First

19. Education

I had botched our first date. That was all I could think about. Well, that and "did I pass my first semester?"

Our marks would be out within three weeks. Just enough time to go completely mental with anticipation.

The other thought, the shadow dominating the back of my mind, was so familiar and so unwanted that it didn't really count. I refused to acknowledge it.

Merry-freaking-Christmas Eve.

Actually, I'm exaggerating. I did manage to forget the worst of my worries for a while. The scents of Christmas – freshly-cut spruce tree; sage, marjoram and thyme from the kitchen; and wet dog from the beasts that were romping gleefully around the living room – yanked me almost entirely out of university life and into the wonderful anticipation of the holidays. Almost.

Frank tried in vain to convince the dogs to go back outside into the snow, as "I'm dreaming of a white Christmas" blared from our ancient CD player. Dad was doing something that involved safety goggles and a hammer while Mom cleaned out the turkey so it would be ready to stick in the oven tomorrow morning.

I was lying in something close to a coma on the couch. Weeks of coffee-powered, sleepless study nights had more than caught up to me. I could hardly form a sentence anymore, let alone do anything useful. After spilling flour all over the kitchen, my family agreed it would be best if I just sat down.

Christmas Eve passed in a blur of semi-consciousness. Occasionally someone would rouse me – meaning Frank would come and bounce on the couch cushions beside me because he's a brother and that's what brothers do.

I would swat him away, still half asleep, before letting my dreams pull me under once more.

Christmas morning dawned bright and cold. I don't remember relocating, but I was in my room when I awoke.

"Sarah, wake up! Are you going to sleep the whole week?"

"Yes," I replied, hiding under my thick blanket.

Frank yanked it off. He stood, fully dressed and wearing a wicked grin.

"It's cold!" I protested.

"Then get dressed! It's Christmas!"

At the age of 23, he had lost none of the excitement he'd had at age 4.

"Presents!" he informed me. "Come on, come on! It's OK if you didn't get us anything – we can go for Boxing Day sales and you can buy me a present then!"

Having been in a coma for the last 36 hours, I still hadn't wrapped the gifts I'd bought with Kyle.

"No, I did," I rasped.

"You did?" Frank asked, reinvigorated.

He disappeared for a moment, only to return with a roll of wrapping paper, scissors, and tape.

"Here," he said generously. "And Mom made cinnamon buns when you're ready!"

He spirited away, closing the door behind him.

I sighed.

My chest felt thick and heavy; my heart ached as though beating was too much effort – all the wonderful symptoms of exhaustion. But it was Christmas!

I wondered – as, I suppose, most lovestruck girls must – what Kyle was doing right now.

Was he with his family, and his dog?

Was he this exhausted?

Was Jesse a constant, nagging absence at the back of his mind too?

I reached for the presents I had to wrap. I focused on pulling out a length of wrapping paper; the sound the scissors made as I hacked my way through it; the puzzle of how best to divvy up the square so it would cover the most surface area of gifts.