“It smells so good and so does the tree, Isla,” Mia remarks, lifting her nose toward the wreath while Isla unlocks the door.
Once she pushes it open, my pulse skitters.
Settle down, man. It’s just a home.
I cross the threshold, as Isla says to me, “Right over there.” She points to the corner of the living room, across from the lavender couch, that’s covered in silver-and-white snowflake throw pillows. “You can set it in the tree stand and we’ll fill it with water real quick.”
“I’ll do it!” Mia offers. “But can you show me how?”
“Of course,” Isla says, then scurries to the kitchen with Mia in tow. For a second, maybe more, a sense of déjà vu flashes through me as I picture carrying a tree for Regina, setting it up, then hanging the stockings with her and our little girl. My heart hollows out, but it’s not for Regina. It’s for…my kid. Whose mom left both meandher. Regina sends birthday gifts and cards, Christmas presents and short little notes. But that’s all. She’s living her life in the other hemisphere, working somewhere in South America on her art.
My throat tightens, and I fight off the wave of emotions, turning my gaze to the kitchen where Mia’s standing on tiptoes at the sink, filling a red ceramic pitcher with mistletoe leaves inlaid along the side.
Well, if she can’t have a big, fluffy tree at our house, at least she can do this.
I carry the tree to the stand, line it up, then set it down, ensuring it’s centered. I kneel to tighten the clamps that hold the tree upright. Giving a gentle tug, I make sure everything’s stable.
It’s perfect, so I stand as Mia carefully clutches thepitcher and pads on quiet feet to the tree, sticking out the tip of her tongue in concentration.
“And then you add enough water to cover the bottom inch of the trunk,” Isla tells her.
“Got it,” Mia says, bending and taking her time pouring.
“Good job! That’s perfect,” Isla says encouragingly, and my damn chest tightens at the scene. She’s good with Mia.
Of course she is—she’s a fucking elf.
“Good job,” I say gruffly, since I don’t want it to seem as if I like this too much.
I walk away from them, heading straight to the kitchen to wash the sap off my hands. But I’m listening to Isla explain how much water a tree needs, and how to care for it as I squirt soap from a glass container with dancing Santas etched across it.
“How often do you water it?” Mia asks, apparently transfixed with all things trees.
“Every day. It gets very thirsty,” she tells her. “Sometimes I even mist the branches.”
Of course she does.
“You take care of it,” Mia observes.
“It’s important to take care of things,” she says, “and people. Now, would you like to hang the first ornament? My favorite one is a Christmas moose, made out of felt. My niece and nephew made it for me.”
And I was wrong with the red ornament. She’s choosing a homemade one to hang first. That feeling in my chest tightens again. I’m not supposed to like this—them hanging out. I was supposed to avoid it. But here I am, not daydreaming about time together, but indulging in it.
What the fuck is going on with me?
Get it together, man.
As Isla tracks down the ornament, I turn off the faucet and reach for a towel. It’s white and embroidered with nutcrackers. I’ve got to get out of here. It’s like Christmas has thrown up all over.
And really, with the tree standing and Mia hanging a moose, our work here is done.
Twenty minutes later, I’m walking up the steps to my home, an uncomfortable knot of nerves swimming in me. Will Isla be noting every detail of my home like I did hers? And do I even want her to? So much for myget it togetherwarning.
I gird myself to stay strong.
The second I unlock the front door, Wanda flies over to her. Not me. Not Mia. But Isla.
My little dog bounces on her back legs, showing off for Isla.
