Chapter 17 #2
“Welcome to Mountain Pine Farm,” a guy around my age says as we approach the booth.
He’s wearing a branded fleece and beanie and holds out a pamphlet which Garrett takes.
“Here are the prices and directions. We only grow Norway Spruce, but they’re great robust trees.
Once you’ve made your selection, flag down one of my colleagues.
” He taps the logo on his fleece. “And they will help you chop it down and prepare it for transport.”
“We can chop it ourselves?” I ask, my mind already picturing Garrett’s muscles bunching under his shirt as he swings the axe. The guy smiles. “We’ll give you an axe to use as a prop for photos, but then the tree is cut down with a saw. Chopping them down with an axe is hard work.”
My shoulders droop with disappointment. Not because we can’t actually cut the tree down ourselves, but because we have no way to capture these moments. We stuck by our ‘no phones’ rule and left them behind.
“What’s with the frown?” Garrett nudges my arm with his.
I shake my head. “Nothing.”
He places a finger on either side of my chin and tips my face to his.
“What’s up?” His warm eyes are intense and I find myself unable to tear my attention away from them. This close, I can see the flicker of gold in his irises. He’s so fucking handsome.
“I would have loved some photos of…” I swallow, my words sticking in my throat. “Of our date.”
His eyes widen but his lips tip, lighting up his features.
“Sorry, that was presumptuous. It’s just…this –” I wave a hand out to my side. “It all feels very date-like and I guess I wanted it to feel that way to you, too.” Heat rushes up my neck, settling on my cheeks. “God, sorry. I’m reading way too much into this, ain't I?”
Garrett still has a hold on my chin, and he uses it to bring our lips together. Hovering his mouth over mine, he says, “It’s a date.” My heart does a dance in my chest, pounding against my rib cage, and my stomach flutters like it’s filled with a flurry of snowflakes.
“Now quit frowning and come pick us the perfect tree.” He kisses me then.
It’s chaste, but meaningful and I lock the sensation of his lips and the brush of his beard in the place in my mind I keep for all my most important memories.
Because this, right here? It’s everything I could have wanted for Christmas.
We pass through the entry and down the middle row. There’s a wooden sign at the start informing us that the trees this way are between 7 and 8 foot.
“What size are we looking for?” I ask, brushing my hand lightly against the green of the tall tree next to me.
“We’d best aim for around five foot,” Garrett answers. We reach the end of the row and swing a right, passing a family where two kids are posing for a photo. The wooden sign here tells us we’ve found the row we need.
Garrett lifts his hand, palm up.
“Go on, sweet thing. Make your pick.” This seems like a momentous task.
How do you pick the perfect Christmas tree?
Is there such a thing? Or is everything about this Christmas already perfect because of who I get to spend it with?
A few weeks ago, I was okay with spending it alone.
Now I cannot think of anything better than waking up next to Garrett.
I amble along the path, inspecting the branches of each Norway Spruce.
Some are a little crooked, while others appear bushier than their counterparts.
When we reach the end of the row, I happen across one that is slightly smaller than the rest. Its branches are full of fragrant green needles, but it has one branch hanging loosely, the break in the wood clear when you get closer.
“This one,” I say, the leaves pricking my skin when I run my hand through it. Garrett doesn’t question my decision. He only smiles and nods, then tells me to wait with it while he hunts down a member of staff.
He returns moments later, a guy behind him, pushing a wheelbarrow containing a small axe and a larger saw.
The staff member hands me the axe and shows me how to hold it.
It’s heavier than I expected and I spread my legs to steady myself, then swing it at the base in the way I was directed.
I make contact, but not enough to do more than dent the thick wood.
It’s no wonder they use an electric saw these days – taking this down would be bloody hard work.
“Stay like that,” Garrett says, his voice light. He takes his backpack off and ruffles through it, producing a bright pink polaroid camera. A chuckle falls from my lips unbidden.
“Where did you get that?”
“Oh this? I always carry a polaroid camera in my bag. Don’t you?
” He laughs, a big bellowing laugh that fills my soul with warmth.
“I bought it at the grocery store yesterday. According to the cashier there, it’s a popular gift this year.
They had one left, which I was lucky enough to snag.
Now lift that axe and smile.” He holds the tiny camera in his big hand and I do as he commands.
After a few moments, a photo slides out the side of the unit and Garrett pulls it out. I move to his side – leaving the axe with the member of staff looking on – and peer at the photo, waiting for the picture to appear.
“God, you’re beautiful,” Garrett muses when the image shows. He hands me the camera, takes his wallet from his back pocket, and tucks the photo inside. “I’m keeping this.”
“I want one too.” I shove his arm, nudging him towards the tree. He obliges, lifting the axe and posing with it while I snap, one, two, then a third photo, tucking them all into my back pocket.
When we’re done, the farm employee says we can go on and enjoy the rest of the activities while he cuts down our selection and takes it to the front where they will wrap it securely in netting, before leaving it for us to collect later.
We stroll slowly, hand in hand, down rows of trees, taking the long way to the main entertainment area. The sky is darkening by the time we’ve purchased entry tickets, but everywhere is lit up with an array of festive decorations.
“What do you want for Christmas?” I ask Garrett. Not that there is any chance of me finding him something on Christmas Eve, but I’m still keen to know.
“Hmm,” he hums, silence falling between us while he mulls over his answer.
We pass a man in front of a steaming food stall.
He’s roasting caramelised chestnuts over a heated plate before scooping them up into small green paper cups.
Garrett stops, orders a cup, pays with a tenner, telling the guy to keep the change and then interlinks our hands again.
“Nothing that comes to mind. As a self-sufficient adult, I tend to buy anything I want as and when I want it. And besides, I’m usually alone at Christmas.”
He clears his throat, then pops a chestnut in his mouth before offering the cup to me. I take one, moaning when the sweet caramel hits my tongue.
“You don’t have family to spend it with?” I ask. He’s vaguely mentioned his parents before, but I don’t know what their story is, or if he has siblings or cousins he could spend the season with.
Garrett eats another chestnut, shaking his head as he chews.
“No. I mean, I have a family. My parents live down in Bristol, but we’re not on speaking terms.” He looks at me, and must read the question on my face because he hastily adds on, “They didn’t want a bisexual son.
It was fine if I was happy to ignore my attraction to men, but I wasn’t going to do that.
I’m not giving up a piece of myself for anyone. ”
A streak of anger jolts through me, and I clench my free hand. Who would give up the relationship with their child because of their sexuality? Sadly, I acknowledge wordlessly, too many people.
“I never told my mum I’m gay, but I think she’d have been cool with it.
” A picture of Mum, with her long blonde hair and her deep dimples and kind eyes flits into my mind and my chest aches with a longing I seldom feel these days.
I’ve long since come to terms with her death, but that doesn’t mean I don’t miss her.
Especially around Christmas. It was her favourite holiday.
We pass through a food court where the aroma of burgers, pizzas and other savoury goods hangs in the air. To the left of the long lines of people waiting to place their orders stands a tall canopy, designed to look like a ski chalet.
There’s a band playing beneath it, a singer belting out the chorus to a popular rock song while her bandmate strums on his guitar.
Long picnic style tables sit at an angle so that patrons can watch the stage and at the end of each row stands a tall heater designed to look like open flames, adding to the festive atmosphere.
We step around groups milling in the space between the canopy and food courts, heading to a large sign announcing the start of the lights trail.
“What about your aunt?” Garrett asks, pausing at a small stand at the entrance, also designed in that alpine ski lodge style.
He purchases two recyclable cups of mulled wine and he hands one to me.
The spicy nutmeg scent wafts up my nostrils as I take a sip.
It’s not a cup of tea, but it’s still fucking delicious.
“My aunt…” I take another sip. “She’s been supportive since the day I told her, telling me it doesn’t matter who we love as long as we treat them right and they treat us the same. For all her absences in my childhood, she’s always been good to me.”
“She wasn’t around much?” Garrett asks.
We pass under a dome of lights made up of giant red and white candy canes.
I shake my head. “My aunt never wanted kids, but she never once complained – where I could hear her at least – about being saddled with one. But she wasn’t maternal. So she made sure I had what I needed to survive and kind of left me to it.”
Garrett squeezes my hand. “You did alright, Supernova.”
“Yeah,” I stop to look at him. “So did you, Mr Best Seller.” Garrett smiles and squeezes my hand.
We amble along a pathway of thin, naked trees lit up in a rainbow of colours before stopping to take our photo in a giant glowing frame.
It’s busy on the path, and our walk is stop-start as we wait for our turn to get photos with the various light installations. When we’re finally on a quieter part of the trail, I turn to Garrett, a sly grin plastered on my face.
“I have an idea.”
He smirks. “For?”
“Christmas gifts.”
Garrett leads me to a bench, and we sit down. We’ve long since finished our mulled wine, so he takes out the thermos and pours tea into two small cups and hands me one. The tea is terrible and I grimace before trying to school my features.
“Pretty sure I fucked it up,” he says, his nose wrinkled adorably. “Unless it’s meant to taste like dishwater?”
“Far too much milk.” I empty the cup into the bushes behind me. “Anyway, back to my idea.”
Garrett empties his cup too and packs away the flask. “I’m listening.”
“Fantasies,” I blurt out.
He raises one perfectly shaped brow. “Fantasies?”
“Yeah. Neither of us need actual things. So I’ll give you one of your fantasies and you give me one of mine.”
I look around us, thankful that there is no one else on this part of the trail, because merely thinking of what I want to suggest has my cock twitching with interest.
“Okay.” He places a hand on my knee, slowly edging it up my thigh. My heartbeat picks up, my pulse racing the higher his hand gets. He pauses where my leg connects with my groin. “What do you want, Roman?”
I do one more sweep of the area, then drop my voice in case some family comes bounding around the corner.
There are Christmas songs playing through speakers hidden in the lit up trees, but the thud of my heart in my ears is louder.
I’m not embarrassed by my fantasies. I’ve never been afraid to ask for what I want, but there’s still a little trepidation because what I want to ask for this time requires vulnerability on my side.
And I’ve never been with someone I’m comfortable being vulnerable with. Not until Garrett.
“No judgement,” I say.
Garrett shakes his head. “Never.”
“Okay…I want you to fuck me while I’m sleeping.” Garrett’s hand tightens, and he puffs out a breath. “I want to wake up on Christmas morning with you holding me down, stuffing me full with that huge cock of yours.”
“Jesus, Roman.” He releases his grip on my thigh and rubs a hand over the back of his neck.
“I’m sor-”
Garrett holds up a hand. “Nope. Don’t apologise. I would love to do that. Fuck. Yes. Definitely yes.”
I dip my head, my cheeks flaming. “Oh good. Good.” Then look at him again. “Your turn,” I say.
He moves even closer, our legs pressed together on the narrow bench. A couple saunters down the path and we sit back and wait for them to pass before Garrett whispers loud enough for me to hear.
“Before lunch tomorrow, you’re going to run through that woodland outside the cabin and I’ll chase you.”
My cock thickens, throbbing in time with my racing pulse. “And then?” The words stick in my dry throat.
“When I catch up? I’ll hold you down in the dirt, fuck you, and mark you with my scent.”
He leans back, a salacious grin on his handsome face. I note the way his cheeks are flushed and his eyes have darkened.
“As long as you wear that flannel shirt that I love.” He chuckles.
“Anything you want.”
“Excellent. I guess that’s Christmas gifts sorted,” I reply jokingly, my voice coming out breathless. “Now, can we go home, please?”