Chapter 2 #3
Boom . A cascade of sparkles hits me square in the heart, because this is the kind of witty banter I love in my favorite movies—the kind that makes it obvious the on-screen couple is meant to be together.
“The stars are a pretty good hobby.” I give my best screen-ready smile and try to keep it going. “I thought I was pretty solid at my star signs, but I’ve never gotten a read that quick with anyone.”
She stands closer to me now, reaching out and touching the needles on the nearest fir tree. I smell cinnamon and spices on her light brown skin mixing with the heady pine around us. It’s enough to make my knees buckle.
“Guess mine,” she says, and oh, this is definitely flirting, right?
“A challenge!” I say, and she shrugs.
I want to live up to it, but she has the advantage—we’re in my territory, at my job, and I’ve shared more about myself.
“Hmm, I have a hunch,” I say, which is not even remotely true. I’ve got nothing, but I’m not about to admit that. “Not ready to share just yet, though.”
“Fair, I guess,” she says, and I worry I’ve missed an opportunity to impress her, but then she quickly gives me another. “Well, master giver, what about you? What are your gift strategies this season?”
“Actually, you’ve inadvertently become a part of my main mission,” I say, and gesture around the field. “I’m getting a tree for my mom.”
She pauses.
“As a gift?”
I nod.
“I’ve seen like ‘Fifty-Two Unique Gifts for Mom’ listicles, and sometimes it’s flowers or succulents or even an Edible Arrangement, but a giant seasonal houseplant? Def gets originality points.”
“Well, the element of surprise is part of Christmas magic, isn’t it?” I say.
Now I’m extra nervous. The question is a kind of litmus test. My belief in Christmas magic is a major part of my personality, but faith in the fantastical isn’t always everyone’s cup of cocoa—which can make me a challenging flavor for some.
I’ve been called delulu and unhinged , and the one I like the least, too much .
I wait nervously to see how she reacts. But then there’s the swelling rumble of tires, a sound I’d prefer to drown out with blaring jingle bells. It’s a familiar sound after years visiting and working on the farm, but I almost don’t even notice until she points it out.
“Speaking of surprises, aren’t those your wheels?” She nods to the horizon, where a tractor has appeared and is heading in our direction.
Damn. Fifteen minutes ago I was so worried about being late. Now I wish the thing could give me just a liiiiittle longer.
“Oh, yeah. It is.”
I stuff my hands in my pockets again, and turn back to the two of them. “Are you guys going out to find a tree?” I ask hopefully.
“Nah,” the girl says. “We’re just killing time, waiting for my cousin, Carlos—he’s here for work.”
“Work?” I ask. I know all the workers on the farm, and I definitely am not aware of anyone named Carlos.
“Yeah, he’s kind of a Christmas-tree-adjacent entrepreneur,” she says. “He has this food truck where he sells tacos and tamales with my tía—that’s my aunt,” she pauses to translate. “And during the holidays he also rents this empty lot to sell trees.”
“Wow,” I say. “So… like a tree industry disrupter.”
“It’s a thing.” She shrugs. “Anyway, we trek up here a few times every year for inventory. This is the annual last-minute restocking trip.”
I have so many questions, and I’m not even close to ready to end this conversation, but I look down at Marley’s cider-stained biography and think about my mother. I really can’t miss this ride.
“Do you have time for a quick tour of the fields?” I blurt before I consider how I can manage to find this tree and play host.
It occurs to me how many Cooper customers have congregated around us. I watch the last of them climb on board, and then turn back to the girl, who’s looking between the kid and the tractor.
“Whaddya think, bud?” she asks him. “Could be a good time.”
She’s saying that for his benefit, but I get a rush—she thinks we could have a good time together!
“Least I could do for putting a literary masterpiece in danger,” I say, looking to this kid who suddenly holds all the power, whose decision is about to make or break my holiday spirit.
He doesn’t answer, but something about his look to his sister must be signaling an affirmative, because she nods.
“Lead the way,” she says.
We approach the tractor, and I try to manage my face so I don’t give the impression that this is the best thing to happen to me since Little Debbie introduced Christmas Tree Cakes ice cream.
I pause before taking the first step, and instinctively turn to offer her a hand, which she looks down at before looking back at me.
And now I’m sweating because is that so weird?
But I can’t exactly take back the gesture, so I just wait in agony.
“Thanks,” she says finally, and I exhale. She’s wearing fingerless gloves, and has a birthmark that looks like a tiny fleck of chocolate. Like the ones I always have from the bakery.
“Oh, and I’m Eve. And this is Hugo,” she says, before she takes the step up.
“Bennie,” I say. “Bennie Bosley. Nice to meet you. Both of you.”
As she puts her hand in mine, I feel her skin, which is somehow softer than room temperature butter, and as warm as a batch of fresh biscuits, and she squeezes my hand ever so slightly, and it’s enough to send a whoosh of warmth from my toes to my cheeks.
I am so hyperaware of myself and oh my god, it’s like I’m feeling everything everywhere all at once—excitement, anxiousness, curiosity, nausea, amplified by 1843.
What I’m not feeling, though, is my phone buzzing in my pocket from the messages my friends are frantically sending me.
And that is because my phone isn’t in my pocket at all.