smells like calvin klein

“Merry Christmas,” I said, holding the gift out in front of me with both hands.

We were parked outside the YMCA, the streetlights glowing soft and orange through the windshield. I could feel the cold through the glass, but inside the car it was warm, a little stuffy from the heat still running. Tyler looked down at the present like it had caught him off guard.

It was wrapped in shiny red paper that crinkled at the edges from being stuffed into a bag earlier. The green bow on top was slightly off-center, but it was holding on. I’d put more thought into that gift than I wanted to admit.

His eyes didn’t move from the box, but his expression changed. It was slow, like he was trying to process what I was doing.

“Awwwwgggh. Seriously?” he said, half groan, half laugh. “Marissa, you didn’t have to get me anything.”

His voice was tense, like it genuinely made him uncomfortable. Like kindness was some foreign thing he didn’t quite know what to do with.

I gave a small shrug. “It’s not a big deal.”

He took the gift, almost reluctantly, like accepting it came with strings attached. He looked at the box for a second, like he was trying to decide what he was even supposed to do with it. Then he started picking at the bow, the knot loosening under his fingers. Once the tape finally gave, he lifted the lid and looked inside, just a quick peek at first.

“Wow. A box. You shouldn’t have,” he said with a grin, trying to snap back into his usual self.

“Just open it,” I said, leaning back against the passenger seat, watching him.

He pulled the lid the rest of the way off, and I grabbed the top from him and the wrapping paper, folding it in my lap. The inside of the box was simple, just tissue paper tucked around a bottle of Calvin Klein cologne.  

He stared at the bottle, eyebrows lifted a little, and for a second, he looked like a kid again. 

He held the cologne in his hands, tilting the bottle slightly as the amber liquid moved inside. Then I saw a shift. His shoulders relaxed, his jaw unclenched. He looked up at me, and there was something in his face I hadn’t seen before.

“Thank you,” he said. His voice was quiet, a little higher than usual.

“Yeah, Merry Christmas,” I said again, still watching him.

The car went still, but it wasn’t silent. Not really. I watched him twist off the silver cap and lift the bottle to his neck. He sprayed it twice, short and precise, the mist catching the collar of his long sleeve crewneck. He didn’t even flinch at the cold touch of it. Just placed the cap back on, combed his fingers through his hair, straight, brown, always a little flattened, and turned to face me.

Then he cleared his throat.

“I didn’t know I smelled that bad to deserve this.”

I let out a slow, deadpan laugh. “Haaa...haaa...haaa,” and gave him a light whack with the back of my hand. “I already told you I like your smell.”

He ignored that part.  “How much did you pay for this?” He looked down at the bottle in his lap, not me.

I shook my head. “Tyler. It wasn’t a big deal. Don’t worry.”

It was fifty bucks from Walmart, okay? I used leftover lifeguarding money from last summer, finishing up junior year. I just wanted to get him something nice. 

He reached across for the cardboard lid I’d been holding and opened his mouth.

“Never spend money on me again.”

His hand found my inner thigh, just a quick squeeze before he took the lid and closed the box. My whole body tensed like a reflex. I tucked my hands under my legs, heat rushing up my face, flustered and kind of giddy. Still, I didn’t really get why spending money mattered so much to him.

He handed the gift back to me, and I rested it on my lap.

He grabbed his keys, twisted them in the ignition, and the engine came back to life, humming low under our feet. From the corner of his eye, he glanced at me, caught the awkward way I was squirming in my seat, and smirked like he found it kind of funny. Kind of cute.

We pulled out of the Randolph YMCA parking lot, headlights sweeping across the cracked pavement, and headed back to his house. The drive was short, but he didn’t say much. Just kept shaking his head, like he was mad I’d gone out of my way for him. When we parked, I handed the gift over again and followed him inside.

He walked into his room and, without saying anything, set the box down on top of his dresser. He looked at it for a second before turning back to me.

Then he opened his arms and pulled me into him, tight. One of those big bear hugs where you lose yourself in someone’s chest. He was so much taller than me, and his arms wrapped around me like two large weights securing me in place. We stood there for a second before he started walking forward, pushing me backward toward the bed. We collapsed into the blankets, his body warm next to mine. We just laid there, tangled up, the way high school kids do when they think moments like this will last forever.

…but I never got a gift.

Not that it mattered. Back then, just being his girlfriend felt like enough. Still, I probably would’ve kept a dumb note scribbled on the back of a Dunkin' receipt or something.  

And the way he hugged me that night felt like his way of saying thank you. He didn’t always know how to show things, but sometimes his body language said more than his mouth could.

I forgot about the cologne after that. It kind of faded with everything else from that time, old playlists, half-worn hoodies, the parking lot where we used to sit for hours pretending like we had nowhere to be.

Then one night, years later, I was at his place again the summer after I graduated from college. We weren’t even close to dating anymore, but somehow we still texted too much and stayed out too late. My knees were folded, the room was dim and still carrying that lived-in, half-clean smell. He was sitting next to me, reclined and quiet. 

I leaned in, joking around. 

“Dude, you smell really good. What is that?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just raised his eyebrows and nodded toward the dresser behind me.

I turned to look, curls swinging into his face and him going, “Pfffttt,” trying to blow them away without moving.

And there it was. The same bottle. Same silver cap. Still in the tissue paper I’d wrapped it in five years earlier. I blinked at it for a second. No way.

“Wow. That’s a sweet gesture,” I said, dry and half-laughing. “Very thoughtful. Of me.”

That told me everything I needed to know. I knew he hadn’t worn it much. Probably only sprayed it a handful of times over five years. But it sat there like some kind of quiet proof. Not everything we gave each other disappeared.

Anyway, happy birthday, Tyler.

Wherever you are now, I hope you smell like Calvin Klein cologne. I hope you're finally letting yourself enjoy the things people give you, not just the gifts, but the love that comes with them. And more than anything, I hope you know that at least someone saw you, even in the moments you didn’t think you deserved to be seen.