I take the exit without warning. The deceleration jerks Tally out of the doze she’s slid into, her head snapping up from where it had lolled toward the window.
“What are we doing here?” she mumbles, rubbing at her eyes, voice rough with sleep.
“You’ll see.”
I park near the garden center and kill the engine. Cold air knifes in when I open my door. Tally shivers visibly as she climbs out, wrapping her arms around herself.
“You know how freaking late it is?” she complains as we cross the rain-damp asphalt. “I was sleeping. If you were going to stop anywhere, it should have been at Karla’s. I want a damn donut.”
“Hush; you always want a donut,” I say. “And it’s only nine.”
“I will not hush—”
“If you shut up, I’ll get you a donut.”
She snaps her mouth closed so fast I huff a laugh.
Inside, the store hums under bad fluorescent lighting. It’s that late-night Walmart quiet—music too loud, aisles mostly empty aside from a few questionable wardrobe selections, one exhausted cashier at a single open register.
Tally keeps glancing at me, curiosity written all over her face.
WTF are we doing getting in line when you haven’t even picked up whatever it is you want to buy?
I can practically hear it in her head.
We get in line behind an old man with a basket full of canned soup and cat litter. When it’s our turn, the cashier pops a bubble of neon-pink gum and squints at us.
“Help you?” she asks.
“I need one of the six-foot trees out front, please.”
Her eyebrows rise a millimeter. She spins her little code wheel until she finds what she needs and rings up a Christmas tree. I swipe my card, sign, and tuck it back in my wallet.
Only then do I look at Tally.
“You bought a Christmas tree,” she blurts.
“I did,” I say mildly, heading for the doors.
“Why, though?” She half-jogs to keep up as we step back into the cold. Our breath fogs between us.
I nod toward the row of wrapped trees leaned against the wall. “Because you deserve a damn tree, that’s why. A real one, not that little stick you currently have in your apartment. Pick one.”
She doesn’t turn toward the trees.
Instead, she launches herself at me.
Her arms loop around my neck, small hands fisting in the collar of my jacket, yanking me down to her level. She buries her face in the space where my neck meets my shoulder, and I feel her breath hot against my skin.
“Thank you,” she says, the words muffled. “Thank you, thank you, thank you—”
My throat tightens. I put a hand on her waist to steady us both. It’s too easy to keep her there. Too easy to saystay.
“Stop,” I mutter, because the alternative is going soft in the middle of a Walmart parking lot. I ease her back enough to see her eyes—bright, wet, wrecking me. Then I lean in and kiss her.
It’s not a long kiss. Not a hungry one. Just a firm press of my mouth to hers that saysI see youmore thanI want you,and somehow that feels more dangerous.
“Pick a tree, Tink,” I say, voice low.
