Our first Christmas together. Well, that’s what it was supposed to be. Owen and I rented a tiny apartment while we went to college and by tiny I mean smaller than our living room. The building was a Painted Lady. One of those old Victorian houses painted up all fancy. This one was Ivory, Violet, Mauve, Taupe, Russet, and Lilac with Gold accents, or so our landlady reminded us every month when we handed her our rent. But like the other kind of painted lady, she was all show.

The house was divided into six apartments with a shared kitchen and two shared bathrooms. Ours was the second biggest apartment and there wasn’t enough space inside for an elephant to turn around. But the house was clean, spotless. Elizabeth Weatherford, the landlady, lived downstairs in the biggest apartment and her own bathroom, and spent her days keeping her house as clean as her conscience.

The room was decorated in shades of off white and brown if I remember correctly—we even had a chandelier, a gold one with seven small bulbs, all of which had been replaced with fluorescents, so the room was dim for several minutes after we turned it on. I replaced one light with an incandescent bulb, but every time she caught us with the door open, she would comment and Owen, being the nice guy he is, would switch it back while she watched. Then, I switched it out again.

Mrs. Weatherford and I did this for over two years, without ever mentioning it to each other, but one year for her birthday I bought really nice florescent lights and solved both our problems, but I missed our little game and I think she did, too.

This wasn’t to say that we couldn’t have afforded a nicer place. My dad even offered to buy us one, but Mrs. Weatherford was Nick’s mother’s aunt, the black sheep of his family. “Never do anything you’ll regret and never regret anything you do” was her motto. And as far as I know she never did. Her house was a bit too far from the college to be convenient and along a semi-busy street. Not busy for here, but busy for that quiet little town. Her family didn't speak to her, but after her husband died, she filled her days with her house and her tenants. She treated us like her kids, which was probably why not many students stayed long. Most of the time Owen and I had the upstairs bathroom to ourselves. Without our monthly rent she might have lost her home, not because of the mortgage, which was paid off, but because of the upkeep and taxes. Rent was her only income. During my senior year, Dad got her husband’s life insurance straightened out. Those Christmas cards we get every year with the photo of a house on them, they’re from her.

But the story I’m telling is my freshman year and Owen’s sophomore. The year before, he’d come home for Christmas, but this year I started at his college. Technically, I lived in the dorms. All freshmen did, but I never spent a night away from Owen that I didn’t have to. This winter it started snowing in mid December. Not the “oh, pretty, let’s go play in it because it will melt by afternoon.” No, this was the kind that came, stayed around until it was more ice than snow, dumped on more snow, which turned to ice, then repeated.

We had chains for our car, but the a hundred miles home might as well have been a thousand. Our parents called everyday to make sure we were still alive and to beg us not to attempt the drive. A week before Christmas, which should have been the last week before winter break, but was the first week of, due to the ice and snow, Owen and I started making plans.

Mrs. Weatherford had a tree set up in the living room, but Owen picked up one of those tiny trees in a pot to put on our dresser. I told him that our love was like that tree. It was small, now, and new, but it would grow and someday be bigger than a house. I was well rewarded for that, let me tell you.

But anyway, Owen and I went shopping for each other. We didn’t make separate trips because the roads were so bad. We took Mrs. Weatherford with us. She was scared to drive. We walked through the same store trying to figure out what to buy without seeing the other or being seen. You might like to know what your presents are, but I like the surprise.

Two hours later, we met at the car each holding paper bags. Mrs. Weatherford laughed at us. Neither of us had bought so much as tape to wrap the gifts. She let us use her wrapping supplies as long as we left the gifts under her Christmas tree, which she said looked lonely. Owen, being conscientious, bought presents for everyone, even people he would see for months, so Mrs. Weatherford’s tree had lots of gifts under it by the time he was done.

Mrs. Weatherford had people over on Christmas Eve, people like her who had no other place to go, plus those who wouldn’t risk traveling further than a few miles on that cold, icy night. I did my best to keep my mouth shut. I really tried. Owen is so much better at that than I am. Among the guests was a young pastor, who spent several minutes condemning Owen for our “lifestyle”. I wanted to be sarcastic at him but Owen shook his head, and I leaned against a wall far enough away that I couldn’t hear what was being said. Mrs. Weatherford walked by and proclaimed, “Jesus wants us to love our fellow man.”

The pastor followed her away, probably telling her why she was wrong. Owen turned to me and smiled. He is truly the most beautiful person I’ve ever known. He can boost my mood with a grin or have me aching for time alone by running his fingers through his hair. Which he did. I made our excuses and took him upstairs.

Owen is six inches taller than me, but that Christmas he was still growing, so he was closer to five. He didn’t grow in the beanpole way, straight up and then out. He has always been perfectly filled out for his height. And beautiful as I mentioned before. His hair was lighter then, still auburn, but not as deep. And he had more freckles across his nose, but his eyes have always been that bottomless green that makes me think of tropical pools and deserted islands and making love all day long, like some porno. Only better.

Well, what else to say? College was easier for him than me. For the first time in my life, I had to study. Our parents were paying our way. He had more scholarships, but I had more pocket change. I bought the groceries most of the time and he never said anything.

No, I’m not getting sidetracked. This is the commercial break because upstairs we are having sex and I’m sure you, as our children, don’t want to hear about that.

Ok, ok, back to the story. Owen and I were hot and sweaty… Not that part? It’s what’s next. No, I can’t skip ahead anymore. How about this? I cursed when someone knocked at our bedroom door. Couldn’t they hear what we were doing? Whatever happened to privacy?

I ignored the first knock and distracted Owen, but then the knock came again. I wanted the knocker to leave and I knew how close Owen was to—Ok, ok. Sufficient to say, we made our guest wait and when I pulled my clothes on to open the door— No, that’s not too much information. The point is that Owen wasn’t ready to receive visitors.

Who should our unexpected—and unwanted—guests be but Nick and Mandy? I think it shows just how comfortable Nick had gotten with the idea of our relationship that he didn’t run screaming from the house. Mandy rolled her eyes and asked were the bathroom was. She was eight months along with Avery and seemed to spend more time in the bathroom than out of it.

When I got back, Nick was in our room staring at our little tree as Owen straightened the covers. The room smelled like sex. But Nick gave no sign that he knew what he’d interrupted except when he told Mandy not to sit on the bed. She ignored him. The room was only big enough for the queen sized bed and one dresser. And the only spots on the floor with enough room to sit down were in front of the doors to the closet and the hallway. No one could expect a pregnant girl to sit on the floor.

Mandy went to the woman’s college her parents wanted her to attend for a year. But one weekend Nick came by to see her rather than both of them going home. They were both good kids, raised well, so neither had ever bought protection or had a reason to use it. I will never forget Nick’s hysterical call the day he found out Avery was on the way. I answered Owen’s phone—he was in the shower—and Nick didn’t realize I wasn’t Owen until much later.

They got married that summer and Nick went back to his college, Mandy in tow. They were happy together, I’ll grant you that, but I only saw them otherwise, because when they called or came over, they needed something. This time they needed a place to stay. They left Nick’s college in sunny California, but hit winter weather as they travelled north. The freeway was closed to anyone without chains and why would Nick need chains in the land of the sun?

Owen, always aware of other’s comfort levels, invited his friends downstairs. Mrs. Weatherford’s party was still underway and she welcomed the two strays as if they were her own. The pastor’s mouth opened when he saw Owen’s and my tousled hair. I smirked, but held my tongue and frowning he turned away, his cheeks aflame.

I love doing that.

Well, Nick and Mandy needed a place to sleep. Mrs. Weatherford offered the room next to ours. It was empty at the moment, but like all the other rooms, furnished. She was so happy to meet them and encouraged us to stay up late around the fire after she went to bed. But I will tell you straight out that I didn’t like them, not at the time. They did grow on me later and I missed them terribly when they were gone, but at the time, I just wish they would leave us alone.

So the conversation around the fire was Nick talking about his school with Owen making encouraging sounds to keep him talking and Mandy interrupting to say how things really happened even if she wasn’t there at the time. I think Nick and Mandy enjoyed themselves, which made Owen happy, which made me happy. But not satisfied if you know what I mean.

The next morning I rolled over and pretended to be asleep when Nick knocked on our door. Owen, ever the gracious host, went downstairs with them and I pulled the blankets over my head. While I was cataloging all the plans those two would ruin, Owen came back up.

He smiled that delicious grin and said, “Elizabeth has them making waffles. We have a half an hour at least.”

And he made good use of our time. If I was willing to talk about such things with you three, I’d tell you just how much I love it when he touches me. Only I’m sure you don’t want to know.