Chapter 35
CHRISTMAS DAY
MELODY
Iget another frantic call from Missy before I’ve even had a chance to shut the door behind my sister. All I manage to do is yank a giant, ugly Christmas sweater over my pajamas and throw my hair into a messy ponytail. Then I bolt out the door.
Missy’s already waiting in the parking lot when I pull in. I park haphazardly, even for me, and scramble out of the car, only to get yanked back by my seatbelt. I curse under my breath, unbuckle, and finally hop out.
She eyes me as I jog up, breathless. “Ope… I probably should have told you you had more time.”
I glance down at myself—Christmas pajamas, clashing sweater, hair barely contained—and shrug. “What the hell is going on?”
“Never mind, honey—you look great!” she says, wrapping an arm around me like we’re headed to brunch instead of a crisis.
I scrunch my nose. “Why do I need to look great for a nursing home emergency?”
She clears her throat and opens the door. “This way.”
As soon as I step inside, I hear the faint sound of Frank Sinatra crooning Santa Claus is Comin’ to Town—one of my favorites.
I glance at Missy, confused. She’s wearing a strained smile, the kind that says I’m keeping a secret and you’re about to find out what it is. A weird choice to blast Christmas music during an emergency, but okay.
We walk down the hallway toward the atrium. It’s empty, but I can see all the way down to the residential wings. A few graying heads peek out from doorways, watching us like nosy neighbors.
My eyebrows knit together. “What’s going on?”
Silence.
I whirl around.
Missy’s gone.
“What the hell?” I whisper. Is this a bad dream?
Then I spot the community room.
Usually, it’s filled with folding tables, mismatched chairs, and the seniors accusing each other of cheating at cards. One sad, half-decorated Christmas tree usually lurks by the window, like someone started decorating but got tired.
Not today.
Today, it’s a forest.
Christmas trees—dozens of them—fill the space from wall to wall. All different sizes. All different styles. Traditional green, snow-flocked, frosted, fiber optic. It’s like a showroom of holiday trends from the last decade.
I spot one strung with Edison bulbs—and freeze.
I know that tree.
I step closer, weaving between the branches. My heart starts to race.
I recognize all of them.
Mariah Care-tree, Buddy, Kris Pine, Noelle, Spruce Springsteen, Treeoncé, Blitzen, Holly Parton, Merry Tyler Moore—
These are my Christmas trees. From my storage unit. Each one I’ve collected over the years. Each one glowing, sparkling, twinkling like they’ve been waiting for this moment.
A carpet of fake snow forms a path between them.
I suck in a deep breath—and follow it.
The walk isn’t long, but I savor it—glancing around in awe at all my babies, lit up and glittering for me. Together, in one room. My personal forest of joy.
A glittering ribbon catches my eye—and that’s when I see it. Underneath every one of my precious trees are dozens and dozens of presents, wrapped in big gold, silver, and red bows—for all the seniors.
When I reach the window, the morning light pours through—and there he is.
Eben.
He stands in the center of it all, looking nervous and wearing a sweater so aggressively festive it stops me in my tracks.
Garland is sewn in horizontal strips across his chest like he’s been gift-wrapped by a tipsy elf.
Red, gold, and silver metallic ornaments dangle from the knitted yarn, swaying with every breath like he’s a walking, talking Christmas tree.
A full-blown holiday cheer explosion.
And somehow, he still looks like the most handsome thing I’ve ever seen in my life.
“Hi,” I say, suddenly feeling sheepish.
“Hi,” he replies, blowing out a shaky breath.
I glance around, overwhelmed, and gesture at the glowing forest. “How did you…?”
“A Christmas miracle,” he says, then adds, “Also, Ally.”
The magnitude of it hits me all at once—what he’s done, what she helped him do. My best friend. This man. It all starts to sink in.
My throat tightens. My eyes fill with tears.
“Melody,” he murmurs, almost like he’s grounding himself just by saying my name. He takes a breath. “I’ve spent two decades avoiding this holiday like the plague.”
His hand brushes mine—just barely at first, like he’s not sure if he has permission. When I don’t pull away, he threads our fingers together.
My stomach does flip-flops.
“Christmas is supposed to celebrate love and connection,” he says softly.
“And the truth is… I didn’t want it. Not after what happened between my parents.
With my dad. To my mom, after he left. Everything felt splintered.
Ugly. Painful. And for so long, this season was just noise and lights and fake smiles.
“But then you showed up. In that ridiculous Mrs. Claus outfit. With your garlands and your cookies and your eighty-seven Christmas trees.”
He motions all around us, and I huff out a watery laugh.
“So when I was sitting there all by myself on Christmas Eve with my… fucking rotisserie chicken,” he says with a crooked smile, “for the first time I felt alone. Really alone. Because all I could think about was how much I wanted to be with you.”
My breath catches. The lights from my trees blur behind tears.
“And then my stepmom showed up—”
“Eben, wait,” I squeak out. I swallow hard, shaking my head. “I want to say something.”
His intense ice-blue eyes melt into mine. He nods, his pretty mouth clamping shut, waiting patiently.
“I shouldn’t have pushed you to fix things with your dad. That’s your family, not mine. I was projecting my own hurt, and that wasn’t fair.”
I hold his gaze, even though it’s like staring into the sun. I want him to know I mean it.
“I’m sorry.”
He exhales, the tension in his shoulders softening. “Okay,” he says, a small smile lifting the corner of his mouth. “Thank you for saying that. But… you were right.”
I blink. “I was?”
He grins, nods. “My dad was upset that I’ve been covering the cost of my mom’s care. He sent Mary Lou to tell me he’s taking over the bills.”
“Wow.” I’m in awe. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Say you’ll stop by the Christmas King’s house with me later.”
I can’t help it—my eyes light up brighter than all my Christmas trees combined. “Really?”
“Really, really.”
I can’t contain it anymore—I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him. He pulls me in tight, his hands firm at my waist, kissing me like it’s Christmas morning and I’m the only present he ever wanted.
And then, slowly, he pulls back.
A tiny whimper escapes my throat in protest.
“Now…” he murmurs, turning to grab something from the table behind him. “I found this,” he says, pulling out a small, slightly worn tree topper wrapped in tissue paper. He unwraps it gently, like it’s something sacred.
It’s vintage. Hand-painted. A Santa Claus made of blown glass—delicate, beautiful, a little chipped at the edges.
“It belonged to my mom,” he says. “My dad used to lift me to put it on the top of the tree, back before… Christmas got complicated.”
He looks down at it for a moment, then back at me.
“I found it in the attic. I thought maybe… You should have it.”
He holds it out, and I take it from him—carefully, reverently. I touch the side of Santa’s face. More than just a trinket or a bauble—a symbol of healing. Eben’s healing, and my own.
“I love it,” I whisper, hugging it to my chest.
He smiles then—bright and beaming.
“I love you, Mrs. Claus,” he says, eyes sparkling. “I mean… Melody.”
He winks.
I laugh and roll my eyes, wrapping a hand around the back of his blond head and pulling him down to kiss me again.
“I love you, too, Mr. Claus.”
He huffs a laugh against my lips. “So cheesy.”
I growl and nip at his lips, playful. He gently takes the ornament from me, sets it back on the table behind him, then wraps both arms around me and kisses me again—deeper this time.
He teases my mouth open with his tongue, tasting me.
My arms tighten around him, fingers playing at the little hairs at the nape of his neck.
Low whistles sound from behind us.
We break apart reluctantly, and turn to see our favorite olds (and Missy) staring back at us through the faux forest, grinning like gremlins.
“Keep it PG, will ya?”
“Yeah, get a room!”
“They can have mine.”
“I haven’t seen this much action in years.”
“What are you talking about? I saw you sneaking into Roberta’s room last week!”
Finally, Edna scoots up, pushing them all out of the way to get to the presents, eyeing a large red package with her name on it.
“Move out of the way, Santa brought me a Nintendo!”
I laugh out loud as Missy hands Edna her gift and looks at Eben and me.
“Thanks to you both, we raised triple what we were hoping to, which means every senior here got what they really wanted for Christmas.” She winks at us, then turns to manage the present-starved seniors who are ready for Christmas to begin.
The bickering and catcalls are replaced by the joyous sounds of ripped wrapping paper, as Eben and I gaze into each other’s eyes, surrounded by Christmas trees and geriatrics and twinkling lights and magic—all my favorite things.
“I like your sweater,” I whisper, eyes raking over the bright green monstrosity in all its ugly-sweater glory.
“I knew you would,” he says, eyes trailing over my oversized Christmas sweater and pajama ensemble like he can’t wait to unwrap me later.
His head dips again, and I go back to kissing my very own sexy Santa-slash-human-Christmas tree.
Merry fuckin’ Christmas to me.