Chapter 53
I pace beside my car, the frost-covered gravel crunching with each step as I try to calm my nerves after the drive to Grayson Tree Farm.
Even with my snow tires, and white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel, the icy roads had my heart in my throat the entire way.
The December morning air bites at my cheeks, and I blow into my mittened hands, breath curling into tiny clouds.
Around me, families are already streaming into the farm, kids racing between rows of evergreens while parents clutch steaming paper cups from the visitor center's hot chocolate stand.
The scent of pine mingles with sugary sweetness, creating that perfect Christmas-card atmosphere that usually makes my heart light up.
But today, all that's left is the dread gathering in my stomach.
Tree hunting with Greg Miller wasn't on my holiday wish list, and he's already ten minutes late.
I check my phone again, rehearsing polite small talk in my head.
If I stick to safe topics like weather and proper tree-stand maintenance, we can get through this without any awkward almost-mentions of his son.
The familiar rumble of a truck engine makes me look up, and my heart stops. I know that blue Ford pickup truck, but that's not Greg behind the wheel. Because there, pulling into the spot next to my car, is Caleb.
The universe must be having an absolute field day with this one.
He gets out from the driver's seat like some sort of flannel-wrapped gift I never asked for. The scruff along his jaw is new. A little harder, a little more grown-up.
He's not even dressed for the weather, the idiot. No coat, no gloves, no scarf. Just beat up sneakers and jeans. Apparently, time in Boston taught him nothing about winter survival.
Caleb approaches with his hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched against the cold, and I can't take my eyes off him. He's trying to look casual, but I catch the tension in his jaw.
"Hi."
One syllable. One stupid syllable, and my heart forgets all the reasons I built those walls and told myself I was better off without him in my life. My pulse kicks up.
"Hi?" I barely recognize my own voice, sharp with disbelief. "After all the crap, you open with, 'Hi'?"
He flinches, those stupidly blue eyes darkening with something dangerously close to regret. "I deserve that."
"You deserve a lot more than that." The words tumble out. "You just left! Told Brodie to say goodbye to me like some coward!"
"Ivy." My name slips from his mouth, barely more than a breath.
"I fucked up. Not just the leaving part, but everything before that too.
I was scared of what I was feeling, so I ran.
And then, when I realized what a massive idiot I'd been, you'd already blocked me everywhere.
" He runs a hand through his hair, messing it up in that way that used to make me want to fix it.
Still does. Damnit. "I don't blame you for that. I earned that block button."
I stare at him, caught off guard by this direct honesty. No jokes, no deflection, just truth.
He shoves his hands deeper in his pockets.
"I was a coward. Figured if I waited long enough, you'd hate me less.
Real genius strategy there." His laugh is hollow.
"Look, I know sorry doesn't fix anything.
But I am sorry. For leaving without a word.
For acting like an ass when things got serious.
For taking you for granted. For being too chickenshit to face my own feelings until I'd already lost you. "
I had rehearsed what I'd say if this moment ever came. A cutting line. A clean end. But none of it makes it past the lump in my throat.
"Thanks for the apology," I manage finally. "Doesn't mean you're forgiven."
"I know." His dimples flash, but it's not his usual cocky grin. This one's softer, almost uncertain. "Not expecting forgiveness. Just a chance to earn it back. To make you believe I can change. That I can be someone worthy of your trust again. Your friendship."
Something in my chest deflates at that last word, but I push the feeling aside. "Whatever. Since you're here, we might as well go pick this tree."
His smile grows more genuine, a hint of that old playfulness creeping in. "Lead the way, Shortcake." His voice drops lower. "You pick, I'll follow wherever you go."
I angle my face away before he notices how those words affect me, stomping toward the rows of trees. The snow crunches satisfyingly under my boots, giving voice to all the things I'm not saying.
Like how much I missed him. Or how friendship might be all he's offering, but my stupid heart is already hoping for more.
The morning air grows crisper as we venture deeper into the farm, surrounded by rows of evergreens dusted with fresh snow. Families weave between the trees around us, their excited voices carrying on the winter breeze, but somehow Caleb and I exist in our own quiet bubble of unspoken words.
"How about this one?" He gestures to a tree that's clearly seen better days. "It's got character."
"It's missing half its branches on one side."
"Adds mystery." He circles the sad specimen. "Keep people guessing what's on the other side."
Despite myself, a faint smile pulls at my lips. "The town square tree needs to be perfect."
"Perfect's boring." But he's already moving on, pointing out trees with the same careful attention he used to give my crystal collection—pretending to take it seriously while secretly amusing himself.
"That one?" He nods toward a towering pine.
"Too tall."
"This guy?"
"Too short."
"So picky." He weaves between two trees, ducking under snow-laden branches. "What about—whoah!"
His foot hits a patch of hidden ice, and suddenly he's windmilling backward, grabbing for the nearest branch. The movement sends a cascade of snow directly onto his head, covering him in white powder like some sort of winter karma.
I try to hold it in. I really do. But the sight of him standing there, spitting out snow with his hair full of ice crystals, breaks me. A giggle bubbles up before I can bite it back.
"Oh sure, laugh at my pain," he grumbles, shaking his head sending snow flying.
"That's what you get for not dressing properly." I gesture at his completely inadequate outfit. "Did Boston make you forget how winter works?"
"Nah, just figured my natural charm would keep me warm." He brushes snow off his shoulders, but I notice how his hands have started turning blue from cold.
Something in my chest twists. Because this is the worst part about Caleb. Even when I'm mad at him, even when I've promised myself I'm done caring, I still care.
"Here." I dig through my bag, pulling out the spare mittens I always carry. They're bright red with little snowflakes, probably too small for his hands, but better than nothing. "Before you lose a finger."
Our palms brush as I hand them over, and that familiar electricity shoots through me. His hands are ice-cold, but where our skin touches burns. I should pull away, but I don't.
"Thanks." His voice hits a register that makes my stomach flip.
He steps closer and I stay rooted to the spot, my eyes fixed on the slow sweep of his tongue across his bottom lip. My heart hammers so loud I swear he must hear it. His eyes are fixed on mine, that perfect winter-sky blue darkening as his gaze drops to my mouth.
Another step. He's close enough now that I have to tip my head back to meet his eyes. I catch his sharp intake of breath when I unconsciously wet my lips. His hands twitch toward me, trembling slightly, like he's fighting the urge to reach out.
"Ivy, I need to . . ."
He leans in, and my eyes flutter shut. I feel the heat of him, the slight brush of his breath against my lips. My hands fist in the front of his flannel shirt without my permission. Months of missing him crowds into this single moment, this fraction of space between almost and everything—
A snowball explodes against a nearby tree and kids laugh somewhere behind us. Caleb jerks back like he's been shocked, and cold air rushes between us.
"Put the mittens on before you get frostbite," I say quickly, releasing his shirt and stepping back. "Let's keep looking."
I spin on my heel before he can catch how badly I'm shaking. But not before I notice his expression—pupils blown wide, jaw clenched, chest heaving. He looks exactly how I feel. Desperate, frustrated, and nowhere near done.
We walk deeper into the farm, and I'm acutely aware of him behind me. He matches his stride to mine like muscle memory, the three feet between us aching with absence and restraint.
"Watch your—" His warning comes too late as my hair snags on a low-hanging branch, and I yelp as pine needles tangle in my blue waves. "Hold still."
I freeze, not daring to move as he steps closer. His hands hover near my head, hesitating. "Can I?"
I nod, not trusting my voice. He moves behind me, and his fingers work through my hair with surprising gentleness, separating strands from the sticky pine needles.
"You always did find the most creative ways to get into trouble," he murmurs, his breath stirring the hair near my ear.
"The tree attacked me," I protest, trying to ignore how my pulse jumps when his knuckles brush my neck. "Completely unprovoked."
"Sure it did." There's a smile in his voice, but he keeps working, methodical and careful. Nothing like the heated almost-moment from before. This is clinical. Professional. Like he's proving he can be trusted with just friendship.
It shouldn't hurt. But it does.
"There." He steps back quickly, that careful distance returning. "All set."
I reach up to touch my now-free hair, missing his warmth already. "Thanks."
"Yeah." His voice sounds rough. When I glance back, he's staring at his hands like they've betrayed him. "We should, uh, keep looking for that perfect tree."
And then I see it.
"This one." I stop so suddenly he almost runs into me.
It rises before us, not quite perfectly symmetrical, but somehow better for its slight imperfections. Full branches, rich green needles, and just the right height for the town square.
Caleb studies it, head tilted. Snow is still melting in his hair, dripping onto the collar of his flannel shirt, but he doesn't seem to notice.
"Yeah," he says finally. "This one feels right."