Chapter 9
CHAPTER 9
LIAM
M an, she is frustrating.
I lift the tray of mistletoe into the back of my truck, next to a ladder. Despite what my mother said, this is not a two-person job. And does Olive really need a tour of this place? It’s hardly changed since we were kids.
I’d say as much if she didn’t look so excited to be out here.
Why the heck is she so excited to be out here?
She stands a few yards away from the truck, just looking around, like she’s seeing it all for the first time. She draws in a slow, deep breath, then lets it out like she’s in a yoga class and has been instructed to count to ten.
“There’s something about nature, isn’t there?” She smiles.
I squint into the sun, which is doing its best to warm the land on a blustery early December day.
“Oh, wait,” she says, walking toward me. “You’re a city boy now. Does that mean you’ve forgotten where you came from? Do you remember what dirt is?”
I quirk a brow and let her amuse herself.
“Seriously though, do you like living in the city?” She makes her way around to the passenger side of the truck .
“Yeah, actually.”
“What do you like about it?” She asks genuinely. “Because it’s so peaceful here.”
“The city can be peaceful,” I say. “Just in a different way.” But the words feel surprisingly hollow.
I open the door and pull myself up into the truck, waiting for Olive to do the same.
When she does, she inhales another deep breath. “Smell that?”
Yeah. Trees. Same way it’s smelled since I was a kid.
“It’s like pine trees and nature and Christmas all rolled into one.” Then, as if the idea has fallen out of the sky and landed in her brain, she says, “Do you guys sell candles?”
“No clue.”
She pulls out her phone and starts typing. “Pine Creek needs a signature fragrance.”
“It’s dumb to put so much time and energy and money into this,” I say, because nobody seemed to note my objections in that meeting. I don’t understand why they can’t see the logic.
I start the engine. “It’s our last year here. Even worse, it’s our last holiday season. We should keep things small, save as much as we can, and bow out gracefully.”
“But then the rest of the community won’t get to say goodbye.” She looks at me. “That’s what your mom really wants.”
I roll my eyes.
She narrows hers. I can feel her trying to read me, trying to figure out what it’s going to take to convince me that this is the best place on earth . I could save her time because the answer is—nothing. At this point, I just need to get back to my real job. To finish what I’ve been working on to redeem my last disaster and prove I wasn’t a one-hit wonder.
The thought rumbles around inside of me, an unwelcome angst accompanying it.
I know it’s not Olive’s fault I came home to this huge mess, or that I really don’t like being home. But somehow she’s tied up in the crappy feelings I have for this place, and I don’t know how to keep her separate.
Shouldn’t it matter that when she was a part of the Pine Creek experience, I felt exactly the opposite?
This is why I come home as seldom as possible. I don’t want to start unearthing ancient history.
“I looked you up online,” she says, derailing my train of thought.
Inwardly, I groan. Outwardly, I choose silence.
“I knew you designed video games, but I’m not much of a gamer, so I never really paid attention. I can now say I’ve played one.” She pulls out her phone, clicks around on it, then holds it up to show me. There, on the screen, is the logo for Castle Crusade . A passion project—not even an assignment—from my senior year at the University of Illinois. I’d been so obsessed with it, but I was never convinced it would be something unique and have a wide appeal.
I just did it because it was fun. And I wanted to see if I could.
Flash forward years later, almost every phone in America has downloaded it, and it’s become one of the most widely played and replayed mobile games in the country.
And seeing that logo is a punch to the gut.
“I’m terrible at it,” Olive continues, undeterred by my reaction. “Maybe you can give me some insider tips.” She grins at me, and I’m twelve years old again, pining away for the girl next door.
We’re a long way from twelve, Fisher.
“Oh, I also learned that you have, like, no social media presence.” She cocks her head and looks at me. “Why is that? Just don’t like it or . . .?”
“Waste of time,” I grumble.
That’s not true. Most of my upper-level classes in college covered how to market yourself as an indie game publisher by curating an online presence, editing videos to be snappy, funny, irreverent, and current, connecting yourself and your personality with your fans.
After what happened with Castle Crusade , though, it just didn’t seem worth it.
“Hm.” She considers this, like I’ve just said something she’s never heard anyone say, then says, “I can see how it could be, but if you at least had Instagram, I’d know something about you. I only get the bits of gossip my mom hears when she’s out walking in Corner Park.” She tosses me a look as I pull into a parking space down by the front gates. “Which is actually quite a lot.” She grins again. “Do you know you have a reputation?”
I shake my head and turn off the engine. “I didn’t know that, no.” I also don’t care, but I don’t say that out loud.
“Apparently, you’re commitment phobic,” she says. “A chronic first-dater. I think that one came from your Aunt Mary to her best friend Peg to Peg’s niece Ashley, who happens to be a third grade teacher at PV Elementary.” She stops for a brief second. “I’m not sure how it got from Ashley to my mom, but . . .?” A shrug. “So, are you?”
“Am I what?”
“Commitment phobic?”
“No.”
She squints, like she’s a human polygraph trying to determine if I’m telling the truth. “Last long term relationship?”
I frown. “Let’s not do this.”
“Let’s not do what?” She’s genuinely confused.
“Small talk,” I say. “I hate it.”
Her brow furrows. “It’s not small talk if I’m genuinely interested in the answer. Small talk would be like, ‘How’s the weather?’ or ‘How about them Bears?’”
I shake my head. “It’s uncanny.”
“What is?” She’s genuinely confused .
“You’re exactly the same as you were when we were kids.” I open the door and step out onto the gravel drive.
“Oh, so you do remember,” she says, following my lead and getting out. She walks around to the back of the truck. “Is it a bad thing? If I’m the same?” There’s an earnest please like me look in her eyes, and I soften at the sight of it.
“No.” I look into her eyes. “It’s not. It’s . . . just an observation,” I say.
Her eyes flicker, and I force myself not to linger there. When you grow up with someone, even if you lose touch, there’s still a part of you that will always know them at their core.
I can see that trusty Olive-curiosity being piqued, and I remind myself to be careful.
“ You’re completely different.” She walks over to the bed of the truck and slides the cardboard tray of mistletoe out.
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.”
“Not completely.”
“I mean, your hair is still dark and your eyes are still green, but otherwise?” She stands there, holding the tray, and looks me over. “I hardly recognize you.”
I grab the ladder with a scoff. “Why, because I grew up?”
“No, because the Liam I knew wasn’t a Scrooge.”
I pull the ladder out and grumble to myself before I realize I’m proving her right.
“You used to love Christmas,” she says. “Don’t you remember? You led the charge during Family Day. You were the one who had to win that scavenger hunt. You were the one who was so excited to show new people around this place. You were their best tour guide.”
She goes still, suddenly more serious. “Liam,” she says my name, and I don’t hate the way it sounds. “What happened?”
I sigh .
I wish I was the type to just spill everything, to talk about how I’m feeling about stuff, to confide, but I’m just not.
I slip to my default, which is deciding not to burden others with all of my stuff, thinking that it’s stupid to talk about, a shrug my only reply.
“Things change.”
I know it’s not what she wants to hear. I also know it’s not all I want to say.
A part of me hopes she keeps asking. If anyone could wear me down, it’s Olive.
I take one of the bunches of mistletoe and start toward the main barn, ladder under my arm. “Hey, um, can you grab the hammer and box of nails from behind my seat?”
“Yes, boss!”
I picture her saluting and hold back a smile.
She meets me at the entrance, and I set the ladder up underneath the roof of the wide porch. I hand over the bunch of mistletoe and start up the ladder. She puts a hand on the back of it, steadying it as I go.
“What are you doing tomorrow?” she asks.
I hold my hand out toward her, and she gives me the hammer and a small handful of nails, then holds up one of the sprigs of mistletoe and watches as I fix it to the roof right above the door.
I hand the hammer back and start down the ladder. “Nothing.” Once I’m back on solid ground, she takes a step back, and I watch her. “Why?”
“I wondered if you might be able to help me cut my tree down,” she says. “For my house.”
For some reason I can’t explain, this makes me want to know where she lives. I’ve been picturing her in her parents’ house, in that same bedroom that faced mine, but of course she’d have her own place by now .
“I know what you’re doing,” I say, folding the ladder. “You told me your show Liam how great Pine Creek is plan.”
She frowns. “That doesn’t mean I don’t actually need help.”
“Who would help you if I wasn’t here?” I use the ladder as a prop and watch her turn this over in her head.
“Probably my dad,” she says. “But I don’t usually cut my own. I usually get one of the small precut ones.”
“So do that,” I say, walking off the porch.
She follows. “No, that’s like cheating. It’s my last chance to cut down a real Pine Creek Christmas tree. I want the full experience!”
I shove the ladder into the back of the truck. “The full experience?”
She smiles. “Yep.”
I tilt my head at her. “You know this isn’t going to work, right? This whole plan, cramming everything in, last best whatever?”
“See, that’s where you’re wrong, Liam.”
I lean against the truck.
“Am I?”
“Yes.” She meets my eyes. “You know why it’s going to work?”
I hold up both hands as if to say, lay it on me .
“Because I’m very persuasive.”
My breath catches, because there’s a part of me that I’m sure could be persuaded without any effort on her part at all.
I hold her gaze for a three-count that feels like an hour, then laugh, mostly to dispel the tension.
She mock gasps. “A laugh! Oh my gosh!” She starts shouting as if there’s a crowd. “He laughed, everyone! He’s human, after all!”
I shake my head, thankful for the levity. “Will you knock it off, you lunatic?”
She looks right at me. “I’ve never cut down my own tree before. There are things I can’t do, but you can. Please, Liam. I don’t want to mess it up.”
I look at her, all earnestness in her wide, pleading eyes, and I give in.
I take the hammer from her and walk around to the driver’s side door. “Fine.”
“Fine?”
“Fine,” I repeat.
She clasps her hands together in front of her face, a tiny gasp escaping as she does. “For real? You’ll help me?”
I don’t respond. Instead, I toss her a don’t push it look and move around to the side of the truck. I get in, then catch a glimpse of her smile in the rearview mirror.
I don’t know what game she’s playing . . . but I have a feeling she’s winning.