Chapter 16
KENT
“What is this?” I asked.
“It’s the grand lighting ceremony,” she replied.
She led me to a massive Christmas tree in the town square. It was apparently the main event of the evening.
“That’s my mom.” Sylvie pointed to the stage. “Gigi. Gigi Northwood.”
Gigi Northwood commanded the small stage like she’d been born to it, her voice carrying clearly across the packed square as she welcomed everyone to what she called, “Northwood’s most magical night of the year.”
The place was absolutely packed with locals and what appeared to be the few tourists staying at the lodge.
There was a genuine buzz in the air. It was the kind of electric anticipation I associated with major events in New York.
Like the events at Times Square. But there weren’t millions of people here.
The energy was different. The people were acting like they were getting ready to see something major happen instead of the lighting of a single Christmas tree.
It wasn’t even that big of a tree. I mean, bigger than the one you’d find in a living room, but not like some of the ones I had seen in my travels around the world.
I kept my opinions to myself. This was a big deal to them. I wasn’t going to be the asshole minimizing their special day.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Sylvie said.
“You think?”
“Yep. You’re thinking these hicks are silly. You think we’re crazy to get excited about a little tree. I’m going to assume you’re from New York City.”
“You’re making assumptions.”
“You gave your name and then made us look like idiots because we didn’t immediately know who you were.”
“And now you do?” I asked. “Did you Google me?”
“No, I didn’t.”
I smirked. “I’m not thinking anything. I’m just taking it all in.”
“You’re not a very good liar.”
If she only knew.
When the moment finally came and the evergreen blazed to life with thousands of twinkling lights, I had to admit it was spectacular.
The tree had to be at least thirty feet tall, perfectly shaped, and decorated with what looked like decades’ worth of accumulated ornaments that somehow managed to create a cohesive, magical whole instead of looking cluttered.
“You were right,” I told Sylvie as applause and cheers erupted around us. “You really do bury the lead around here.”
She beamed up at me, her face glowing in the light from the tree. “I told you we weren’t dull.”
The crowd began to disperse after the ceremony, some heading home but many lingering to enjoy the market and the festive atmosphere. Sylvie suggested we grab hot drinks to warm up.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“You’ll see.”
I was confused when we walked through the door of a diner, and I spotted Emmy behind the counter. She was wearing a green apron instead of her elf costume and working an espresso machine that looked like it had seen better decades.
“Isn’t she supposed to be an elf?” I asked Sylvie quietly.
Emmy must have overheard because she laughed as she handed steaming mugs to another customer. “I’m multi-talented,” she called over. “Elf by day, barista by night, transcriptionist on weekends, and whatever else pays the bills in between.”
“That’s a lot of jobs,” I said when we reached the counter.
“All in service of a greater goal,” Emmy replied cheerfully, pulling shots for what I assumed would be our drinks. “I’m saving for a whirlwind trip to Australia next year. Six months backpacking around the continent, seeing everything from Sydney to Perth to the Outback.”
“Australia?” I asked.
I wasn’t sure if she was considering all the elements of Australia. That place did not mess around. The critters were bigger, meaner, and far deadlier.
She pulled out her phone and showed me a countdown app. “Three hundred and forty-seven days to go. I’ve got it all planned out—flights, hostels, train passes, even a few splurge experiences like scuba diving on the Great Barrier Reef.”
I tried to imagine having to work four different jobs just to afford an economy seat on what would probably be a miserable twenty-hour flight to the other side of the world, followed by months of staying in budget hostels and eating ramen noodles.
The whole thing sounded brutal to me, but Emmy was practically glowing with excitement as she described her plans.
Yes, I was spoiled. I was used to five-star hotels. Penthouses. Mansions. Private islands.
“Sylvie’s going to come with me,” Emmy continued, handing us some kind of spiced cider that smelled incredible. “Aren’t you? Just think, we could ring in New Year’s on Bondi Beach, watch the sunrise over Uluru, maybe even work on a cattle station for a few weeks.”
I noticed Sylvie’s grip tighten on her mug. Something shifted in her expression. The easy smile faltered slightly, replaced by something that looked almost trapped. Sylvie did not look nearly as excited about trekking through Australia as Emmy did.
I wondered why. It was clearly an excursion they had both planned. But somewhere along the way, Sylvie changed her mind. I was curious about why, but more importantly I was curious about why she didn’t just tell her friend she didn’t want to go.
“Emmy, I really don’t think—” she started.
“Oh, come on,” Emmy pressed, either not noticing or choosing to ignore Sylvie’s discomfort. “When will we ever get another chance like this? We’re young, we’re single, we’ve got our whole lives ahead of us. Why not have an adventure?”
“It sounds amazing,” Sylvie said carefully, “but you know my situation with the farm.”
“The farm will be here when we get back. Or it won’t, and you’ll have dodged a bullet. Either way, you’ll have had the experience of a lifetime.”
I could see Sylvie starting to get overwhelmed by the conversation.
Her free hand fidgeted with the sleeve of her coat.
Something about Emmy’s persistence and the pressure to abandon everything she cared about for someone else’s dream was clearly distressing her.
I didn’t understand why she didn’t just tell her no.
Without really thinking about it, I stepped in to help.
“This cider is incredible,” I said to Emmy, effectively changing the subject. “Is this a local recipe?”
Emmy launched into an explanation of the spice blend and local apple varieties.
I understood none of it and I honestly didn’t care, but I kept her talking long enough for Sylvie to regain her composure.
When there was a natural break in the conversation, I suggested we head back outside to enjoy the rest of the market before it got too late.
“Thanks for the drinks,” I told Emmy. “And good luck with the Australia plans. That sounds like an incredible adventure.”
I guided Sylvie toward the door, my hand in the small of her back.
I wasn’t sure where we were going, but away from Emmy seemed like a good start.
I led her out through the crowd. The hustle and bustle of the market began to fade as we walked toward the quieter end of the street, where I’d spotted a gazebo that was twinkling with its own strings of lights.
“Thank you,” Sylvie said quietly as we settled onto the bench inside the gazebo. “For whisking me away back there.”
“You looked like you needed rescuing,” I said. “Want to talk about what was bothering you?”
She was quiet for a moment, staring out at the market. “Australia is a nice dream,” she said finally. “But it’s not mine. It’s Emmy’s. I feel like I got roped in and I don’t know how to get off this ride I have found myself on.”
“What is your dream?” I found myself genuinely curious about her answer.
Sylvie sighed and suddenly looked embarrassed. All the cheerful holiday spirit drained from her expression. “The tree farm. I know it’s silly. And simple. And so basic compared to backpacking around Australia or traveling the world or doing any of the things people our age are supposed to want.”
I said nothing, giving her space to talk.
Her voice started to crack, and I could see tears gathering in her eyes.
“But next Christmas, I want to be here, with my family, doing what us Northwoods have always done. What we’re supposed to do.
I want to help families find their perfect trees.
I want to see kids get excited about meeting Santa.
I want to preserve the traditions that my ancestors started. ”
A few tears spilled over. She wiped them away with the back of her glove, looking embarrassed by her emotional response.
“I know you think I’m ridiculous.” She sighed. “You have all these adventures under your belt, and I’m trying to stay home and do what I’ve always done.”
“That doesn’t sound silly at all,” I said. “And you aren’t ridiculous.”
I’d never been good with crying women. In my experience, tears usually meant someone wanted something from me that I wasn’t prepared to give.
My usual response was to either throw money at the problem or make a quick exit.
But something about Sylvie’s tears felt different.
Raw. Honest. Like she was showing me something precious and fragile that she didn’t share with many people.
I wasn’t sure what to do with the information. So instead of running or trying to fix anything, I just wrapped my arm around her shoulders and pulled her close against my side. She fit perfectly there, her head tucked under my chin, her warm breath visible in the cold air.
I didn’t say anything because I didn’t trust myself to speak.
How could I tell her that her simple dream of staying here with her family was beautiful when I knew that none of this would exist by next Christmas if my father got his way?
How could I offer comfort when I was the one who was going to destroy everything she cared about?
The weight of what I was really here to do settled on my chest like a stone. Sylvie’s tears weren’t just about feeling pressured to travel with her friend. They were about the very real possibility that she was going to lose everything.
And she was.
I was the one who was supposed to make that happen. I felt like the worst kind of fraud. I was her destruction waiting to happen.