Chapter 19 Now
Now
@ainsleygreenwrites: Meet-cute attempt: bookstore edition. Reached for Sally Rooney at the same time as him. He asked if it would make him look smart on his date tonight.
Comments:
@macdaddylol: using Sally Rooney as a prop is illegal
@jewels87: he better stay far away from Marianne and Connell, they’re end game
@taliavanhorn: imagine wasting a Sally Rooney moment like THAT
With encouragement from Ross, I finally stopped ghosting Tess and filled her in on exactly what’s been going on. It felt a little weird to be oversharing like that with someone I’d only met via Zoom, but after I sent the email, I could feel the weight lift off me.
Subject: Re: Book 3 Update
Ainsley,
No worries at all! I completely understand what you’re going through and would never want you to feel rushed to craft your next story. Take all the time you need, I’ll be here when you’re ready.
Oh and thought you’d like to know your book sales have grown 20% month over month since your first #FindingLoveInTheCerealAisle video.
Keep it up!
—Tess
Now that I have Tess on my side, it’s time to focus on what’s important. Not Cole. Not Lucas. Just me, trying to have an authentic and also manufactured meet-cute that’ll hopefully inspire me enough to write an eighty-thousand-word novel. Sounds easy enough!
I scroll through my trope-location spreadsheet one more time, smiling when my eyes land on the newest entry.
The Christmas tree farm wasn’t my idea; it was Lucas’s.
He pitched it half as a joke, but the second he said it, I knew it was perfect.
Ross agreed, of course. Lucas is probably right: Lumberjacks, pine needles, and flannels are a grumpy-sunshine gold mine.
So we made a plan to meet there this weekend, phones charged and spiked cider on standby.
The drive out to the tree farm takes about twenty minutes, which is just long enough for me to have my own personal car concert.
I queue up “Christmases When You Were Mine” by Taylor Swift because apparently, I enjoy emotionally wounding myself on scenic back roads.
The lyrics hit harder than I want to admit, especially the part about her mom being in the kitchen worrying about her.
Ugh. Can’t I just skip Christmas this year?
I take a sip of the hot coffee that sits in my cup holder and remind myself this is supposed to be festive and fun. It’s a meet-cute opportunity! Not a sad field trip to take to the trees, accompanied by a breakup-ballad soundtrack.
I pull into the gravel lot and park between a muddy pickup and a Subaru with a wreath zip-tied to the top.
The air smells like pine needles and dirt and hot chocolate, making me feel like I’ve stepped into a Hallmark movie.
I scan the cars, expecting to see Lucas leaning against his, grinning like this is all one big joke. Except he’s nowhere to be found.
I check my phone. No new texts. He’s probably just running late. Still, my stomach does a weird little flip.
Ainsley: Here. Where are you?
I type, hovering for a second before hitting Send.
No reply.
“Okay,” I say to myself, unlocking my phone and flipping to selfie mode.
“Guess I’ll warm things up until he gets here.
” I hold the camera out in front of me and hit Record.
“So today’s meet-cute location is a Christmas tree farm.
Which feels like a prime setting for a grumpy-sunshine romance.
Sweaty lumberjacks, families taking Christmas card photos, influencers with their tripods… ”
I pause and lower the phone slightly, glancing around the lot as if Lucas might materialize.
“Normally this is where my narrator would jump in with some dry one-liner about lumberjacks, but he’s running late.
So for now, you’re stuck with me.” I give the camera a mock-serious look.
“He’s going to be so mad I started without him.
” I wander down the row of trees, keeping up the bit.
“This one’s cute but lopsided. This one’s tall but too pokey.
Basically, I have no idea what I’m doing. ”
I’m mid-ramble when a voice calls out from behind me: “Looking for anything in particular?”
I turn to see a guy in a brown Carhartt jacket and dark jeans holding a saw in one hand. He’s tall, probably six feet, with messy strawberry-blond hair, light eyes, and the kind of smile that should come with a warning label.
“Oh,” I say, fumbling with my phone as it keeps recording. “I’m good. Just browsing. Is that what you call it? Browsing trees?”
He grins. “You’d be surprised how many people say that.”
I laugh, but my brain is already racing.
Do I keep recording this? Shove my phone in my pocket and hope the audio picks up?
Hold it at my torso and risk the angle catching my double chin?
This is exactly why I need Lucas. He would’ve been filming from a few feet back, narrating my terrible flirting like it was play-by-play commentary.
He’d crack jokes about tree shopping as foreplay and maybe even mutter something about how this better make it into the book. Without him here, I feel a little lost.
“I don’t want one that’s too tall or too skinny or too pokey,” I say, angling the phone slightly toward me. “But I also don’t want to be that girl who’s here for two hours and ends up picking the first one I saw.”
“Well, lucky for you, I’m very good at tree matchmaking.”
“Oh yeah?” I raise a brow.
The guy shrugs. “Family business. My parents run the place. I just help out on weekends.”
Of course he does. Of course he’s the handsome, helpful, family-oriented guy who says things like tree matchmaking and smells like cedar and sincerity. If Lucas were narrating, he’d probably say: She’s swooning. Somebody get her a tree before she proposes. Is it still as funny if it comes from me?
“All right, tree whisperer,” I say, gesturing toward the row. “Show me what you’ve got.”
We walk the rows together for a few minutes, making small talk.
His name is Jack, which seems ironic given that he’s an actual lumberjack.
He went to Appalachian State. Works in environmental consulting during the week.
Comes back every December to help with the farm because, and I quote, “My mom guilt-trips me with Christmas cookies.”
At one point, I tilt my phone just enough to catch a back shot of him leading me through the trees.
A broad expanse of flannel-covered back, the glinting saw, sunlight filtering through the branches—pure B-roll gold.
Normally Lucas would be telling me to zoom in, but instead I’m fumbling with angles and pretending I know what I’m doing.
It’s almost too much. The casual flirtation. The perfect lighting. The way he squints into the distance and says, “I think we’ve found your match,” like it’s a line from a holiday rom-com starring Chad Michael Murray.
“Do you want to do the honors?” he asks, holding out the saw.
I laugh. “I don’t trust myself with sharp objects. With my luck, you’ll be closing down shop for the day to take me to the emergency room.”
He kneels and cuts the trunk in smooth, practiced strokes, then stands and wipes his hands on his jacket. “So,” he says, not quite meeting my eyes, “Are you single? Or is someone going to show up and tell me I’ve just cut down their girlfriend’s Christmas tree?”
I blink at him, caught off guard. “That’s specific.”
“Trauma. Happened last year,” he says with a straight face. “Would you want to grab a beer with me sometime?”
That was not where I thought this conversation was headed.
It’s not like I haven’t thought about dating again.
It’s just that I’ve been avoiding it in the same way you avoid listening to a voicemail you already know contains bad news.
This was all supposed to be pretend, fodder for book research, not a real crack at getting back out there.
But here’s this guy. Handsome, grounded, family oriented.
A literal tree cutter in red plaid with a great smile offering to take me out for drinks.
It feels like the kind of moment you’re supposed to say yes to.
The kind of scene I’d write if I wasn’t completely terrified of the idea that real life might not come with rewrites.
“I’ll think about it,” I say, trying to sound breezy instead of emotionally constipated.
“Fair enough.” He grins, taking my phone to plug in his number before backing away. “Text me either way.”
He lifts the tree like it weighs nothing and heads toward my car. I follow a few steps behind, sipping what’s left of my lukewarm coffee and telling myself not to overthink it. This is good. A win. Exactly what the meet-cute list was supposed to lead to.
Jack props the tree up and begins tying it to the roof rack like it’s second nature.
He moves with the quiet competence of someone who’s done this a hundred times before—looping the twine, double-knotting the corners, securing every angle.
I lean against the passenger-side door, pretending not to be impressed.
And then my phone buzzes. Finally, it’s Lucas.
I freeze for half a second, pulse kicking up in my throat. I answer on instinct. “Hey, where have you been? I got a tree and I kind of met someone, but I feel like the footage isn’t as good as—”
He cuts me off. “Can you come to the hospital?”
My stomach drops. “Y-yeah. Of course. What happened?”
“It’s Abuelo—” His voice cracks.
“I’m on my way.” I hang up, already moving. “Hey, Jack?” I call, rounding the back of the car. “I actually—I have to go. Something came up. Could you maybe hold the tree for now?”
He’s mid-knot, brows lifting in concern. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah, I think. I need to get to the hospital. A friend of mine, his grandpa—” I swallow. “It’s kind of a family emergency.”
He doesn’t hesitate. “Go. Don’t worry about the tree. I’ll stash it behind the shed. Come back whenever.”
“Thank you,” I say, already reaching for the door handle. “And I’ll, um, text you later.”
“Take care,” he says softly.
I nod, buckle in, and pull out of the lot, tires crunching over gravel. As soon as I hit the road, I exhale like I’ve been holding my breath since Lucas called. It’s not until I pass the sign for the fairgrounds that I realize my hands are shaking.