My jaw drops.
It’s…
It’s beautiful.
Not “chaotically charming.” Actually stunning.
The velvet baubles are spaced in a nearly perfect-but-natural symmetry.
The feather garland spirals gracefully, adding volume without suffocating the tree.
The hearts are hung at balanced heights, creating depth.
And the topper? Straight. Proud. Perfect.
It looks like a luxury store display, not something assembled by a blindfolded woman in thirty minutes with a sarcastic striker as her eyes.
I stare at Cohen, speechless.
He’s leaning against a fake trunk, arms crossed, smirking like the arrogant menace he is.
“Close your mouth, Angel, or you’ll catch flies.”
“How… how did you do that?” I stammer. “I thought you had awful taste!”
He shrugs. “I’m a striker, Sloane. My job is calculating distances, angles, trajectories in a split second. I know where to put things to make them work.”
I look at the other trees.
Brenda and Steve’s is mathematically perfect… and completely soulless.
Daisy and Silas’s has collapsed sideways (Daisy hung her scarf on it “for color”).
Joe and Sarah’s is bare on one side and overloaded on the other—perfect reflection of their dysfunction.
Tina walks through the rows with Pedro on her shoulder.
She reaches ours and her eyes sparkle.
“Well!” she squeals. “I expected a hot mess, but look at this! Chic! Balanced! Sexy!”
She taps a velvet bauble.
“Sloane, darling, I didn’t know you trusted him this much. And Cohen… what an eye you have.”
She winks.
Brenda makes a strangled noise of indignation. Steve looks personally betrayed by their own tree.
The hall bursts into applause.
I stare at our tree, then at Cohen.
Not only did he protect me.
Not only did he calm me.
He guided me to create something beautiful when I literally couldn’t see a thing.
