Twelve
Snow silenced the sound of their boots hitting the sidewalk, the air so sharp it stung London’s lungs with each inhale.
Two blocks away, tourists were gathering for the nightly lighting ceremony, where thousands of lights would illuminate downtown and turn the otherwise dark valley into a glowing beacon of Christmas spirit.
When it was lit, the town looked like it had been dipped in sugar—and sprinkles.
Lights hung from every possible surface.
Storefronts were aglow with fake candles and miniature trees.
Santa paraphernalia was everywhere, including a live one roaming Front Street taking photos with children who were either elated or suspicious.
Brass music wafted through the air with an amplified clarity, the cold air dragging it into the hills.
London had grown up with this extreme approach to the holidays. It wasn’t all that special to her.
Just another December night in Leavenworth.
But to visitors this wasn’t just another night. People in heavy winter parkas and thick gloves pressed shoulder-to-shoulder to get the best view when the lights came on. What only the locals knew was that the spectacle would stay lit until March. Nobody ever stayed to see that part.
As they approached the east end of town, children ran through the crowd with glow sticks. People sat around firepits at the brewery, telling stories and enjoying a local beer.
Over the short walk, they’d been talking about countertops and paint colors. Nothing deep.
Nothing personal.
Especially nothing personal.
Just as they approached the park, the lights came on. People ooh’d and ahh’d and clapped.
“Wow,” Harper said, stopping in the middle of the crosswalk like she was seeing it for the first time. She’d seen this happen on repeat, too.
“Forgot how ridiculous it is, huh?” London nudged her shoulder, a tiny plea to keep walking.
Carolers filled the gazebo and began singing when the lights came on. O Tannenbaum escaped into the cold air. They were dressed in old Bavarian garb—wool skirts, embroidered vests, feathered hats that looked like they’d stepped out of a tourist brochure.
“I don’t think it’s ridiculous,” Harper said. “It’s beautiful. In an over-the-top, slightly concerning way.”
London shook her head, already stepping forward.
“Come on,” she said. “If we try to watch from the front we’ll be stuck here all night.”
They slipped off the sidewalk into the slow-moving mass of people who filled the street, squeezing through openings when they could. At one point, the crowd shifted and a group of teenagers with phones held high separated them, filming everything.
London turned over her shoulder and realized Harper wasn’t there, so she let the crowd mold around her until she saw the Carhartt jacket. There was only one person was wearing such an impractical coat that evening.
She reached out a hand and Harper took it. London couldn’t feel anything through the gloves, but she was certain something ignited anyway. A small surge. Wires connected, like they always had. Probably.
Eventually they escaped the throng of teenagers into an alley behind the bakery that led to a rickety staircase.
“It’s maybe not the safest,” London said, starting up the staircase. “But we can watch from the roof.”
Harper gave the rail a good pull. It didn’t budge. “It’s worth the gamble. That mob is intense.”
When they reached the roof, they had a birds’ eye view of Front Street. Wall-to-wall lights. Wall-to-wall people, taking it in. And the little park, with its tiny sledding hill that kids waited patiently to descend. They’d often wait twenty minutes for a twenty-second slide.
“Why have I never been here before?” Harper asked, taking in the sight.
“Not sure.” London shrugged. “I used to come here all the time when I was a kid. This is the first place I smoked pot, matter of fact.”
“London Mercer smoked pot?”
“Why are you surprised? I can let loose.”
Harper let out a quiet laugh and bumped her shoulder.
“I don’t believe it, but I’ll take your word for it.”
“I. Can. Let. Loose.” London insisted, each word puffing out a new plume of air into the night.
“Prove it,” Harper challenged. “Prove to me, right now, in front of God and Santa and the carolers, that you can let loose.”
London’s arms rested loosely on the safety railing. She watched as the crowd moved through town. Listened as the carolers sang Silent Night. And debated.
They hadn’t talked about the night before. Not a word. She’d tried and failed.
This seemed like flirting.
Only one way to find out.
“Okay, I will. Come closer.”
Harper side-stepped one step closer.
“Closer.”
Another sidestep.
“A little closer.”
One last sidestep, and they were shoulder to shoulder, just like the people below. Harper’s breath hung in the air between them.
“Now, turn toward me.”
As Harper turned, London had just enough time to reconsider.
The roof shifted slightly below their feet. Just beyond, in the gazebo, the carolers had moved on to the second verse of Silent Night, their amplified voices rising above the steady murmur of the crowd.
For a second, neither spoke. For a second, London felt the sting of winter on her face and in her frozen fingers and toes. And for a second, Harper’s eyes looked into hers, deep and searching.
Snow was sputtering to a start again, dusting their shoulders and beanies.
This could put the renovation at risk. Or worse—put her heart at risk.
“You look nervous.” Harper broke the silence.
“I’m not nervous,” London insisted.
“Well, you’re not proving anything to me.”
“I’m thinking.”
“About letting loose? That’s not how it works, Lon. That’s the opposite of letting loose.”
“No, about whether this is a good idea.”
Harper’s brow furrowed. “Standing on the roof? Watching the—”
London didn’t let her finish. She pulled Harper closer—closer than they’d been last night. When she kissed her, Harper didn’t retreat. She wrapped her hands around the small of London’s back and held her tight.
It was dramatic, yes, with the lights and the snow and the carolers. But it wasn’t dramatic.
It was—home.
Below them, the crowd applauded. Bells rang. Someone shouted “Merry Christmas!” London barely heard any of it. Her mind went blank. Her feet were numb. Her fingers were numb. But Harper was warm against her. The rest of the town may well have disappeared.
Harper rested her forehead against London’s, both breathing clouds into the air.
“So,” she said quietly. “This was you letting loose?”
London held her gaze. The corners of her lips tipped upward.
# # #
When they reached the Kline wine tasting room, there wasn’t an open square inch available. It was always like this in December. Puffy coats crowded the doorway, front windows fogging as people fought for a place inside.
London didn’t go in right away. She stopped just outside the door, under the amber glow of a propane heater, and pretended to read the chalkboard menu propped against the window. Glühwein. Charcuterie. Tonight’s flights. She already knew what was on the board. She’d known what was on it forever.
Harper stood beside her and read it too, like they were both very interested in the wine selection.
The kiss was still on London’s lips. She was certain Harper could tell.
“Busy,” Harper said, once the pretend menu reading was complete.
“Always is.” London turned toward the door. “Be right back.”
Inside it was cinnamon and bodies and noise. London squeezed through the crowd toward the bar, saying excuse me to no one and everyone. Someone elbowed her. Someone else stepped on her foot and didn't notice.
She found a small gap at the bar and wedged herself into it.
The bartender didn't look up. London didn't mind. It gave her something to stare at that wasn't Harper.
What are you doing.
Not a question. More of an observation. The kind her brain made when she was already past the point of course correcting but hadn’t quite accepted it yet.
She’d kissed Harper. Again. On a roof, in the snow, with carolers singing below them like they’d stumbled into a romantic comedy. It didn’t feel like a mistake in the moment.
But now—what are you doing—pestered her.
The man standing next to her was tasting and re-tasting the same two wines, going back and forth between a Syrah and a cabernet franc like the decision might alter the course of his life. London watched him tip the glass again. Swirl. Consider.
Pick one. Just pick one and live with it.
When the bartender slid two mugs toward her, she tossed twenty-five on the bar without waiting for change and wrapped both hands around the handles.
The heat moved through her palms and into the rest of her body, taking the edge off the night for the first time.
She stood there longer than necessary, letting it.
Something told her to check the loft. Victory. An empty high top in the back. She claimed it before anyone else noticed and texted Harper to join.
From above, it seemed even more chaotic.
Long bar-height farmhouse tables were crowded with people leaning over their famous charcuterie boards and wine flights.
These were the types of boards people took pictures of before eating—they were known across Central Washington.
Laughter bounced off reclaimed wood walls.
Strings of warm white lights ran across exposed beams. A lone guitarist played near the fireplace, but the room had long since decided to ignore him.
“How did you pull this off?” Harper wondered as she slinked behind a group invested in a long toast.
“I have my ways.” London winked. Or tried to. She was fairly certain she winked.
As she took her first sips, Harper watched the room below, both hands around her mug.