On Saturday night, my dad suggests that we all go for a drive together and look at Christmas lights. I’m exhausted from two days of errand running with my mom, Christmas shopping, seeing family, all while Charlie spends hours at the gym so that he can have a few days off before we fly into the city, so a mindless car ride sounds perfect. Charlie says that the trainers whom he’ll meet with before his fight are much more intense than Mark, and he can’t be off his routine for too many consecutive days.

Since his workout on Friday, I’ve notice Charlie wince and grab his side seven times, and I’ve repeated twice that we can call in more pain medicine, or take him to a doctor.

“I’m fine, Stella,” is all he says, “I get out of shape fast. You disturb my workout routine.” And then he smirks and goes about doing whatever, ignoring his own pain and my worry that it is only getting worse.

“Charlie, they aren’t making too much of a spectacle of you at that gym now, are they?” My dad asks from the driver’s seat, glancing at Charlie in the rearview mirror. We sit next to each other in the back seat while my parents sit in the front.

“No, everyone’s really nice,” Charlie says ever-pleasantly.

“Good. Denny told me that people were pretty interested in what you were doing. I’m glad that no one’s bothering you, then,” my dad responds with a nod.

In fact, Denny, who owns said gym and has been a long time friend of my parents, told my father that there had been an influx in gym customers overnight. The facility, which was usually only occupied by middle-aged, wannabe lifters or elderly water aerobic enthusiasts had suddenly become filled with 20-something females. Denny’s openly gay nephew, who is only a couple of years older than me, had also very recently decided to start utilizing his family connection to the gym. From being close friends with him when we were in school together, I happen to know that he hates to sweat.

“Yeah, word travels awfully fast around here. But you said that you'll just be going on runs for the rest of your visit, right? So your workouts won’t have to be a spectator sport anymore,” my mom giggles, playing with the buttons on her gray pea coat.

Charlie smiles at her, though she can’t see him, but I can tell that he doesn’t really understand what she means. I don’t elaborate; he would probably be embarrassed if he understood the reason for my parents' concern.

After touring some of the town’s more spirited neighborhood and admiring the displays of lighted houses and trees, the large wreathes hung on doors and windows, etc., my parents decide that we should drive to one of the neighboring towns and visit a walk-through lights display on one of the church’s grounds, something that we used to do when I was a little girl.

After Charlie and I agree to the idea, my parents begin to discuss the exact location and I whisper to Charlie, “Are you sure you don’t mind? If you’re bored, we can just go back.”

“I’m not bored at all,” he assures me, and I believe him. He goes back to staring out of the car window. His body looks uncomfortably scrunched in the back seat. My mother repeatedly offered him the front passenger’s seat, but he refused her every offer. Still, his face spares no sign of discomfort as he blinks slowly, relaxed and tiredly, towards the window that he gazes out.

“Oh, we should stop by the drive-in on our way out. They have the best hot chocolate. Charlie needs to have some,” my mother says enthusiastically.

The town’s drive-in restaurant can be described almost completely with three simple expressions: preserved in small-town, American charm; the hot chocolate capital of South Carolina; and greasy – just greasy.

My father pulls up to the small restaurant and he, my mother and I all unbuckle our seatbelts.

“Have you every been to a drive-in, Charlie?” I ask. He frowns at the realization that my parents are exiting the car and follows suit by reaching for his seatbelt buckle.

“No, I guess I haven’t.”

“The name is deceiving, I suppose. You have to walk up to those windows to order,” I point towards the service windows through the front windshield. “Come on,” I encourage. Although my parents can handle a hot chocolate order on their own, I want to give Charlie the chance to stretch his legs before we continue our drive. We get out of our respective doors and he meets me in front of my mom’s car, on the curb just behind my parents. He wears his dark brown, suede coat that looks extra puffy atop his layers – a grey t-shirt and a denim button down.

“Do you kids want anything else? Fries for the road?”

“I’m okay, dad,” I say, leaning back on the hood of the black car.

“I’m alright. Thank you, sir.”

My parents have given up on Charlie not addressing them formally. But somehow, they’ve managed to pay for everything without much of a protest from him. Perhaps in his mind, it’s a fair trade.

My mom takes the first two hot chocolates from the window and hands them to Charlie and me, before taking her own from my dad.

“Charlie, you’re sure you don’t want the front seat? It can’t be too comfortable for you back there.”

“I’m honestly fine,” he laughs, “Thank you, though.”

Everyone praises the hot chocolate on our way to the next lights display, and my mother talks to Charlie more about his Christmas plans with his aunt and uncle.

“What about New Year’s?” she asks suddenly, “Are you two going to go somewhere together?”

Charlie looks at me, and I at him.

“We haven’t really made plans,” I tell her. She nods and turns her attention towards the stereo, flipping though local stations of holiday tunes.

“Will you still be home on New Year’s?” I ask him, while my parents are distracted by their music selection.

“I might be. I mean, I rarely go home anymore. My aunt and uncle really do want to meet you though. I know I’ve told you already, but maybe you could come to Savannah after Christmas. I could come back here for you, or fly you out, even.”

“Oh… I could – I would just drive myself,” I say shortly. I know I’ve had moments when meeting Charlie’s aunt and uncle sounded lovely – I truly wanted to. Now, it sounds so serious, that we would both meet each other’s families around the holidays. Sure, he’s here now, but I guess I just haven’t thought much about it – that he’s really met my parents and stayed in my childhood home. When I think seriously about it, I feel like it should change things between us. I like how things are though, we’re simple and casual and he doesn’t look at me as something to be had. I don’t want what we are to become constricted.

“Would you like that, though?” He asks shyly, twisting the warm tumbler in his hands.

“Yeah, of course.” I should, anyway.

“Good,” he grins, “My aunt will be happy to hear it. My uncle will be, too, but my aunt never has girls around the house for any extended amount of time.”

His excitement, though subdued by an ever-present calmness, because he’s Charlie, is too precious to tamper with by my doubt and sudden hesitance. So, I just smile and nod, and then bring the hot chocolate to my lips and wonder about the possible reasons for my internal reaction. I settle on the fact that I was probably just caught off guard by his invitation – who wouldn’t be nervous about meeting the family of the person they love?

Once we make it to the church grounds and my parents pay for our entrance, my mom spots a small greenhouse, which is filled with Christmassy plants and greenery, I suppose.

My dad doesn’t wait for her to announce that she’d like to look around, “I think we’ll check this out first, you guys go on ahead and we’ll catch up to you.”

Charlie and I start down the winding path that the church has lined with light displays. Christmas music plays through large speakers and when the cold wind blows in gusts, the smell of sweet, toasted nuts fills my nose.

Charlie keeps a running dialogue about the displays that we walk past, and the people whom we see around us. I agree and giggle at some of his remarks, but I mostly watch and listen and think. At first, I thought my nostalgia was a product of the lights that surround me, but I realized quite suddenly the reason for my mood when I saw a little girl – around the age of seven or eight – run up to a man working a caramel apple stand and tap at his side. She had skipped over the waiting two customers in front of the small vending cart, to alert the man whom she was unfamiliar with that she would like to buy an apple. Her mother came into sight, laughing, and told the little girl to come around front and wait in line, joking about her uninhibited attitude to the vendor and his customers. He smiled down at her and handed her a caramel coated apple before her mother could coax her into line. When she thanked him and offered him her money, he shook his head.

“It’s on the house.”

I was never loud as a child, necessarily. I didn’t like attention for being obnoxious or competitive. But I can remember a time when I would talk to anyone who would listen, and ask as many questions as I could. I was curious and naïve, and I saw everyone as a friend or a potential one, differences aside.

Even though I sometimes try to convince myself that I only became timid with age, I can pinpoint the time in my life when I became withdrawn from others, nearly to the day, and I wonder sometimes if I would be a better person if I hadn’t let my past change me so much. I might be more interesting, more well rounded; I might have better stories to tell, and more people to share them with.

I look back to the scene: the previous two customers walk hand in hand away from the vending cart, passing the apple between them. The little girl sits on a bench in her mother’s lap, and when her wildly curly, copper-colored hair blows towards her face as she tries to bite into the messy, candy coated fruit, her mother gathers it into her hands and begins to comb through it with her fingers, pulling it into a ponytail for the little girl. Before I look away, I see a woman walk up behind the candy apple vendor and wrap her small arms around his thick middle. She presses her nose to his back as he twist in her grip, pulling her to stand beside him and then he kisses her forehead.

“Someone’s having a Merry Christmas,” I hear Charlie’s voice and turn back to where he stands, just a few steps ahead of me, staring at probably the fifth nativity scene that we’ve passed (the displays are fantastic, but do lack variety). I giggle, reaching to cover my mouth when I take in the sight: Mary, who kneels by the manger beside Joseph, has fallen forward into his lap in a rather peculiar and compromising position.

“Oh, Charlie, set her up before someone from the congregation sees and thinks we did it.”

He steps forward to reposition the scene as I glance around. I’m relieved when we earn only one disappointed headshake from an elderly man passing by with his wife, who is oblivious to the sight. I laugh again.

Charlie hurries, pushing Mary further away from Joseph, “Since she can’t control herself,” he says, brushing his hands against his jeans and stepping down from the mulch that elevates the stable diorama.

“Sure,” I remark, “Blame the virgin.”

He joins me again and as we continue down the path, I feel Charlie staring down at me.

“Are you okay?” he asks, “You haven’t said much.”

“Well, I don’t want to miss anything,” I say, referring to the sights.

“It is pretty,” he says, sniffing once and pushing his hand back through his hair before he sighs, “You weren’t bothered that I invited you home for New Years, right? You don’t need to feel that it’s an obligation.”

“No, I want to. I think I’m just tired,” and with that, as if my body was thanking me for fibbing, I yawn. Charlie chuckles and drapes his arm around my shoulders.

“My mom and dad took me through something like this once. I don’t remember if it was at a church or not, but we walked through a bunch of lights and decorations, and they took me to see Santa at the end. I’d forgotten, until now,” he smiles down towards the ground, “I don’t have many good memories of of all together -- my parents and I -- but that was nice.”

I bite my lip and tuck one of my hands into the pocket on the front of Charlie’s coat. “That does sound nice,” I agree quietly.

He pulls me closer and kisses the top of my head while my mind begins to scold itself for having such selfish thoughts. I’m not the only person who's been affected by life. Charlie has let his guard down so much for me, and I can’t even keep a poker face when I’m invited to meet his family.

I’m able to clear my head and be present with him then, talking and joking about what we see and hear. When the path begins to loop back towards the entrance, my parents finally catch up to us. My mom complains a little about the condition of the plants in the greenhouse, but concludes her assessment by confessing that she ended up buying a few things for a holiday arrangement. By the time we make it back to our car, I feel like falling asleep, and my legs shake a bit from the cold and my tiredness. We all climb into our seats and my mom turns up the heat as my dad starts the engine and a quiet, holiday tune fills my ears and lulls me. I scoot to the middle seat and buckle myself in before laying over into Charlie’s lap with my arms folded under my head.

“Thank you for bringing me us here,” Charlie says to my parents, “I really liked it.”

“Good,” they say in unison. I tune out their conversation, focusing only on the feeling of Charlie’s fingers as they rub circles against my hip, and I begin to drift off.

***

“Should I call the police?” I hear my mother’s voice, a hurried whisper, but I can’t comprehend where we are.

“The whole family’s here, looks like. His parents won’t let anything happen. What did they do, stake out all night?” My father’s voice rarely sounds angry, but the evident irritation is enough to confirm that he is.

I try to shift, but a firm grip holds me in place and I know that it’s Charlie.

“Shh,” I hear him soothe, but it almost sounds like a plea. One of his hands moves into my hair, his fingers slowly brush through it, and I think I feel them shaking.

“She’s asleep. I don’t want to –”

“Don’t wake her up,” my father knowingly agrees with Charlie.

“You all stay in the car. I’ll make them leave.”

When my father’s car door opens I hear its echo, and by his grunt, I know that my mother hasn’t followed his directions.

My mind finally puts together every action, and I sit up suddenly. My eyes fly open as Charlie’s hand yanks through my curls from my haste.

“Stella,” he says softly, hesitantly wrapping his arms around my waist.

I put my hands over his as my eyes focus. By way of the headlights, I see my mother cut in front of the car. Her voice is muffled to me, but I can tell that she’s speaking loudly, furiously. When I can finally make out whom she’s approaching, his palm raised in defense, I instinctively lurch towards the handle on my car door.

I’m barely awake and it all seems to happen at once: Charlie tries to pull me back, he calls my name, I jump from the car. I’m not sure what I say – or scream – but everyone turns to me and their voices are silenced.

My eyes are fixed on only one person, and I bargain with myself in an instant that if I don’t recoil, this will be the very last time.