24. Tyler
TYLER
It’s been about two weeks since Hartford, and I'm still thinking about that text I sent.
I'm falling for you, Red. Just thought you should know.
She never responded to it directly. She just pretended it didn't happen and went back to calling me Tyler and maintaining whatever boundaries she thinks still exist between us.
But I meant it. Every word.
Saturday morning, I wake up with a mission: the Christmas tree. Harper's first Christmas needs to be special, which means we need a great tree. And maybe I also want an excuse to spend the entire day with Nora doing normal couple things even though we're not a couple.
I think about Jessica sometimes, in the margins of moments like this.
Whether she knows what she's missing. Whether she thinks about it.
I'm not angry anymore, or at least not the sharp kind of angry.
Just a low, quiet ache for the version of this where Harper gets to have her mother around for her first Christmas.
I hope wherever Jessica is, she made the right choice for herself.
I have to believe that. The alternative is too complicated to sit with on a Saturday morning with a good day ahead of us.
I find Nora in the kitchen making coffee, Harper on her hip, already dressed for the day.
"We're getting a tree today," I announce.
She turns, raising an eyebrow. "Good morning to you, too."
"Morning. We're getting a tree. Harper's first Christmas. It needs to be perfect."
"We don't have any decorations."
"We'll get those too. The Christmas tree lot opens at nine. We should leave by eight-forty-five to beat the crowds."
Nora's trying not to smile. "Someone’s eager."
"Harper deserves the best Christmas, and that starts with the perfect tree."
"Okay." She's definitely smiling now. "Let's get the perfect tree."
We bundle Harper into approximately seventeen layers because it’s December and freezing, and by the time we strap her into the baby wrap against Nora’s chest, only her tiny pink face is visible.
As usual, because I cannot help myself when it comes to my daughter, I take a hundred photos before we even leave the house.
The Christmas tree lot is already busy when we arrive just after nine. Families everywhere, kids running between rows of trees, Christmas music playing from speakers, the smell of pine in the air.
It’s aggressively festive, and I’m completely into it.
“What kind of tree are we looking for?” Nora asks, Harper snug against her chest.
"A good one."
"Very specific."
"I'll know it when I see it."
We wander through the rows, examining trees. The first one's too short. The second's too sparse. The third has a weird bald spot on one side that Nora finds hilarious.
"It's got character," she says, trying not to laugh.
"It's got a bald spot the size of my head."
"Like I said, character."
We keep looking, and I'm hyperaware of how domestic this is. A young couple shopping for their first Christmas tree with their baby, debating the merits of different pines versus firs, laughing at the truly terrible specimens.
Except we're not a couple. We're two people who live together, raising a kid together, and are falling for each other, but can't do anything about it because life is complicated.
"What about this one?" Nora stops in front of a full, beautiful Douglas fir that's probably seven feet tall.
"That's perfect." I move closer, examining it from all angles. "Height looks right. Full all around. Good color."
"How do you know if it's the right height?"
"I have a scientific method." I gesture for her to come closer. "Stand here."
She does, and I step in close, hands on her waist, and lift her straight up off the ground.
The moment my hands close around her, my heart slams hard against my ribs once, like it's reminding me it's there.
Her breath catches audibly. One hand braces Harper's head against her chest, the other lands on my shoulder for balance, and we end up face to face, way too close, staring at each other while I hold them both in the middle of a Christmas tree lot.
She's warm under my hands, her waist fitting into my grip like it was meant to be there, and I'm very aware that I am holding two of my favourite people in the world, and my heart hasn't slowed down even slightly.
"Is it—" Her voice comes out breathless. "Is it the right height?"
I couldn't say. I'm too focused on the way she feels in my hands and the way her hazel eyes are wide and dark and so close I could count every fleck of green.
"Tyler." My name on her lips is basically a prayer.
"Right. Height." I force myself to focus, comparing where her head is to where the top of the tree would be against my ceiling. "Perfect. This is the one."
I set her down slowly, my hands staying on her waist longer than they need to. She doesn't step back immediately, and neither do I, and we're standing here in front of a Christmas tree having a moment while Harper dozes in her carrier, completely oblivious.
"We should—" Nora starts.
"Yeah."
We get the tree loaded onto the roof of my car, and the guy helping us definitely notices how I can't stop looking at Nora. He grins at me when she's not looking, giving me a knowing nod.
At home, I haul the tree inside while Nora gets Harper settled. By the time I've got it in the stand and positioned in the corner of the living room, Nora's got Christmas music playing softly from her phone.
"We need decorations," she says.
"I may have already bought some."
"When?"
"Last week. They're in the hall closet."
Her laugh is bright and genuine; I want to record it and keep it forever. "You planned this whole thing."
"Maybe."
We spend the afternoon decorating. Lights first, which takes forever because I'm apparently terrible at wrapping them evenly.
Then, the garland, which Nora insists has to be artfully draped rather than just thrown on.
Then ornaments—a mix of classic red and gold balls I bought, plus a few special ones.
Including one that says Baby's First Christmas with a space for a photo. I put Harper's picture in it while Nora watches, and when I hang it front and center on the tree, she gets suspiciously misty-eyed.
"That's really sweet, Ty."
"She deserves it."
The tree's tall enough that Nora can't reach the upper branches, which means I keep having to lift her. And I'm not complaining, because every time I put my hands on her waist, I get to feel her breath catch, hold her close for a few seconds, and pretend this is normal.
Harper’s ‘helping’ from her bouncer on the floor, which mostly means grabbing ornaments off the low branches and trying to eat them.
After we have to rescue a glass ball twice, Nora moves her bouncer to the other side of the room.
From her new exile, she glares at the tree with deep personal grievance, and we both crack up.
By 3 p.m., the tree is done, and it's beautiful. Full, bright, and exactly what Harper's first Christmas should look like.
"We should get a photo," Nora says. "The three of us with the tree."
We set up my phone on the mantle with a timer and position ourselves in front of the tree. I'm holding Harper, Nora's next to me with her hand on my shoulder, and when the camera clicks, we look like what we keep pretending we're not.
"One more thing," I say, checking the time. "The mall. We need Santa photos."
"Tyler, she's seven months old. She's not going to remember this."
"But we will. Come on. It'll be fun."
The mall is packed with Christmas shoppers, everyone rushing around with bags, stress, and that frantic holiday energy. I'm pushing Harper's stroller through the crowds, Nora beside me, and we get stopped a dozen times by people commenting on how cute Harper is.
The Santa photo line is long, but we wait. By the time we get to the front, Harper's awake and alert, taking everything in with wide blue eyes.
"Just the baby?" the elf photographer asks.
"All three of us," I say before I can think better of it.
So we end up in a Santa photo together—I’m on one side of Santa, who’s holding Harper on his lap, and Nora’s on the other side, both of us leaning in close. The photographer takes several shots, and when she shows us the preview, I can't breathe.
We look like a family. A real family. Not just a dad, his nanny, and his baby, but an actual unit. Together. Complete.
"I'll take all of them," I say, handing over my credit card.
After the Santa photo, we split up for "secret shopping." Nora takes Harper in the stroller, and I head in the opposite direction. Thirty minutes later, I find them at the food court with several bags she's trying to hide.
"Productive shopping?"
"Maybe. You?"
"Maybe."
We grin at each other like we're in on the same secret.
The drive home is easy, with Harper babbling to herself and Christmas music playing softly on the radio. Nora’s looking out the window, and I keep glancing over at her, memorizing the way she looks in the dashboard lights.
At home, we hide our respective gifts before doing Harper's bedtime routine together: bath, pajamas, bottle, bed. She goes down easily at seven-thirty, exhausted from the busy day.
We’re standing in the nursery doorway, both of us watching her sleep in her crib. The hallway behind us is lit only by the soft glow rising up the stairs from the tree.
"Today was perfect," Nora says quietly.
"Yeah. It was."
She's looking at Harper, not at me.
"Goodnight, Ty," she says, without turning.
"Night, Red."
She heads for her room. I stand in the doorway a moment longer, watching Harper sleep.
Christmas is four days away. I’m still falling; I have no idea where I’m landing, and I think I might be okay with that.