I could take the credit, but I decide to be honest instead. “You didn’t have to either,” I respond. Her brows furrow until I pull my key out and stick it into the door adjacent to hers. Her head falls back with laughter. The sound is beautiful for the half a second that she lets it free before slapping her palm over her mouth.
“Good night, Nick.”
“Good night, Snowflake.”
Her skin flushes the deepest shade of red, and my hand twitches against the camera on my hip, begging for me to raise it — to immortalize this moment. When she unlocks her door, looking up at me curiously, I’m still standing there with my hand hugging the strap of my camera and the whisper of a smile on my lips.
I don’t know if I’ve been doing it right, this Christmas tradition I’ve made for myself. What I can say with total certainty is that this is the first Christmas since his death, that feels like it might actually be for me, and not in memory of what used to be.
Nick
What do you even wear to a tree lighting ceremony? I mess with the cuffs of my button-up shirt as I finish dressing in the mirror. I originally went for a knit sweater and jeans, but when Gayle looked me up and down with eyes nearly as wide as her face, asking if that was what I was planning to wear, I knew I’d underestimated the importance of the evening.
The tree lighting ceremony is a big deal in Crescent Bay, apparently. It’s officially ten days until Christmas, and it begins all the town’s activities. Which is funny because you would think they had already started.
I step into the living area wearing a pair of suede boots, black denim, and a patterned dress shirt — red floral print against ivory. I browse the bookshelves, waiting for the rest of the guests to join us before we pile into the van and head down to the library.
“Looking good, Nick,” Rita says. She’s dressed in an outfit not much different than mine. Her wife wears a floor-length, chiffon dress, with a pair of dark leggings and heels. Now about five inches taller than her wife, Rita still possesses her with a well-placed hand on her hip.
“So do you,” I say, waving an upturned palm between them. They smile bashfully at each other, eyes sparkling as they hold each other’s stare. “Let me take a picture of you,” I offer. They try to deny, but I’m already reaching out with the expectation that one of them will hand over their phones.
Kendra, Rita’s wife, yields first. I position the camera to capture a bit of the Christmas tree behind them and snap a few pictures. Then, they both turn their heads suddenly, mouths going slack as they gawk at whoever just entered the room. Every hair on my body stands at attention as if it knows before I do. And it does.
My brain short-circuits as my gaze crawls from the tips of her blood red Louboutins and up long, smooth, bronze legs. The skirt of the short dress cinches in at the waist, hugging her upper body beneath a fur-lined collar that adorns the fullness of her breasts. Paired with a matching pair of elbow-length gloves, and all that blonde piled on the top of her head in an intentionally messy updo — she’s the most stunning woman I’ve ever seen. And it can’t be true. I’ve seen too many, known the sharp taste and soft flesh of too many women, to feel like this about her. Like my heart forgot how to beat the moment my eyes connected with hers. Like, my point of gravity just shifted beneath my feet.
She looks away first, turning her head to the side as if she doesn’t feel what I feel.
Maybe she doesn’t, but what’s one more person to have and lose?
I almost forget I’m holding Kendra’s phone when I start in Krystal’s direction. I clear my throat, stretching my arm back because I’ve lost the ability to turn away from her. “Let me know if you need me to retake those,” I offer.
Kendra snickers. “We got it.”
I close the space between us in what feels like a single step. “I know you already know this, but I feel like I wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight if I didn’t tell you how gorgeous you are.”
She swivels her neck toward me, her brows low over her cunning eyes, a sly smirk on her lips. “You’re not wrong.” Her smile widens. “Thank you.”
My heart beats impossibly faster when she doesn’t return the compliment. My palms sweat with the desire to skate up the back of her leg, just to confirm it feels how I imagine.
“Everyone looks so beautiful!” Gayle gasps, her voice still holding the ability to command through the large room. “Let’s take a group picture.” She beckons one of the employees that are still here, and then joins Jiraiya in the rest of the crowd.
“Okay, 3…2…1!” They say just before the brightness of the flash stuns us. “Shit — I mean, sorry, I didn’t mean to do flash.” The crowd chuckles, and I look down at Krystal. Under the veneer of her flawless exterior, I catch a shimmer of melancholy. For whatever reason, she’d rather not be a part of this. I want to know why, so I can fix it, but at the same time, I don’t care. I want being here withmeto be enough of a reason. I want to be the reason she’s having a good time at all.
I’m still looking down at her when the second picture gets taken.
I don’t care about that either.
“You gonna tell me what’s bothering you?” I ask, helping her slip into her coat before slipping into mine.
Her eyes flick to me. The lacquered lashes covering them unable to hide the mixture of shock and frustration swirling behind them. “No,” she sighs, walking out the door with the rest of the crowd.
I wonder if Krystal confuses my laid-back nature and easy-going smiles for weakness. I wonder if she thinks that flimsy ass ‘no’ is anything other than a door left wide open to a man like me. I extend her understanding because it’s not her fault — she can’t know that, yet.
The chill I was introduced to when we first met has returned. I expect her to be isolated in a part of the van where, somehow, no one can sit next to her. The seat beside her, however, is empty. I stand in the doorway of the van, watching her as she casts a forlorn glance out the window. My chest heaves when those amber eyes close, reopening to land on mine. A splash of red spreads across her chest. I chew the inside of my cheek as I climb in next to her.
“Just…don’t ask,” she says, her soft voice disarming me.
My gaze is fixed on her poised hands, sitting determined on her lap. After a beat, I finally meet her attention, nodding my agreement, although I don’t want to agree at all. How am I supposed to fix it?
