Andrew’s face shifted into a distressed scowl. “Nolan, don’t. That’s ancient history.”
Suddenly I wasn’t so sure I wanted the details, but Nolan was already warming to the idea of trying to embarrass Andrew. “So, it’s sophomore year and I get back to our room after a party. We’d agreed to leave a shoe outside the door if we had someone in the room, which happened a lot more for one of us than the other. But I did okay.”
Sam made a disgusted noise as she typed on her phone.
“There was no shoe that night, so I was all clear.” He paused dramatically. “I unlocked the door and all I saw, lit by a tiny desk light, was Andrew’s gigantic, white, naked ass jiggling in the air on the bed. I don’t knowwhathe was doing, but the dude was contorted.” Nolan cackled. “The girl he was with screamed and they both dove under the blanket, but not before a vision ofAndrew’s brown eye was seared in my brain. I can still picture it now. I’m scarred for life.”
“Nolan...” Sam looked up from her phone with a disgusted look on her face. “Come on.”
“What? I can’t complain about the fact that he forgot the signal alot? Which means I saw that naked volleyball butt way more than I wanted to. I mean, we all know the guy had a revolving door, right?”
Andrew’s expression was somewhere between embarrassed and pissed off. “Long time ago.” His eyes flicked to me before I could look away.
Everything had changed, yet nothing had, really. Here we were, falling back into familiar patterns like no time had passed.
Conversation moved on to Andrew’s business, and as I watched the three of them I started to relax. Andrew and I still hadn’t had a chance to talk about the goat barn incident, but something had shifted between us and we both seemed to know it.
Because every time I caught his eye the Gibson Glare softened into something that made my heart fumble.
chapter twenty-eight
Abbott Farm had Christmas music piping through speakers on tall poles, so even if the act of cutting your tree didn’t put you in the spirit, Mariah shrieking in the distance forced you to feel it. And for the first time in ages, I sort of did. The pervasive holiday cheeriness that I’d sidestepped for the past few years was finally rubbing off on me.
I was actually getting excited for Christmas.
Part of it had to be the balm of time passing, of us getting used to our new family unit. Taylor and Ryan staying with my mom combined with the excitement of the baby shifted us closer to a “normal” holiday season, pukey and flooded Thanksgiving notwithstanding. And as much as I didn’t want to admit it, the promise of whatever was unfolding with Andrew helped too. Everything felt a little more sparkly. Hopeful. Magical.
Exactly what the season was supposed to feel like.
The texted invitation to go back to the farm with him to cut a tree had come as a shock, along with the line at the end of it that said,We can talk about everything. I’d reread the text a few times to make sure I wasn’t misinterpreting it, because it feltlike...something. Something Hallmarkian and sweet and incredibly date-like. I’d tried to look as cute as possible, considering we were going to be trudging around outside, opting for my pom-pom-free cashmere hat and a slim black parka that didn’t make me look like a chocolate-covered marshmallow.
“How about this one?” I asked Andrew, pointing to a squat, dense pine tree that was at the edge of a row and accessible on all sides for easy cutting.
“Hm.” He took a step back to scan the tree then shook his head. “That’s a Scotch pine. They smell great, but I think the branches are too crowded. Let’s keep looking. We’ll find the right one.” He walked on ahead of me, gripping the hacksaw in his gloveless hand.
I liked that he said “we” as if my opinion mattered.
I’d half expected him to charge in and cut any old tree, preempting our adventure before it had even begun. At the rate we were going, with Andrew stopping to pluck a branch or step back to calculate the height of a tree, it was going to take him hours to choose. But if anyone could appreciate mulling over a decision it was me.
Andrew came to a stop and pointed at a perfectly shaped tree. “That’s a blue spruce. Great needle retention, unique color, long-lived, but not for me.”
“Howdo you know so much about Christmas trees?” I asked.
“Dunno, I just do. Shocker, there’s more to me than just lifting weights.” He tried to make it sound like a joke.
“I know that,” I shot back.
“Do you?”
He smiled as he said it, but something in his eyes told me that the question was half-serious. I would forever regret whatI’d said to him in the corn maze. But then again, he’d felt it even without me saying it out loud.
Andrew turned to me. “Is there a certain kind that you like?”
We’d always gotten the same type growing up since my dad was staunchly Team Fraser Fir, but for the past two years I’d wound up buying whatever sad Charlie Brown tree was left in the precut lot four days before Christmas. And this year, with Hurricane Edith in the house, I wasn’t even sure if I should get a tree at all.
“I like symmetry. Tall and skinny, with nice long branches so I can load up the ornaments. But it can’t be too big since my apartment is tiny.”
He paused in front of another picture-perfect contender. “That’s right, you’re in that old building with the big round window.”
