“Again?” I ask, puzzled.
“These smaller ones are part of a fundraiser for the Junior Explorers,” he explains, selecting a three-foot fir.
“I did that when I was a kid instead of Girl Scouts.”
He looks genuinely surprised. “Really? I wouldn’t have pegged you for the outdoorsy type.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Fletch.”
His smile is slow and thoughtful. “Learning is the fun part.”
After selecting a small tree, to my surprise, he drives us to Golden Years Village.
“Now what are we doing here?” I ask.
“Your mother needs a little Christmas in her life,” he explains, carrying the tree inside. He’s also brought a box of decorations from my parents’ basement—ones that didn’t make it onto our tree.
“So you’ve taken it upon yourself to get her a tree?”
Just then, my mother throws open the door and greets us with more enthusiasm than usual. “What’s all this?”
“We’re here, just spreading some holiday cheer,” Fletch says, setting up the tree in the corner of her apartment.
“Very thoughtful. Though I’m still waiting to hear about your nuptial plans. Maybe you’d like something formal for your reception? For friends and family?”
Fletch and I exchange panicked glances.
“By formal, do you mean romantic?” I ask, meaningpublicand knowing she probably just wants to use the opportunity to impress her friends.
Fletch says, “If Bree wants romantic, that’s what she gets. If she wants public, let’s do it. But if she prefers something private, that’s good too. Say she wants us to have an intimate dinner party celebrating our marriage, we could—” He goes on to describe that option in elaborate detail, likely knowing that I’m not keen on a big, over-the-top to-do.
My mother’s brows crimp together, but I see exactly what Fletch is doing. He’s unwrapping a delicate gift presented by the Christmas Market elves.
“We could go ice skating afterward,” I add impulsively, because I imagine that’s something he’d enjoy.
“Whatever you want, Sugar Plum.”
Mom says, “I thought you were out on an injury.”
He taps the air. “Someone has done their homework.”
“Even though he’s on the injury list, he can still ice skate,” I supply.
Fletch flashes me a look of surprise because, fine, I’ve done some homework too. If hockey romance is so popular, I had to find out what the fuss was all about.
Mostly, I browsed the NHL social media and website. There are a lot of articles and photos featuring my husband, allhusky, hot and sweaty in his uniform. I fan my face at the thought.
So far, we haven’t outright lied to my mother, but we are both dancing, or skating as it were, around the truth. The small, intimate dinner image he painted sounds pretty romantic. Is that what I want? The little bounce in my belly suggests that I’m not opposed.
He continues, taking my hand. “Just picture it, soft twinkle lights, background music, including Bree’s favorite Christmas song—” He chuckles, knowing I’m not one to sing along.
“‘Winter Wonderland.’” I supply the first one that comes to mind and the one that the man has not stopped singing, especially to the dog.
For a moment, I can almost see us surrounded by the lights and music … at a real celebration of our marriage. Disappointment twists in my chest—disappointment that we’re telling a story, a work of fiction, and we didn’t get a real wedding, a real beginning.
The voice inside that reminds me that this isn’t real, it’s research, is barely a whisper.
“Do you have photos of your engagement and wedding? We could put them on display,” my mother suggests innocently.
