"How was the writing?" he asks as we work. "You seemed pretty into it."
"It was good. Really good, actually." I tuck a strand of lights deeper into the branches. "The story just kind of poured out of me. I've never felt anything like it."
"What's it about? Are you writing romance?"
I hesitate, then decide to tell him. "No," I laugh, shaking my head. "I've always wanted to write psychological thrillers. A woman who discovers her husband has been gaslighting her. Making her think she's crazy. And then she finds out he's done it before, to other women. Women who all looked like her. Women who all disappeared."
He's quiet for a moment, and I worry I've said too much. That it's too dark, too twisted. But then he says, "Sounds terrifying."
"It is. At least, I hope it is. That's kind of the point."
"I bet it's good," he grins.
"You keep saying that, but you haven't read it."
"Don't need to." He plugs in the strands, and the tree lights up with a warm golden glow. "There. What do you think?"
"It's beautiful."
"It is." But he's not looking at the tree. He's looking at me.
Heat floods my cheeks, and I quickly turn back to the ornament boxes. "So what's next?"
"Ornaments. Pick whatever you want."
I kneel down and start going through the boxes. Some of the ornaments are clearly old, probably from Chase's childhood. There are a couple of handmade ones with Chase written at the bottom. You can see how his penmanship changed as he grew up. Others are more recent. One of them has an anniversary date on it, but not the name of his wife.
"You don't have to use that," Chase says quietly. "I probably should have gone through the boxes before I brought them down."
"Do you want to use it?"
He considers for a moment. "I think she would have liked you. I think she would have wanted her ornament on the tree, whoever was decorating it."
Something about the way he says it, the soft way he speaks, makes my throat tight. "Then we'll use it."
We hang ornaments in comfortable silence. I hand him one, he hangs it. He hands me one, I do the same. The tree fills out slowly, sparkling and twinkling with magic.
"Tell me more about your book," Chase says as he hangs a glass icicle near the top.
"What do you want to know?"
"Does Emma get away?"
"I don't know yet. I haven't written that far."
"But you must have some idea. How you want it to end."
I think about it, about Emma running through the dark woods, about David chasing her. Their breaths puffing in the cold air as he chases her. About all the women who came before her who didn't make it. "I think she does. I think she gets away and she exposes him. I think she saves herself."
"Good." He looks at me over the tree. "That's the kind of ending she deserves."
"What about you?" I ask. "If you were writing it, how would you end it?" Now I'm curious about what he would do, compared to me.
"Me? I'm not a writer."
"But if you were."
He's quiet for a moment, thinking about it. "I'd have her get away, yeah. But I'd also have her go back. Not to him, but to the house. I'd have her burn it down with all his secrets inside. Make sure he can never do it to anyone else."
