Against the Universe

17 • maddie

A/N: Update 2/2

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When I invited Harper Goldmann over for the 25th, I'd expected her to decline, or cancel at the last minute, as per usual. So when she showed up at our doorstep earlier holding a tiny gift bag, I was gobsmacked. It's a Christmas miracle.

The last time we saw each other, her hair was down to the small of her back, dull and frizzy with split-ends galore. Now it's in an edgy pixie cut, ebony waves sweeping across her forehead.

It took a Herculean effort to not say anything. Harper hates when people comment on her appearance, even if it's a compliment. I don't understand it at all, but I respect it.

Her sense of fashion has changed too, at least for today. Gone are the oversized Cambridge hoodie and faded jeggings. She's got on a surprisingly fitting black turtleneck and bootcut jeans.

Not every thing is different though. Same perpetually bored expression. Same knock-off Doc Martens from Primark. Same wide, clubmaster glasses, slightly askew on her nose.

She takes a moment to marvel at the living room before tucking the presents underneath our mammoth fir tree. It sparkles in the rightmost corner with over a hundred gold baubles.

Caitlynn and I spent eons decorating everything — we even made a Pinterest board for inspiration — and now it looks like we're inside a John Lewis ad. Two large mason jars stuffed with pine cones and white fairy lights sit on the coffee table, along with a gingerbread-scented candle that's been burning since the early morning, making the whole downstairs floor smell like freshly-baked cookies. Pine garlands with even more fairy lights are draped over the window sills and mantelpiece.

"What are we watching?" Harper asks, picking up the remote to flick through Netflix. "Don't say Love Actually, for the love of God. I'll kill myself."

I brush off her slander of the cinematic masterpiece. "Watched it yesterday. Relax."

She sighs in relief. While she continues searching, I pick up my acoustic guitar and begin strumming the chords of Let it Snow.

"Oh, the weather outside—"

My singing is instantly cut off by a chorus of "no"s from different rooms.

Caitlynn pops her head into the living room. Her face is twisted into a grimace. "Just play," she says. "Don't sing. Please."

I frown. I wasn't that off-key.

Beside me, Harper chuckles to herself, then tries to cover it up as a cough.

I go through three and a half more carols — humming along this time, since apparently no one appreciates my singing — and in the end Harper gives up looking for a film and puts on Stick Man.

I place a fluffy cushion on her lap so I can lay on her while we watch, yanking a cable knit blanket over my body. "You know, you never told me how New York was," I say.

A few weeks ago, Harper got to visit the big apple for Model United Nations — something I'm not nerdy enough to understand or be interested in. I am, however, disgustingly jealous that she got to see the concrete jungle where dreams are made of, but I try to push it down as I badger her for details.

"I don't know, it was good, Maddie," she says plainly. "I don't know what you want me to tell you."

Her evasiveness makes me want to rip my hair out. "At least show me pictures!"