Chapter 14 Carter #2
I don’t know what to say to that. I grab another puzzle piece and jam it somewhere. It doesn’t fit. Fuck this stupid fucking puzzle.
“For what it’s worth,” Rhi says quietly, “I don’t think you’re too much.”
“Thanks.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
I don’t.
We go back to the puzzle.
And I think maybe—just maybe—I’m allowed to want this.
Allowed to want her.
We’ve been working on the puzzle for a couple hours when the idea hits me.
Rhi’s concentrating on a particularly tricky section—sky pieces, all the same shade of blue—and she’s got that little crease between her eyebrows that she gets when she’s focused. The cabin is warm from the fire, and there’s snow falling outside the windows, and it should feel like Christmas.
But it doesn’t.
Because there’s nothing festive about this place. No lights, no decorations, no tree. Just research equipment and field notebooks. I think about how Rhi admired the decorations when we drove in.
Because this is her first Christmas away from her family. And she’s stuck in a cabin in the middle of nowhere with me.
The least I can do is make it feel a little less depressing.
“You know what we need?” I say suddenly.
She doesn’t look up from the puzzle. “Data backup protocols?”
“A Christmas tree.”
That gets her attention. She looks up from the puzzle, eyebrows raised. “Carter, we’re in a research cabin in the middle of nowhere. Where exactly do you propose we get a Christmas tree?”
“We’re literally surrounded by pine trees.”
Her eyes widen. “We are not cutting down—”
“Not a whole tree. Just a branch. A big branch. We could put it in that empty vase by the window.” I’m already standing, pulling on my boots. This is a good idea. This is a great idea. “Come on. It’ll take five minutes.”
“This is ridiculous.”
“This is festive.” I grab her coat, toss it to her. She catches it automatically, which I’m counting as progress. “You can’t spend Christmas Eve in a cabin with no decorations. That’s just sad. Someone wise told me that before.”
“I wasn’t planning to celebrate—”
“Rhiannon Pierce.” I level her with my most serious look. The one that says I’m not backing down on this. “Get your coat. We’re getting a Christmas tree branch.”
She stares at me for a long moment. I can see her weighing it.
Finally, she sighs and stands, wincing slightly when her ankle takes her weight. “Five minutes. That’s it.”
“Five minutes,” I agree, knowing full well it’ll take longer.
The cold hits us immediately, but it’s the good kind of cold. Sharp and clean and smelling like pine.
“Okay, tree expert,” Rhi says, hobbling through the snow beside me. “What are we looking for?”
“A branch. A festive branch.”
“That’s not helpful.”
“It needs to have character.”
“Carter.”
“What? It does!” I’m scanning the trees around the cabin, looking for one with low-hanging branches. “We want something with good needle density. Nice shape. Maybe a little asymmetry for personality.”
“I can’t believe you have criteria for this.”
“I can’t believe you don’t.” I spot a perfect candidate—a large branch hanging low on a Douglas fir about twenty feet from the cabin. “That one.”
She follows my gaze. “That’s huge.”
“She’s perfect.”
“That’s going to take up half the cabin.”
“Perfect. More room for ornaments.”
“We don’t have ornaments.”
“Yet,” I say, grinning. “We don’t have ornaments yet.”
I trudge through the snow toward the tree, Rhi following more slowly because of her ankle. I feel a little guilty making her walk, but I want her to experience this. Also, I like that she’s here. That she’s letting me do this ridiculous thing even though it makes zero practical sense.
The branch is perfect. Full and green and only slightly lopsided. I test its weight, then start working it back and forth to loosen it from the trunk.
“Need help?” Rhi asks.
“I got it.” One more twist and it breaks free with a satisfying crack. “See? Easy.”
“You made that look way harder than it needed to be.”
“That’s just my natural technique. Very dramatic.”
“Very something.”
I hoist the branch over my shoulder, and we head back to the cabin. Snow is falling harder now, catching in Rhi’s hair, and she’s trying not to smile, but I can see it at the corners of her mouth.
Twenty minutes later—okay, so it took longer than five minutes, but who’s counting—we’ve dragged the branch inside and propped it up in the empty vase by the window.
It’s lopsided. It’s dropping needles everywhere. The vase is definitely not big enough and we had to stabilize it with rocks from outside.
It’s perfect.
“It smells incredible,” Rhi says, and she actually sounds pleased.
“Right? This is what Christmas should smell like. Not those fake candles. Real pine.”
“It’s very...” She tilts her head, studying our handiwork. “Asymmetrical.”
“She has character.”
“She’s falling over.”
She’s trying not to laugh.
“Okay,” I announce, stepping back to admire our work. “Now we need ornaments.”
“We don’t have ornaments.”
“So we make them.” I’m already pulling out paper from my field notebook—the pages in the back that I haven’t used for actual notes. “Come on. Help me.”
I sit down cross-legged on the floor and start folding. I have zero idea what I’m doing. I’m trying to make a star, but it looks more like a crumpled envelope.
Rhi watches me before she sighs and lowers herself to the floor beside me, careful with her ankle.
“You’re terrible at this,” she observes.
“I’m doing my best.”
“Your best is questionable.”
“Harsh but fair.” I hold up my creation. “What do you think?”
“I think that’s a triangle.”
“It’s a star.”
“It has three points.”
“It’s a minimalist star.”
She shakes her head, but she’s smiling now. Actually smiling. She takes a piece of paper and starts folding with the kind of precision I’ve come to expect from her. Within thirty seconds, she’s made a perfect five-pointed star.
“Show-off,” I mutter.
“It’s not my fault you have the fine motor skills of a toddler.”
“Rude.”
“True.”
She makes three perfect stars while I struggle through one lopsided attempt.
“Mine are better than yours,” she says, not looking up.
“You’re cheating.”
“Yours have wrinkles.”
I hold up my latest attempt. It’s got more folds than it should and one point is definitely longer than the others. “This one’s my favorite. I’m naming him Steve.”
“You’re naming your paper star Steve?”
“He earned it. Look at that determination. That asymmetry. That’s a Steve Star if I’ve ever seen one.”
She’s laughing now—actually laughing—and the sound fills the cabin in a way that makes my chest feel warm.
I grab another piece of paper and crumple it up in frustration, squeezing it into a tight ball. Then I pause, looking at it in my hand.
“You know what?” I hold up the crumpled paper ball. “This is basically a bauble.”
Rhi stops mid-fold, looking at me like I’ve lost my mind. “That’s crumpled paper, Carter.”
“No, hear me out.” I crumple another sheet, studying the compressed ball. “Use your imagination! This is a snow ball bauble. It’s modern art.”
“You are officially the worst at homemade decorations,” she declares.
I grin, tossing the paper ball at her.
She gasps and throws it back at me.
“Come on,” I say, gathering our collection of stars and my beautiful baubles. “Let’s hang these masterpieces.”
We don’t have string so we just place them where we can. I place while Rhi directs me on placement—higher, lower, no that one doesn’t match, try this branch instead. She’s bossy about Christmas decorations, which shouldn’t surprise me.
When we’re done, we stand back and look at our work.
The branch is lopsided and covered in wrinkled paper stars that are definitely not Pinterest-worthy. There are pine needles all over the floor. The vase is propped up with rocks and will probably tip over by morning.
It’s absolutely terrible.
“I love it,” Rhi says quietly.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” She’s smiling at our disaster of a tree.
“Merry Christmas Eve, Rhi.”
“Merry Christmas Eve, Carter.”