"Good morning," I breathe.
"Did you sleep well?"
"You know I did."
"I like hearing you say it." He releases me, returning to his preparations. "Eat. We leave in thirty minutes."
"So bossy."
"Yes." He doesn't look up from packing supplies. "That's the point."
I grin, pouring myself a mug of hot chocolate. There's already a plate waiting for me with toast, eggs, and fruit. He's cut the strawberries into stars.
Something warm and soft unfolds in my chest.
The park is ours alone, quite likely for the last time in a long time. I vow to enjoy it today. The quiet, magical, holiday playland and the man who owns it.
Justin leads me down the main path, past shuttered booths and silent rides, everything draped in fresh snow like the world'smost elaborate wedding cake. Our boots crunch in the quiet. My breath makes clouds in the air.
"Where are we going?" I ask.
"You'll see."
We pass the carousel, the reindeer barn, the gingerbread house photo op. When we reach the empty tree lighting plaza, the massive spruce dark and waiting for tonight's nightly ceremony that won't happen, he stops.
"We're going to light it anyway," he says.
I blink. "The tree?"
"The whole plaza. Just for us." He pulls out a key ring, sorts through until he finds the right one. "I override the timer every year for testing."
"That's very rule-breaking of you."
His mouth curves. "I'm learning flexibility."
He disappears into the control booth. A moment later, the plaza erupts in light. Thousands of bulbs strung through trees, wrapped around lampposts, draped across the rooflines of surrounding buildings flicker on. The giant spruce blazes gold and white, its star topper catching the sun and reflecting off the snow.
I gasp.
It's magic.
Real, genuine, take-your-breath-away magic. There’s something different about the lights being on with us here alone. Without the noise. Without the hustle, bustle, children crying, loud music blasting, salespeople calling out their wares. It’s the type of Christmas magic you only see in holiday movies.
When Justin emerges, I'm standing in the center of the plaza turning slowly, trying to see everything at once.
"It's beautiful," I whisper.
"Yes." But he's looking at me, not the lights.
I meet his gaze, feel the weight of it. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet. We're not done."
He takes my hand, leads me to the hot cocoa stand. Inside, he fires up the industrial seized machine, meant for hundreds of guests. He makes two cups, perfect temperature with extra chocolate, topped with fresh whipped cream and crushed candy canes.
He brushes the snow off the plaza steps and lays down the thick blanket he’d brought with us, and as we sit, surrounded by lights, drinking cocoa, I can’t help but think that I could get used to this.
"I used to do this with my grandfather when I was a teen and even when I was in college," Justin says after a while. "He'd turn on all the lights and we'd walk through, just the two of us, and he'd tell me the reason behind every decoration, every ride and the decision behind each. When I was younger, he would tell me stories." There’s a wistfulness behind his words that makes me want to know more.
