogged up. He laughs. "You can't handle how hot I am, baby."

"Good thing you're hot; I'm pretty chilly. We should huddle for warmth."

His eyebrows dance as he says, "I know something we could do to keep warm."

*

No, we don't go back to our hotel room. We hop on the Coney Island-bound F train at 6th Avenue and 48th street, the subway hot and stuffy and surprisingly busy. At West 4th Street, we switch to the Euclid Avenue-bound C train, and ten minutes later we emerge from the underground at the Brooklyn side of the Brooklyn Bridge.

"I've always wanted to walk across the bridge," Casper says, tightening his grip on my hand as we follow his phone's directions to the steps. They're not well signposted, nor are they obvious even when we find them and head up to the pedestrian walkway that will carry us back to the heart of downtown Manhattan.

It's a shame it's snowing. Not because it obscures the view – if anything, it makes it even more beautiful – but because the flakes stick to my glasses in a rainy blur, and my vision without my glasses is utter shit. I can't take them off, and I can't stop the snow from getting in the way.