The summer sun streamed through the gym’s windows, turning the ivy-covered bench golden, as Lila and I spread a blue blanket on the floor—matching the gym’s walls—and dumped a pile of craft supplies in the middle. “Okay, let’s brainstorm,” Lila said, her black curly hair tied back with a purple ribbon, a pencil tucked behind her ear. “Marisol’s summer holiday package needs to feel like her—Greece, the park bench, all the little things she loves.” I nodded, picking up a small seashell Nikos had sent us from the Greek coast last month. “First, this,” I said, holding it up. “Nikos said it’s from the beach where he first kissed Marisol. She’ll cry when she sees it.” Lila grinned, taking the shell and tucking it into a white linen bag. “Perfect. Now, what about something from us?”
We’d decided to make Marisol a “women’s summer holiday package” after she’d mentioned feeling burnt out from work—something to remind her of the joy in small moments, the way we all used to find it together. Lila reached into her gym bag and pulled out a jar of banana cookies, still warm from the oven. “Grandma’s recipe,” she said, tapping the lid. “Marisol used to steal these from the gym all the time. Remember when she hid one in her purse and it melted all over her keys?” I laughed, nodding at the memory—Marisol’s face when she pulled out a sticky keychain, Lila’s curls shaking as she giggled, the smell of banana filling the air. “Add a note,” I said, grabbing a notebook. “Tell her to eat them while sitting on her park bench, with the seashell in her hand.” Lila leaned over, pressing a kiss to my cheek, and I felt my heart skip a beat. Even after all this time, her touch still made me smile—soft, sweet, like summer itself.
Next, we added a small sketchbook, its cover decorated with watercolor lilacs (Marisol’s favorite flower) and a tiny drawing of the park’s vine-wrapped bench. “For her to draw,” Lila said, flipping to the first page where I’d written, “Draw the moments that make you breathe—just like you taught me.” Marisol had been the one to encourage me to keep sketching, years ago, when I’d thought my art was “not good enough.” Now, it felt like coming full circle—giving her back a little of the confidence she’d given me. I picked up a roll of purple ribbon—matching Lila’s—and tied it around the sketchbook. “To make it pretty,” I said. Lila laughed, tangling a piece of ribbon in my hair. “You’re pretty,” she said, her eyes soft. I pulled her close, kissing her, and the scent of banana cookies mixed with the warm summer air. This was the best part of us—working together, creating something for someone we loved, our hands brushing as we folded tissue paper, our smiles overlapping as we remembered old times.
As the afternoon turned to evening, we added the final touches: a bottle of lavender honey (from Marisol’s own garden, which we’d helped her plant last spring), a photo of the four of us—Lila, me, Marisol, Nikos—at the Greek coast, and a handwritten letter listing all the “summer moments” we wanted her to have: “Watch the sunset from your bench. Eat a cookie with your feet in the grass. Call us when you need to laugh.” Lila sealed the package with a sticker of a banana (of course) and set it on the ivy-covered bench. “She’s gonna love it,” she said, leaning against me. I wrapped my arm around her, staring at the package—filled with memories, love, all the little pieces that made us us. “Not as much as I love you,” I said, kissing her curls. She giggled, pushing me playfully. “Cheesy,” she said. “But I like it.”
The next day, we drove to Marisol’s house to drop off the package. She opened the door with a tired smile, but when she saw the white linen bag in Lila’s hands, her eyes lit up. “You didn’t have to,” she said, her voice soft. We followed her inside, and she sat on her couch, carefully opening the package. When she pulled out the seashell, she gasped, tears filling her eyes. “Nikos sent this?” she said. Lila nodded, sitting beside her. “He said it’s from the beach where you first kissed. He misses you.” Marisol laughed, wiping her tears, and pulled out the jar of banana cookies. “Grandma’s recipe,” she said, hugging the jar to her chest. “I’ve been craving these for months.”
As she flipped through the sketchbook, her fingers brushing the purple ribbon, I looked at Lila—her curly hair glowing in the sunlight, her smile bright as she watched Marisol. This was what summer was about: not just hot days and beach trips, but the people we loved, the gifts we made with our hands, the way love could wrap around someone like a blanket. Marisol looked up, holding the photo of the four of us, and smiled. “Thank you,” she said. “This isn’t just a package. It’s… home.” Lila and I exchanged a look—one that said we did good, one that said I love you—and I knew, in that moment, that our love wasn’t just between us. It was in the way we cared for Marisol, in the way we celebrated her, in the summer package that held pieces of all our hearts.
On the drive home, Lila held my hand, her head resting on my shoulder. “You know what I loved most?” she said. “Watching Marisol’s face when she saw the seashell. It was like we gave her a little piece of happiness back.” I nodded, squeezing her hand. “That’s what we do,” I said. “For each other. For the people we love.” We drove past the park, and I pointed to the vine-wrapped bench—now covered in summer flowers. “Maybe we should make a package for us too,” I said. Lila grinned, sitting up. “Like what?” “A jar of banana cookies,” I said. “A sketchbook of our gym bench. A seashell from the beach we’ll visit next month.” Her eyes lit up, and she leaned over, kissing me. “Perfect,” she said. “Summer holiday package of us.”
That night, we sat on our ivy-covered bench, eating banana cookies and talking about our upcoming beach trip. The summer sun set, painting the gym’s blue walls pink, and Lila’s curls glowed in the fading light. “I love you,” she said, her head on my shoulder. “I love us. I love this—all of it.” I kissed the top of her head, breathing in the scent of her hair and the summer air. “Me too,” I said. “More than any package could ever hold.”
Summer holiday packages aren’t just about gifts. They’re about love—handwritten notes, warm cookies, seashells that hold memories. They’re about the people who take the time to notice what you love, who wrap it up in tissue paper and purple ribbon, who remind you that you’re never alone. For Marisol, it was a reminder of Greece and friendship. For Lila and me, it was a reminder of us—our love, our story, the summer moments we’ll keep making, together.
And that’s the best package of all.
