Chapter Thirty-Two
Jo
The next day, again at my computer, I groaned.
If I stared at the same line of code for one more second, my brain was going to liquefy and leak out my ears.
I rubbed my eyes, blinked at the numbers on the screen, and told myself I could absolutely brute-force my way through one more simulation cycle.
A truck door slammed outside.
Then another.
Then shouting. Happy shouting.
I froze, fingers hovering over the keyboard.
Oh. Right.
Tree day.
“Shit,” I muttered.
“What?” Nate asked from the far table.
He was pretending to answer emails, which was adorable considering his focus had been on me and the battery, not Boston, for days. He looked up from his laptop, brows drawing together.
“They’re here,” I said. “For the tree.”
As if on cue, someone hollered from outside, “Jo! You decent? We’re stealing your boyfriend and your biggest pine!”
Nate’s mouth twitched. “I’m assuming that’s Gabe.”
“Unless Bibi’s voice has deepened and she’s taken up logging in her spare time, yeah.”
I shoved back from the bench so fast my chair squeaked. Panic and relief rushed through me in equal measure.
Panic, because getting pulled out of the lab felt like losing control.
Relief, because my brain was a dead hamster on a wheel.
“Okay,” I said, standing. “You need to go out there and be Mr. Local Landowner before they decide you’re some kind of Christmas Grinch. And we should probably shut this all down before anyone wanders in here and asks why there’s a small reactor on your uncle’s workbench.”
Nate closed his laptop and stood too. “You don’t want to come?”
The question was casual. The look in his eyes wasn’t.
“I didn’t say that.” I glanced at the screen one more time, knowing nothing useful was going to happen if I stayed. “My brain’s fried. And if I say no to hot chocolate and watching grown men argue over which tree is ‘most majestic’ someone is going to accuse me of hating Christmas.”
“Do you hate Christmas?” he asked.
I hesitated. “I like it . . . for other people.”
He studied me for a second like he wanted to unpack that, then let it go. “We can talk about that later. Right now, get your boots on.”
“Oh my God.” I rolled my eyes, but my lips were already twitching. “Bossy.”
“Efficient,” he said. “They’ll come looking for us if we’re not there in two minutes.”
He wasn’t wrong.
I shut down the monitors, flipped the cover over the hardware, and tugged off my lab gloves, shoving them into my back pocket. My parka hung on the hook by the door. I grabbed it, then yanked my snow boots on, hopping a little to get the heel to seat while Nate watched with unapologetic amusement.
“What?” I asked.
“Just appreciating the transformation,” he said. “Mad scientist to Christmas lumberjack in under thirty seconds.”
“Careful,” I said, zipping my coat. “Keep talking like that and I’ll tell Gabe that you want to lead some Christmas carols.”
“So evil,” he joked as he opened the door for me. Cold air slapped my face, clean and sharp, and for the first time in hours, I felt alert.
Gabe’s truck was parked by the barn, a couple of other pickups lined up behind it. Men in flannel and hats and boots milled around, ropes and saws in hand. Kids darted between the cars, shrieking and throwing half-formed snowballs.
And Bibi and Libby were standing off to the side with travel mugs of something steaming and suspiciously fragrant.
“There they are!” Bibi called when she saw us.
“About time,” Libby said. “We were about to come haul you out by your ears.”
“Hi,” I said, trying not to look like I’d just crawled out of a bunker. “Sorry. Work.”
“Work, she says,” Bibi murmured. “So that’s your code word for it?”
Libby snorted into her mug.
Heat climbed up my neck. Nate slid a hand into mine with infuriating smoothness.
“Tragically, we were actually working,” he told them. “We’ll take that code word under consideration.”
My fingers tightened around his as naturally as if we truly were a couple. We’d held hands in public before—to present a unified front when the town had looked at us and seen question marks. This time my heart stuttered like it hadn’t gotten the memo that we were still just keeping up appearances.
“There is better,” Bibi joked. “But you have to start somewhere.”
Gabe’s dad, Tom, waved a gloved hand from the opening to one of the paths. “Keaton! You coming or what? Ready to pick your first town tree?”
“I’ll trust your judgment,” Nate responded.
“Silas always chose the tree,” Tom said. “It’s tradition. You choose it and we’ll handle the rest.”
Nate’s fingers flexed around mine. For a second I felt the old tension there—the way his shoulders always tightened when someone mentioned his uncle. Then he exhaled. “Let’s do it.”
We crunched through the snow together. Nate didn’t drop my hand. I told myself it was practical—snow, ice, inclines—but the lie went down about as smoothly as gravel.
Rows of pines loomed ahead, tall and dark against the pale winter sky. Frost clung to needles, turning the whole place into something out of a postcard. Nate looked around as if he had no idea where to begin.
“The oldest ones are just around the corner.” Gabe pointed down a curved path.
A moment later, Nate announced, “That one looks good.”
“That’s like last year’s,” someone objected. “We need something taller. The mayor’s been bragging about outdoing Mapleton’s tree for weeks.”
“The mayor needs a hobby,” I muttered.
Nate chuckled under his breath. “What do you think?” he asked me.
“About the mayor’s hobby situation or the tree?”
“Tree.” Nate pointed to a larger one. “Or we could cut that one.”
I shrugged. “You’re the land baron. I’m just the squatter.”
“You’re not a squatter.”
“Then what am I?” I asked.
He shook his head, but there was a smile tugging at his mouth as we walked between the pines. The others milled about, waiting for his decision. It felt oddly momentous considering everything we were facing.
“That one,” he said finally, pointing. It was a big white pine near the center, full and even, branches layered like steps. Snow rested on it like frosting.
Tom nodded. “Good eye.”
“I just picked the one that looks like it won’t fall apart when you haul it through Main Street,” Nate said.
“That’s half the job.” Tom clapped him on the shoulder and started barking orders. Men moved into motion like they’d been choreographing this all their lives.
As the saws bit into the trunk and the tree began to sway, I leaned into Nate’s side. “You did good,” I said.
He glanced down, amused. “Picking a tree is not exactly high-level decision-making.”
“Tell that to the mayor,” I said. “Also, you didn’t flinch when Tom invoked tradition. That’s progress.”
He grunted, low in his chest. “Maybe.”
The tree finally gave, falling in a slow, majestic arc. Snow exploded up in a glittering cloud when it hit the ground. The kids cheered. Bibi sniffled into a tissue.
“I love that sound,” Libby said.
“A tree falling?” I asked.
“The kids,” she corrected. “The joy. It’s free therapy.”
She wasn’t wrong.
We helped tie the trunk to Gabe’s truck, men working the ropes, kids offering extremely unhelpful advice. My fingers went numb even through my gloves, but I didn’t complain.
This was Silas’s tradition. It mattered. And apparently, now it was now Nate’s too.
The convoy rolled out in a noisy, cheerful line—trucks, a couple of battered SUVs, and several smaller vehicles. It was so many more people than had been necessary, but somehow it had also been the perfect amount.
Nate drove us in Silas’s old sedan, following behind the main truck with the tree. I sat pressed close on the bench seat, the heater trying and failing to keep up with the cold. Our joined hands rested on the space between us.
The first five minutes, I told myself we were still holding hands because it would look strange if we stopped now. We were in view of half the town; anyone glancing into the cab would see us.
By minute ten, I’d forgotten to let go.
Main Street was already dressed for the season—garlands wrapped around lampposts, red bows everywhere, the café’s windows glowing golden with light and warmth and the promise of caffeine.
People spilled out of doorways and off sidewalks to watch as Gabe and the others backed the truck into the square and started the delicate work of raising the tree.
Milo hustled over with a tray of paper cups. “Hot chocolate,” he announced. “Or coffee if you’re dead inside.”
“Hot chocolate,” I said, taking a cup that smelled like sugar and childhood.
“Coffee,” Nate said.
Milo handed him one, then gave him a once-over that was both assessing and affectionate. “You did good with the tree.”
“I had help,” Nate said.
“That’s ninety percent of leadership,” Milo replied. “Picking the right people and listening to them.” He wandered off to refill other hands before either of us could respond.
“See?” I said. “You’ve been promoted.”
“To what?”
“Town tree czar, apparently.”
He shook his head, but he was smiling.
We found a spot near the center of the square, close enough to see the base of the tree being secured but not so close we’d get run over by an enthusiastic second grader.
Bibi and Libby materialized again like summoned spirits. Libby said, “I hope you’re hungry. Every shop on Main Street is serving up something. This is an add event.”
“All day,” I said, eyes rounding.
Bibi waved a hand toward the tree. “Decorating a tree that size is a process. It requires time, teamwork. . .”
“Alcohol,” Libby added. “Always ask if a beverage is spiked before you accept it.”
“Dully noted,” Nate said with a smile.
Hours flew by, a possible side effect of too much eggnog and laughter.
Between the bustle of stringing up lights as well as hanging decorations, there were invitations to visit each shop and sample what they’re holiday treats.
I was slightly buzzed by the time Milo suggested Nate and I do a few laps around the ice rink beside the hardware store.
“Do you skate?” I asked Nate.