They know I heard them. And even though I’m still terrified, some part of me—the soft, foolish part I pretend doesn’t exist—hopes they’re right about us.
twenty-one
. . .
Jake
I’m standingoutside Natalie’s door with a full-sized Christmas tree balanced on my shoulder, a bag of ornaments cutting into my fingers, and a tiny wrapped box in my pocket that felt sweet at the store but which I now worry might be overkill.
It’s been almost a week since I’ve seen her. She spent Thanksgiving with her dad while I flew to Connecticut. And somehow six days turned into this low-grade ache I carried around everywhere. I missed her. Missed her laugh, her snark, that fucking mint tea that tastes so good on her lips.
Tomorrow is her first day in the writers’ room. I wanted to do something that would make her smile and add to her excitement.
I knock with my free hand. As the door swings open, her eyes widen. “Jake. What are you—is that a tree?”
“What tipped you off?” I tease.
“Why did you bring mea tree?”
“Because it’s the Sunday after Thanksgiving. Trees go up this weekend.” I shift the tree on my shoulder. “Can I come in? This thing is heavier than it looks.”
She moves back, still staring like she’s not sure if she should laugh, kiss me, or shove me back onto the porch. I brush a quick kiss on her cheek as I pass.
“I thought maybe…” I start, suddenly awkward. “We could start our own tradition.”
Her eyebrows jump. “Our own tradition?”
“Yeah,” I say, casually enough that you’d never know my heart sped up. “Like putting up a tree the weekend after Thanksgiving. Making sure our daughter has her first Christmas, even if she’s not here yet.”
She goes still, and I can’t tell if I’ve stepped over a line or hit something tender she wasn’t expecting.
“You brought me a Christmas tree,” she says again, slower this time.
“And ornaments,” I add, pulling out boxes. “Wasn’t sure what you had, so I grabbed basics. We can get more later. Personalized ones for…” I grin. “What are we thinking? Wren? Margot? Sloane?”
She folds her arms. “We haven’t decided yet.”
“Well, I can keep auditioning names. See what fits.” I pull the stand from the box. “Where do you want this?”
She hesitates, like the question is bigger than the tree. Then points. “By the window.”
“Perfect.”
I kneel, set the stand, tighten the screws. Natalie watches from the couch, arms wrapped around herself, expressiondrifting between surprised and grateful. Something like she wants this but is scared to want it too openly.
“Thank you,” she says quietly. “For all of this.”
“Of course.” I step back, checking the tree’s angle. “It felt important. This is her first Christmas, even if she’s still in there.” I gesture to Natalie’s stomach.
Natalie’s eyes follow mine.
“Oh,” I say, remembering. “One more thing.” I lift a sprig of mistletoe from the ornament box.
She huffs a laugh. “You did not.”
“I did.” I walk to the doorway between her kitchen and living room, reach up, and hook the mistletoe on the light fixture. It twirls slightly, catching the glow of the lamp.
“There,” I say. “Now come over here.”
