“It’s still too big for our apartment,” she argues, moving past me to examine a much smaller tree. “This one would fit perfectly.”
I scrunch up my nose. “You can’t be serious, Chey. That’s a Charlie Brown Christmas tree if I’ve ever seen one. It’s pathetic.”
“It’s practical,” she counters, folding her arms over her chest. “Some of us don’t live in giant hockey player mansions with twenty-foot ceilings.”
I laugh. “Go big or go home.”
We continue like this, circling through rows of trees, me advocating for the most ridiculous options while she remains stubbornly practical. I can see the tension slowly leaving her shoulders as we banter, her responses getting quicker, more like the Cheyenne I know.
“What about that one?” I finally point to a Fraser fir that’s about seven feet tall. It’s smaller than I’d like, but at least it’s not the tiny shrub she was eyeing.
She tilts her head, considering it. “Maybe...”
“It’s perfect!” I dart over to the tree, circling it dramatically. “Full branches, symmetrical shape, and it smells amazing.” I lean in and take an exaggerated sniff, getting a face full of needles in the process.
Cheyenne laughs as I sputter and brush needles from my face. “Fine,” she says, “but only because I want to stop walking around with an oversized elf who’s drawing more attention than Santa does on Christmas Eve.”
I grin triumphantly. “I’ll go find the tree farm guy.”
Before I can move, though, the owner approaches with three steaming cups of cider. “Thought you folks might like something warm,” he says, handing them out.
“Thank you,” Chey and I say in unison.
“Find a tree you like?”
“This one.” Cheyenne points to the Fraser fir.
“Good choice.” The man nods approvingly. “I’ll get it tagged for you.”
We sip our cider while waiting, the warm, spiced drink perfect to combat the chilly evening air. I notice Cheyenne’s hands wrapped around the cup, her fingers red from the cold.
“Where are your gloves?” I ask.
She shrugs. “Forgot them. I wasn’t really thinking clearly this morning.”
Without hesitating, I pull off my ridiculous elf mittens and hand them to her. “Here.”
“I’mnotwearing those,” she protests.
“They’re warm,” I insist. “And green is definitely your color.”
She rolls her eyes but takes them, slipping her fingers into the oversized mittens. They look absurd on her, hanging past her fingertips, but something about the sight makes my chest tighten strangely.
We finish our cider as Genna returns with a small wreath. “Did you pick a tree?” she asks.
Cheyenne nods toward our chosen tree. “What do you think?”
“Perfect,” Genna approves. “Not too big, not too small.”
The owner returns with a chainsaw, quickly cutting the tree at the base before helping us haul it to the front. When we get to the register, I pull out my wallet before either of them can.
“Dylan, no,” Cheyenne protests. “We can pay for our own tree.”
“Consider it my apology for ruining Thanksgiving,” I say, handing over my credit card.
“You didn’t ruin Thanksgiving,” she replies, her voice soft. “Garrett did that all on his own.”
Our eyes meet for a moment, and something passes between us that I can’t quite name. Her hand accidentally brushes mine as we both reach for the receipt, and I feel a sudden warmth spread through my fingers. I pull back quickly, confused by my reaction.
