16
PAST
DECEMBER, 10 YEARS AGO
It’s one thing for Elliot and I to decide we want to stay together, rather than breaking up on Christmas Eve, like some kind of fairy tale in reverse, but it’s a completely different thing trying to figure out exactly how we’re going to make that happen. Especially when the clock is ticking down to the date of Elliot’s planned departure, and our relationship is about to hit its deadline.
“Okay, so you just moving to America obviously isn’t feasible,” Elliot says, as we walk hand-in-hand between the two rows of scraggly fir trees that pass for Bramblebury’s Christmas tree farm, which is located in a muddy field just outside the village. “Or not right away, anyway. There are visas to think about, work permits … probably all kinds of other things we don’t even know about yet.”
I nod, finding it reassuring the way he’s speaking about this as if all that’s preventing us from being together is a bit of an admin issue, which we’ll one day work our way through.
But, of course, it’s so much more than that.
There’s Dad, for one thing. There’s the bookstore for another. And then there’s the small matter of my entire life until now having been spent here in the U.K.; a fact that makes the idea of me suddenly moving to American with a man I’ve only just met seem every bit as ridiculous as I know Dad will say it is if I ever work up the courage to tell him I’ve been thinking about it.
“You could stay here,” I suggest, stopping to inspect a particularly pathetic looking specimen of a tree. “You did say you like England.”
“I do like it,” agrees Elliot, just as I knew he would. “But you know my visa’s about to run out. I’d have to go back, even if my mom wasn’t determined to have the usual Sinclair family Christmas, with every single member of the family in attendance.”
“So, we do long distance, then,” I say, as we move on. “Just for a while. Just until we figure out what our next step should be. We can do that, right?”
I already know Elliot’s going to say yes to this, because it’s a conversation we’ve already had at least twice since we decided the end of his trip wasn’t going to mean the end ofus. But I also know thatsayingsomething isn’t the same as actuallydoingit; which is why I’m already starting to worry that we’re being hopelessly naïve to think we can keep a relationship alive across two continents and God only knows how many miles.
(4,350, to be exact. I Googled.)
This is not how you keep yourself safe.
This is not how you protect yourself from heartbreak.
“Hey,” says Elliot softly, watching the emotions play out across my face. “Don’t do that. Don’t talk yourself out of it before we’ve even tried.”
I give him a weak smile, wondering how it is that he always seems to know what I’m thinking; and, more importantly, how todistractme from what I’m thinking, when what I’m thinkingis that we’ve both obviously lost our minds, and this is never going to work.
“What about this one?”
He gestures to a tree which is oddly lopsided, with more branches on one side than the other.
“I don’t even know why you made me come here,” I protest, shaking my head. “I don’twanta Christmas tree, Elliot. Dad and I haven’t bothered with one in years now. It’s kind of weird, when you really think about it; putting a giant dead tree in your living room. You’d never do that at any other time of year, would you? Plus, they’re messy and huge, and you have to spend weeks picking the needles out of the rug once they’re gone.”
Oh, and they’redead, obviously.
There’s that, too.
“Why would I want to get attached to something that’s already dead?” I ask plaintively. “There’s no point. It’ll just make me feel sad.”
“Because it’ll be beautiful while it’s here,” says Elliot, stopping in front of what must surely be the worst excuse for a ‘Christmas tree’ in the entire field. “And it’ll bring you joy.”
But this tree is definitelynotbeautiful. It’s like the Christmas tree version of a Charles Dickens’ orphan; sickly and weak, with a look about it that suggests it might not live to see Christmas day.
In spite of myself, I kind of love it.
“Not everything has to last forever, Holly,” says Elliot gently. “Some things are only meant to be in your life for a little while; it doesn’t mean you can’t still enjoy them while they last.”
I look up at him with what I know is a panicked expression.
“I’m speaking hypothetically, obviously,” he says quickly. “And, well, abouttrees. I didn’t meanus. Don’t look at me like that.”
“Hypothetically,” I reply, smiling to let him know he’s forgiven,“If Iwereto buy a Christmas tree, this is the one I’d buy.”
