Old wooden floors groan under my steps as I walk to the counter and accept the disposable mug with a Christmas sweater print resting in his hands.
“Thanks!” I squeak, shifting on my heels. Wrapping my hands around the cup, I take a moment and relish the warmth that embraces them in return. Everything from this welcome heat and Zach’s greeting is the best kind of Chicken Soup for the Soul-cozy, and I relax into the sensations rather than stand on guard in my usual attack mode.
“How’s studying for your finals going?” I ask, inhaling the curls of steam wafting off the top. I don't know if I've ever been more content.
Which is alarming because, with my appearance, I haven’t been this vulnerable in public in years.
I’m wearing the same band shirt from yesterday. My hair is a frizzy-I-had-sex mess, and nothing is hiding the finals-week bags under my eyes. And yet, Zach seems happy to converse with me, like none of those things matter.
“Finals are going pretty well. Someone made me this killer study guide, and it’s been wicked helpful,” he says, wiping down a spot on the counter with a white dish towel.
I almost snort at the New England colloquialism slipped in but catch myself. It’s supposed to be normal for me.
“Whoever did that sounds amazing!”
“I think so.” He flashes a cheeky grin, resting his forearms on the counter and peering at me. “You working at the tree farm today?”
“Oh, um.” I search my memories. Images emerge of me working at a frozen cranberry bog-turned-skating rink in a Christmas tree farm called “Pining All the Way.” A shiver works down my spine. So that explains my terrible hot chocolate addiction, then. “Yeah, I have one of my Humanities classes with Professor Calvin in a bit, and then I’ll be over to start my shift.”
“Great, I’ll see you over there.” Zach flips his towel over his shoulder. “Threw a few extra marshmallows and whipped cream in there if you want to return the favor later.” He winks.
I pause. Am I—with Zach, too?
Recalling our former interactions, they’re of him working on his slapshot on the bog while I close for the day.
Oh. So that’s what he means. Skating. The favor is extra skating time. Fair trade for marshmallows and whipped cream.
“Sure, I’ll see you there.” I awkwardly tip my cup at him before turning around with a grimace to leave the shop. I need to learn how to socialize again because dorky isn’t a good look.
Outside, I breathe in the frigid air, wincing as it clutches my lungs in its firm grip.
In my justifiable rage marching over to the bookstore an hour ago, I didn’t take stock of everything going on in the center of town. But now, all I have is time before class and work. Since I’ve never seen snow or a town that—if the founding date of 1638 on the “Welcome to Balsam Hill” sign is accurate—is older than the actual country, I should take a second and appreciate whatever I can.
Fleecy snowflakes drift overhead. I tilt my head up, admiring the snow globe-frosted sky. A few flakes catch my eyelashes, and others dust my peacoat with icy crystals, sparkling in the light of a nearby cast-iron, Victorian streetlamp graced with a giant wreath of balsam fir.
I head toward my apartment, which sits over the local college bar, The Brazen Blitzen. Connor’s my roommate and my best friend in this world.
My converse thud against the cobblestoned streets, narrowed by banks of shoveled snow. A subtle breeze wraps its freezing hand around my cheeks. With another wintery gust, something creaks. It’s a sign hanging out in front of Hermey’s Dentistry, now swaying, its hinges whining with the back-and-forth movement. I pause, reading the sign, and let another sip of hot chocolate warm my throat.
Why did the cookie come to the dentist? Because he had gingervitis.
With a laugh, I choke on my sip. Ellie, you have too much time to think.
Pinecones, branches, and holly berries burst out of birch logs and various mason jars adorning a display window of the florist shop sitting next to Hermey’s—Zuzu’s Petals. Yellow lights twinkle along the edge of the store, with boughs of garland and a wreath decking the brick facade and several other buildings along the street. Twinkling icicle lights zigzag overhead across Main Street. Memories of staring up at them as I am now and wishing upon the winking stars warm my insides in a way my hot chocolate could never manage.
My eyes stay glued skyward while I stride forward.
Make Seth fall in love with you again.
Again.
Win back his heart.
What the hell did Ellie mean when she said those words? Did she misspeak? I mean, she had to, right?
Because all Seth Aarons has ever done is hate me in my world, and he doesn’t seem too interested in any emotional attachments in this one, either.
Oof.
