“Toby.”
My spiraling mind stilled. I wet my lips. “I—I like you.”
Thick silence stretched between us, muffling that whispered confession.
“Of course you do. We’re friends.”
I looked at him, for once unable to hide the true depth of just how much I liked him.
His face flushed, eyes darting everywhere but to me. In that moment, any warmth he’d given me was gone, and I was back to freezing. I went into crisis mode, trying to ignore the shattered pieces of my once-whole heart to think of a way to salvage what I could of our relationship.
Because in truth, I would rather be Archer’s friend than nothing at all.
“How could you?” he rasped, horrified and accusing.
I averted my eyes to just over his shoulder because looking at his disgust was more than I could bear. But in my attempt to avoid him, I locked eyes on the mistletoe… the liar wrapped up with a red bow.
I fell under its spell, believed in its magic.
As I stared at the legend, now a witness to my downfall, Archer drove the nail in our friendship coffin. “You’ve ruined everything.”
And then he fled the gazebo like it was the scene of a crime when, in reality, it was the beginning of the greatest regret I’d ever know.
10
Archer
The annual mistletoeraising and tree lighting was a generations-old tradition, and every year, the entire town of Winterbury showed up. In recent years, people from neighboring towns turned up too because the magic of the mistletoe—as my mother liked to put it—drew people in.
The way they all acted, I often wondered if the very fate of Christmas hinged on that parasitic twig dotted with white berries that would soon dangle from the entrance of the large Victorian-style gazebo in the middle of town square.
And yes, mistletoe could have redorwhite berries. It depended on the kind. Our oak had the white kind. If I were to point out that the red would be more Christmasy, I’d probably get thrown in jail. My own mother wouldn’t even bail me out.
Snowflakes flurried from the sky, adding to the few new inches of fresh white that had fallen last night. The air was frosty enough to burn your lungs if you breathed too deeply, but the kids darting around in brightly colored scarves acted like they didn’t notice. String lights lined all of Main Street, giant candycanes and mistletoe adorned the lamp posts, and all the shops glowed from within.
My boots crunched over the salt and snow, hands shoved into the pockets of my red coat. I didn’t even try to avoid this night anymore. I’d long since learned it was entirely useless. My mother was relentless, and until he’d died, so was my father. Living in Winterbury meant being part of the town and its traditions. Especially when you owned the biggest farm.
It was one of those things I’d learned to grin and bear. No point in ruining it for other folks just because I thought it was stupid.
As I walked, rich cocoa warmed the air, the line for Bab’s already spilling onto the sidewalk. The windows had white awnings over them, and the sugar-dusted glass promised sweet rewards inside.
Tucking my chin, I crossed the street and kept going toward town square. The oversized gazebo was generations old and draped in icicle lights and evergreen garland fresh from the farm. A large red bow adorned the cupola on top, a crown atop the crown already there.
People milled around the octagon-shaped building with cups of hot chocolate and other holiday delights gripped in their mitten-wrapped hands. Some made their way up the steps to the twelve-foot tree, also from my farm, which stood proudly in the center. It was already covered with ornaments, but people continued to add more. The fir wasn’t lit up yet, though. That moment was coming, and then once it was shining bright, the true star of the show—the mistletoe—would be raised.
When the tree was lit and the mistletoe hung, the town would celebrate by browsing the pop-up booths and shops on the street, filling up on too many sweets, and also making a lap around the gazebo where the brightly lit tree illuminated all the items for the auction the town sponsored every year.
Did I mention this town went overboard at Christmas? If the tree lighting, mistletoe raising, and yuletide bonfire weren’t enough of a clue… Winterbury also hosted a charity auction every year. Businesses and people donated items, and after a one-week bidding term, the lots would be delivered to the highest bidders.
This year’s selected charity was a nonprofit LGBTQIA+ outreach program called Find Home that focused on health care, counseling, suicide prevention, and advocacy. It made me proud that our town chose an LGBT program to sponsor because, to me, it really represented what the raising of the mistletoe was about: unity and acceptance.
And yeah, maybe it hit a little close to my heart.
Not that anyone knew that but me. Didn’t make it any less true, though.
As I drew closer, I watched one of the auction items being loaded into the gazebo onto a large empty table angled against the railing. Curious, I climbed the steps and went around to get a closer look.
It was a gingerbread house, and I knew just by looking at it that Bab had made it. The attention to detail and white snowy roof could not have been accomplished by anyone else. Not to mention the sheer size, which took two people to carry and one to direct.
