Chapter 6
’Tis the season for bad ideas.
I trudge deeper into the glimmering forest, my boots slurping through knee-high snow, keeping the A-frame of the cabin in my sight so I don’t get turned around. The last thing I need is to get lost or eaten by a coyote.
Though Hank would probably enjoy that.
Beside me, Zelda bounces happily, her spotted fur dotted with fluffy white flakes.
I look up, blinking at the clouds. I better move fast. I have what I need to pick the perfect tree. On the sled Pops set me up with yesterday lay gloves, a saw, rope and a tarp. I don’t need Hank Blue’s permission to venture out. We’re divorced. So there.
I ease the sled around a low stump and push through a grove of too-perfect trees. I should stop here, cut one close to the house, but I don’t want the perfect Hallmark Christmas tree. I prefer the weird ones. The unloved and unchosen. Trees with character and charm.
So I plod on.
The gray sky above suits my mood as I stew over our argument.
It doesn’t make sense. If Hank hates Christmas so much, why is he here? Why did he bring enough food to feed an army of elves? Maybe he wanted that memory. Maybe he’s like me.
Reliving that pain feels almost welcome. Familiar at least.
I hate the way he got to me. Warming my stomach and that spot between my legs. I hate what I said to him. I want to apologize, take it back, beg him to forgive me.
He may have pulled away after I lost the baby, but he was there. Hovering. Trying to help. To talk. To fix.
Me?
I shut out the one person who was there for me.
Not because our marriage couldn’t be saved or because I was unhappy. I didn’t stop loving Hank. I did it because it hurt. Everything hurt. And the only way I knew how to cope was to push.
Guilt sinks deep in my gut as I force myself to face the truth.
I thought that by leaving, I’d get over him. Get over us.
But I was fooling myself. Every Christmas—every day on this earth—spent without Hank has been blue.
Friends, my mother, my therapist told me that if I was patient, eventually, I’d wake up and find that I had moved on. That our past, the idea of us, would be a blip on the radar of my life. They were wrong.
Because I didn’t walk away not loving Hank—I left knowing I still did.
It’s why I stayed away. Avoided seeing him. Refrained from texting. Our spark never died, and that scared the hell out of me. No man had ever wound me up and turned me on like he did. My love for him hadn’t faded, not one bit.
But I left anyway. To spare him more pain. To give him the space to get over a loss that was my fault.
It doesn’t matter anymore anyway. We’re divorced. I fucked us up. And now he wants nothing to do with me.
I sigh. I’m unwell and sad.
With a nervous laugh, I look at Zelda. “Mama’s delusional, right?”
In answer, she barks twice and races ahead of me.
With each step I take deeper into the woods, the snow becomes thicker under my boots. Before long, I see it. A gnarled fluffy tree with a wide base. Perfectly whimsical and weird. Small enough for me to drag back to the house.
By the time I’m parking the sled near my chosen conifer, my fingertips are numb and my legs are exhausted.
I test a branch, making sure the tree’s healthy and not too dry. After working the farm with Hank and Papa Blue for six years, I’m a pro at this.
As I finger the pine’s needles, a memory comes. Our third Christmas at Blue Mountain Farm. Hank and I sneaking off into the big red barn.
“Need you. Need you so goddamn bad, Bell.” Snow clinging to his broad shoulders, he pressed me back against a stall, lips on my temple, the move nudging my wool hat over my eyes.
“Hank.” I ripped my hands through his messy hair. We moved together frantically, hungrily. Like we weren’t fucking every night in that cabin.
He clutched my hips, yanking me to him. When he tried to shove my thick pants down, I giggled. It was a chore with all those layers. He managed it, but only after an endless struggle of determined curses.
After entirely too long, he slid inside me. “Sugar.” A pulse of warm breath. A whisper of my name.
I moaned, curling my hands over his hard biceps, and dropped my forehead to his, feeling just like that star topper on a Christmas tree. Glimmering, bright, the center of it all. Especially to Hank.
My blood thrummed. I wanted this cowboy forever. I’d never once felt like I’d thrown it all away. Like I’d given it all up for a man. It simply felt like I’d gotten everything I needed. Happiness. Love. Freedom.
He was mine. The Christmas tree farm was mine. And I loved them both with every bone in my body.
I shake my head, trying to clear it of Hank.
Damn that man. Maybe tonight, after I return victorious with my tree, I’ll apologize. Maybe we can bond over my mice dinner. Doubtful, but I’ll try.
If only I had done it three years ago.
Despite the regret that hits me hard and sharp, I square my shoulders and lay my tools on the ground.
Beside them, I position the tarp. When I’ve got it where I want it, I lie on top of it, then worm myself carefully under the tree.
On my belly, I saw the stump close to the ground and straight across.
I can worry about clearing the underbrush when I get it back to the cabin.
When the tree starts to lean, I quickly scoot out from under it, escaping to one side.
The wind picks up.
The butt of the evergreen kicks back. Suddenly, I’m moving backward too. I twist, watching in horror as the tree, acting like a sled, begins a downhill propulsion.
Adrenaline courses through my veins as I grasp for purchase, reaching for the small, brittle plants close by. I didn’t see the steep hill on my walk, thanks to the snow. But now gravity is taking me—and my tree—down.
Panic clutches my throat as a dense slab of snow rushes past.
Shit.
Shit.
Shit.
And then I’m sliding.
Screaming.
Falling.
A warm wet nose on mine.
“Hank?” I murmur. If he wants to kiss me, all he needs to do is ask.
Slowly, I open my eyes. Zelda’s snow-covered face hovers in front of me. “Hey, girl.”
She whimpers, nudging at my arm.
I lift the limb, realization setting in.
I’m not buried by the snow, but I’m trapped, nonetheless.
Wedged deep in a snowbank with the tree on top of me and no room to wiggle, I feel like I’ve been run over by ten reindeer.
The limbs of the fir scratch at my face, though, luckily, there’s a small air pocket to my left that allows me to breathe.
Taking long, deep exhales, I will myself not to panic. It’s a difficult feat with what feels like a million pounds sitting on my chest. I can’t stretch. Can’t even wiggle my toes. And it’s cold. So very cold.
Ugh, God. I went down the hill like one of those cartoon animals stuck in a careening snowball. Luckily, my leather gloves and hat stayed put during my tumble. Though it’s possible they’ll just ensure a slower, more painful death.
Another whimper from Zelda pulls me out of my spiraling thoughts.
“I know. If I could move, I would.” Grunting, I heave one shoulder, trying to free it. But it’s useless. I’m stuck.
“Help!” I yell, but my voice is thin and weak in the silence of the wild.
Oh God. Hank will find me in the morning, wet and dead. I should have taken his advice and forgotten about the tree.
Hank.
I look into Zelda’s eyes. She’s the best chance I have. “Go get Daddy.” At the word, she straightens up, her wagging tail barely visible through the branches between us. I make my voice forceful, stern. “Go, Zelda. Get help. Now, girl!”
She leaps, yipping once, then takes off into the snow.
My heart sinks as she disappears.
I’m an idiot. All this for a stupid tree.
Above me, the falling snow, whipped by the wind, obscures the sinking sun. Darkness is coming on quickly. Fuck. What a way to spend the night. I’ll be buried here like Frosty the Snowman. No one will find me. I’ll die alone in the freezing Montana wilderness.
I try again to wrench my shoulders free, causing the pine branches to scrape across my face. But the tightly packed snow grips my body, holding me in place in a frozen little coffin.
Tears blur my eyes. Cold seeps through my jacket. I shiver from head to toe, teeth chattering, bone-deep cold.
My arms, my eyelids are heavy. I yawn. A nap, I think. Just five minutes.
Hank’s voice. Don’t go to sleep, Bellamy. Don’t you dare.
I dare.