Keyframe

Baby, It's Cold Outside

"You're very pushy, you know?"

"I like to think of it as opportunistic."

- "Baby It's Cold Outside," Indina Menzel and Michael Bublé (2014)

Alejandro

I woefully underestimated just how exhausted I would be after the few days that I've just had. After I close my eyes on the night of December 23rd, I don't move, I don't think, and I don't dream. I just...sleep—for what feels like forever. And, by the time I wake up on the morning of Christmas Eve, I'm partially mortified to see light peeking from behind the closed curtains.

Lily is still fast asleep, hugging her pillow and tucked deep into the curve of my body. I slowly un-snake my arms in an attempt to not wake her before leaning back and picking up my phone.

Thank God it's barely 7:00 AM.

Everyone retired as soon as we arrived yesterday: showers taken, beds pulled back, and lights out by 10:00 last night. But not being up at my usual time is still strange to me—even if I have an excuse.

I tuck Lily in again, kissing her forehead before going to the window and pulling the curtains back. She might not be a morning person, but I know that the sun wakes her when she doesn't have anywhere to be. And, if I don't uncover the window, we might not be seeing any of her until lunch.

Lily growls like a hibernating bear in response to the light, not moving an inch, so I make myself scarce and gently close the door behind me.

The hallway is empty, to my relief—almost ominously so. Darkness hangs in the corners as I walk, the sun still not high enough to chase the shadows away, and a dozen Dawson ancestors stare me down from large oil paintings. By the time I reach my room, I haven't heard a single sound save for the fireplaces roaring in the distance. I know that Lily and Jordan are allergic to any time before 10:00 AM, but the Bennetts must be late risers as well.

In fact, I've finished my run on the treadmill, taken a shower, gotten fully dressed, and migrated to the sunroom without speaking to a single soul. After all the excitement of the past few days, I should enjoy my solitude—silence only filled by the sound of the space heater and wind whipping through the bare trees. But the panoramic view through the wall of windows is strangely solemn: dead beiges and browns underneath a grey sky.

"There you are," Lily's voice chirps, and, when I turn from my spot in front of the windows, she's padding towards me with two mugs in hand. "I've been looking for you everywhere."

"Really?" I can't hide the surprise in my response, chuckling and leaning down to kiss her when she lifts her chin expectantly. "What are you doing up? It's barely eight."

"The bed got ten degrees colder after you left; it woke me right up. Besides, we take Christmas Eve really seriously...this is the last time we'll be alone until the end of the day." Her gaze shifts down as she hands me one of her mugs. "And I asked Dad to make you your coffee—I can't remember a thing about integral calculus or what I ate yesterday, but I still know how you like it."

"Oh—" I take it, feeling the warmth spread through my fingers and trigger a strangely pleasant ache in my chest. "Thank you, maní. Is the rest of your family up?"

"Yeah, they're all making breakfast. But I got out of it because I have a boo-boo brain."

She points to her head with a grin, then flanking me to peer out of the windows. But I keep my eyes on her as I turn, watching for any hint of real discontent in her demeanor. Her exterior certainly looks like it's any other day—she's wearing an oversized sweatshirt that slips off her freckled shoulder, fish socks, and her short hair untied with curls brushing her forehead. But what's strange is the complete normality of her poise: subdued and calm with brief moments of cheekiness like always.