Chapter 12 Christmas Tree Farm
Christmas Tree Farm
Dylan
The FaceTime call with Ali ended hours ago, but Dylan was still lying on his childhood bed, staring up at the ceiling fan turning slow above him. The house was quiet now— his parents long asleep— but he couldn’t settle. Not after the conversation he’d just had with Daisy.
He couldn’t tell Daisy everything. That wasn’t his story to share. But when she rolled her eyes at the mention of Ali again— when she made another snide comment about how Ali was “milking” her sadness for attention— he snapped.
“You’ve been a bitch to her, Daisy,” he said. “She hasn’t done anything to you except fall for someone who’s your brother. Get over it.”
Daisy had exploded, her voice rising with each accusation. “You’re choosing her over me! You always used to have my back, and now it’s like I don’t even know you. You don’t see how she’s manipulating you?”
He didn’t even finish the argument. He retreated to his old room. But he was still reeling. He couldn't stay here.
He grabbed his bag, sent an apology text to his parents— told them he had to get back to campus early to prep for the bowl game— and left. If he stayed, he might say something he couldn’t take back.
Ali wasn’t even at school yet— she was still at her parents’ house until after Christmas— but he needed space from the toxicity. From Daisy. From the guilt that always followed him like a shadow when they fought.
He turned onto I-16 just before midnight, the hum of the road the only thing keeping him grounded. The silence in the car was thick, but his thoughts weren’t quiet. They were all her.
Ali.
He just wanted to be where she was. Even if she wouldn’t be on campus until next week.
The headlights cut through the Georgia night, the road stretching out in front of him like a lifeline.
He wasn’t even sure when the decision happened, just that one second he was headed back to campus and the next, he was pulling an illegal U-turn through the interstate median, aiming his Jeep north back toward Bellamy County, Honeyshore, and the Presley house.
It was after 1am when he pulled into their driveway. Lights still twinkled from a garland wrapped around the front porch. He sat for a minute, hands on the steering wheel, wondering if this was insane.
But then the front door cracked open.
Her dad stepped out in flannel pajama pants and a hoodie, squinting into the driveway.
“Dylan?”
He climbed out, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m sorry it’s so late. I was headed back to school but—” He blew out a breath. “Ali doesn’t know I’m here yet. I just… I didn’t want to spend Christmas fighting with Daisy.”
Mr. Presley didn’t ask any more questions. He just nodded. “Guest room’s made up. Come on in, son.”
Ali shrieked when she saw him standing in the Presley kitchen the next morning, barefoot and holding a mug of coffee like he belonged there.
“Dylan?” she said, nearly dropping the bag of powdered sugar in her hand. She was still in pajama pants and a sweatshirt, hair up in a messy bun, flour on her cheek. “What are you—”
“I made a detour.” He smiled, soft and boyish. “I missed you.”
Her mom handed him a spoon without missing a beat. “You can stir. Ali’s behind on the icing.”
Ali’s heart flipped. She barely registered the explanation he whispered later— about Daisy, the fight, the drive— because by then she’d already pulled him into the pantry and kissed him hard enough to say you’re safe here.
The whole day unfolded like something out of one of those cheesy holiday rom-coms she and Ash loved so much.
They watched It’s a Wonderful Life with her mom, cuddled up on the couch under a red fleece throw.
During Miracle on 34th Street, Dylan helped her press Hershey’s kisses into peanut butter blossoms while Ali sang along to Christmas songs from the Alexa in the corner.
And Home Alone had him laughing so hard she had to swat him with a kitchen towel.
He hadn’t even realized how heavy he’d been feeling until he was surrounded by the soft domestic peace of the Presley home. Her dad grilling steaks out back, her mom sipping wine while Ali curled into Dylan’s side on the couch, cookie tin balanced on her lap.
That night, as they sat curled up on the back porch under a blanket and next to the fire pit in the quiet Georgia neighborhood, Dylan finally realized:
This wasn’t just the best Christmas he’d ever had.
It was the first time he truly felt like he was home.