Chapter Thirty-Two #2
“I do today,” he answered.
Of course, he’d played hockey in high school and, of course, he flew across the ice like he was born to rule there.
I hadn’t had the pleasure of learning how to skate, but I let him lead me around.
It started as a bit of a trust building activity, but as someone who been active most of my life, I quickly picked up the basics.
Before I knew it, Nate had me laughing and spinning, feeling young and free.
The sun set early and we headed back to the town square. The mayor—round, rosy-cheeked, wearing a Santa hat that had seen better years—clambered up onto the little wooden platform they used for announcements and summer concerts.
“Friends!” he boomed into a microphone that crackled like it was older than he was. “Thank you all for coming out for our annual tree lighting!”
Cheers rose up from the crowd.
“As you all know,” he went on, “this tradition started with our own Silas Keaton, who insisted that as long as there was a big enough tree on his land, this town would never go without a Christmas centerpiece.”
A soft murmur passed through the crowd at Silas’s name. Nate’s hand tightened around mine.
“And now,” the mayor continued, “we’re honored that his nephew has chosen to keep that promise alive. Nate Keaton, please come up here and help out.” He turned, beaming, and waved Nate forward.
For a second, Nate didn’t move. I felt the hesitation in him—the instinct to duck away from any spotlight that had Silas’s name attached to it.
I bumped his arm with my shoulder. “Go,” I said quietly. “He’d want this.”
Nate looked at me, something bright and raw flickering behind his eyes. Then he nodded once and let go of my hand. I felt his absence deeply.
He threaded his way through the crowd to the platform. The mayor clapped him on the back and handed him an oversized lever attached to a decorated box, cords running from it up to the tree.
Nate looked down at it like it might explode.
“Speech!” someone called.
“Oh God, please no,” I muttered.
Nate cleared his throat. “I don’t know much about giving speeches,” he said, his voice carrying easily. “And I’m new to this tradition. But I know my uncle loved this town. And he loved this. The trees, the work, the gathering.”
A lump lodged in my throat.
“So, thanks for letting me be part of it,” he finished, a little awkward, which made the women in the crowd coo. Applause rippled through the square. A young child appeared at his side.
I recognized the kid—one of Martin’s grandsons, cheeks red, eyes big, hat askew. He stared up at Nate. “You gonna turn it on?” he asked.
Nate smiled down at him. “That’s the plan. But between you and me, I’ve never done this before. Think you could help?”
The boy’s mouth fell open. “Me?”
“If your parents say it’s okay,” Nate said.
The kid whirled, nearly tripping over his own feet as he charged back to where his parents and Martin stood.
“Granddad! Mr. Nate wants me to help turn on the lights! Can I? Can I?”
Martin glanced at Nate with a warmth that he hadn’t previously. “You sure can.”
The kid bolted back to the platform. Nate offered him his hand to climb up. The mayor adjusted the mic.
“All right, folks!” he called. “On three, we’re lighting this year’s tree. You know what to do.”
Libby elbowed me. “Don’t forget to make your wish,” she whispered.
I blinked. “My what?”
“Your Christmas wish,” she said, like it was obvious. “Everybody knows the first wish you make when the lights come on has the best chance of coming true.”
“That’s not scientifically sound,” I said.
“Neither is Santa,” Bibi murmured. “Doesn’t mean he doesn’t bring you presents.”
I opened my mouth to argue, then closed it again.
“All right!” the mayor shouted. “Everybody ready?”
The crowd picked up the count.
“Three!”
I looked at the dark outline of the tree, at the way the cords snaked up its trunk like veins waiting for light.
“Two!”
Libby clasped her hands together. Bibi sniffled. Kids bounced on their toes.
“One! Make your wishes!”
Nate and Martin’s grandson threw the lever together.
The tree exploded into color.
Lights raced up from the base, cascading through every branch until the entire thing glowed against the dark sky—warm white and soft gold and a few rogue red and green bulbs that someone had slipped in just to keep it honest.
The crowd gasped, then broke into cheers. Somewhere behind me, someone started “O Holy Night,” off-key and enthusiastic. Other voices joined in, weaving together into something imperfect and beautiful.
I did not make a wish.
Not because I didn’t want anything.
If anything, I wanted too much.
I wanted my father free. I wanted the battery working. I wanted justice. I wanted this town safe. I wanted . . . this. Warmth and laughter and Nate’s hand finding mine in the dark.
But belief like that—standing under twinkling lights and trusting the universe was listening and benevolent enough to care—felt like a luxury for people who hadn’t spent their adult lives dodging crosshairs.
I loved that they believed. The way you love watching a kid race downstairs to see what Santa brought them, even when you’re the one who stayed up late assembling the presents.
But faith? In magic? In anyone up there listening?
No.
The crowd shifted, people pressing closer to the tree, to each other. Hands lifted. Arms wrapped around shoulders. Someone brushed past me.
Then warmth settled along my back, solid and familiar.
Nate’s arms slid around my waist, pulling me back against his chest. His coat was cold on the outside, but his body heat seeped through instantly.
He rested his chin lightly on top of my head.
“You okay?” he murmured.
I nodded, throat suddenly tight. “Yeah.”
“Too many people?” he asked.
“Too many feelings,” I said.
He huffed a quiet laugh that stirred my hair. “You want to leave?”
I watched Martin near the front, one hand on his grandson’s shoulder, face soft in the tree’s glow. I watched Milo hand out more cups and Bibi and Libby laughing over something Mr. Carlisle said.
The carol swelled around us, voices cracking on the high notes, children coming in late, someone changing the lyrics halfway through.
For a moment, I let myself imagine this was my life.
Not a layover. Not a borrowed scene. Not a moment carved out of chaos.
Just my normal.
What would it be like to be part of a town that believed in wishes? To have a tradition that said light could push back darkness every year. And for the man behind me to be mine? “No,” I said finally. “I don’t want to leave.”
Nate’s arms tightened just a fraction. “Okay.”
I let my head tip back against his shoulder and closed my eyes for one verse, letting the sounds and smells and warmth sink in—the pine, the cocoa, the faint hint of snow on my cheeks, the vibration of his chest when he sang along under his breath, just a word here and there.
He was doing all the right things.
He’d walked into this town and earned their respect instead of demanding it. He’d listened instead of assuming he knew better. He’d chosen to stand between me and a world that had tried to crush my father, not because it made sense on a balance sheet but because it was right.
I trusted him about as much as I was capable of trusting anyone.
It wasn’t enough. Not yet.
But wrapped in his arms beside a tree Silas had started choosing decades before I got here, surrounded by people who had no idea how dangerous my life had become and cared about me anyway . . .
For tonight, it was enough.
I opened my eyes as the song faded and a new one started.
The tree lights blurred for a second, then sharpened again.
Somewhere deep in my chest, that old, stubborn part of me that refused to stay dead whispered words I would never say out loud: If wishes worked, I’d wish for everything to work out so that this could be my life.
Exactly this.
Forever.
And because I couldn’t give that voice what it wanted, I did the only thing I could. I leaned back into Nate a little more, let his warmth soak into my bones, and allowed myself—for the length of one Christmas carol—to believe in him.