Chapter 2
CHAPTER 2
LIAM
C oat station.
May as well be Shawshank.
I’m standing behind the counter, trying to calculate how long it’s been since I was actually home for the Pine Creek Christmas Kick-Off.
The years away have stacked up so much that they blend together.
I look around the entrance, thick log walls and sparkly lights, thinking about how Pine Creek has been in our family for ages. My great-great-grandparents bought the land, built the old farmhouse, and each generation has added to the property.
Generational fingerprints.
Now, there are multiple barns, stables, out buildings, the café, and acres and acres of trees.
I should feel at peace here, but I don’t.
I should feel calm and relaxed out in nature, surrounded by the scent of pine and spruce, but I don’t.
Maybe because I was given the keys to this forest kingdom—and I walked away .
My first adult decision, and I still don’t think my dad has forgiven me for it.
I half-smile as I take a stack of coats from a family of four with two little girls in cream and velvety red dresses. As I hand them the return tickets, I see the glint of wonder and awe in their faces, the pointing and giggling, the vying for who gets to be first in line . . . it should make me feel something, shouldn’t it?
But it doesn’t.
It’s like this whole place has lost its luster.
Not that it matters. I don’t even live here anymore.
I have a whole life in Indianapolis. A whole world outside of this slice of rural land between Pleasant Valley and Loveland.
A world I need to get back to because it’s basically falling apart.
My plan was simple. Come for Thanksgiving, make an appearance, then go back to Indy the next morning. I hadn’t expected my parents to drop a bombshell the second the dessert plates had been cleared.
The last Pine Creek Christmas. Ever.
I know they didn’t do that to get me to stay. I know everything isn’t always about me. But seriously, how could I leave when it might be the last Christmas Kick-Off my family ever hosts?
Somewhere around the corner there’s a big reaction with hearty laughter.
I sigh.
Where is Lacey? My sister swore she’d be here tonight, but so far, there’s no sign of her. Unfortunately, the same can’t be said for my grandmother who has been insisting I meet her best friend’s granddaughter, Janine, because she’s “just who I’ve been looking for in a wife.”
How do I politely explain that I’m not looking for a wife? Or anyone ?
I’m about to slip out from behind the counter when Olive appears on the opposite side of it, still wearing that goofy coconut sweater. My mind flicks back to vanilla ice cream and a sunlit treehouse.
And a fumbling first ki?—.
“Hey,” she says, thankfully interrupting my memory.
“Hey.”
Her eyes dart up to mine, and she shifts, folding her arms across the coconuts. “I’m wearing it for my mom.” Her misery is evident. “She really wants to win that competition.”
I take her coat and hand her a ticket. “Sounds like her. She always was a bit competitive.”
“A bit?” She holds in a laugh. “Do you remember the living museum we had to do in third grade?”
I do. Her mom dressed her in a full Abraham Lincoln outfit, and even rented drywall stilts to make her taller.
“She’s nuts,” she adds.
“Well, it’s nice of you to make such a . . . uh . . .” I gesture to her outfit, “sacrifice.”
“I look like a retired male hula dancer.” She grumbles then closes her eyes and pinches the bridge of her nose. “This is more humiliating than Thanksgiving dinner.”
I pull out a hanger and slide her coat onto it.
She opens her eyes, continuing her story as if I’ve asked her to go on. “My brother brought his new girlfriend, which would normally be totally fine, but he didn’t tell anyone she was coming, so there weren’t enough spots at the table. Since I was alone, they moved me to the kids’ table.”
“Sounds fun,” I say, finding it odd that she’s talking to me like we were mid-conversation and she came back to finish. People don’t usually talk to me this much.
Maybe because I don’t respond.
“Yeah, it really wasn’t because my cousin’s stupid son threw up on me.” She frowns. “To quote her, ‘Hey, it washes off!’” Her face falls. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to call him stupid. He’s fine .” A pause. “Oh, good grief. I’m like, prattling on, and . . . you probably don’t want to hear all about . . . Yeah. It’s just been how long since . . .? And you haven’t really been . . .”
So far, she’s up to four sentences she’s started and hasn’t finished.
So I wait.
“I’m so whiny! And you’re probably like, ‘give me your coat and get out of here, you weirdo.’” Her face brightens, and I note she still has the same trail of freckles across the bridge of her nose.
I used to love those freckles.
When I don’t respond, Olive starts fidgeting. I should speak up. Ask her how she’s been. Find out what she’s been doing with her life since her store closed.
But I don’t. I can’t figure out how to get past my desire to not be here right now.
It dawns on me that the reason I don’t know anything about Olive’s life is that to find out I’d actually have to answer my mom’s calls.
When I see her name pop up on my phone it feels . . . heavy somehow. Like facing things I don’t want to face. Or talking about things I don’t want to.
My mom walks up, and I see relief on Olive’s face. I’ve never been great at conversation.
That’s not true. I used to be totally fine.
“Hi, kids,” Mom says. “Olive, I wonder if you could come out to the farm tomorrow. Do you have time for a chat?”
Olive frowns. “Uh, sure. Is everything okay?”
Mom’s eyes jump to mine, then back to Olive. “Oh, yeah! No, I just have a few things I’d like to run by you. Lacey’s coming home—you can come for dinner. It’ll be fun!”
Olive’s brow furrows in confusion. She glances at me and I look away. “Okay. ”
My mom looks from Olive to me and back again. “I’m so glad you two are catching up. Liam, did you tell her about your latest video game?”
My stomach knots. It’s the last thing I want to talk about.
“Oh, right! Video games! I was trying to remember what you do. That is such a cool job!”
Olive looks genuinely interested.
Usually, only video game people are genuinely interested. Overly interested once they find out where I work.
I stand there, aware they’re both watching me, waiting for me to launch into some big story about how great the game is doing. The game I’ve worked tirelessly on—my chance to prove that I wasn’t a one-hit wonder.
The game that got me sidelined for the foreseeable future.
“Uh, well, I mean, it’s not that big of a deal.” I feel myself squirming.
“Oh, come on, it’s amazing! I’m sure Olive would love to hear?—”
“I need to get some air. I’ll be right . . . Sorry, ‘scuse me,” I push past Olive and through the crowd.
Just get me out of here.
Pine Creek has me in a choke hold.
I make it outside and draw in a deep breath, inhaling the crisp, brisk scent of trees and the unmistakable smell of earth. It’s not frigid cold, not yet, but it’s cold enough to chill your lungs when you breathe in. The party is mostly in the barn, but there are people out here. Down by the fire pit, on the chairs of the porch, walking through the rows of Christmas trees. They have no idea that tomorrow we’ll officially open for our last Christmas season at Pine Creek.
My emotions are . . . mixed. And I don’t know why. I’ll finally be free of the guilt that this is my legacy. A legacy I never asked for and don’t want.
I should be ecstatic. It’s exactly what I’ve hoped for—a chance to choose for myself without the pressure of “doing the right thing” for my family.
But I’m not ecstatic, and it doesn’t make sense.
This place stole so much from me—shouldn’t I walk away without a second thought?
I glance back to the main barn, and I see Olive through the large front window, backlit from the enormous Christmas tree in the main entrance.
And for some reason, walking away doesn’t feel as easy as it should.