I’m not entirely certain what he means—it feels like there are still things he isn’t telling me, important things, but his face has turned guarded. I decide not to ask, not right now.
Instead, I move in to give him a chaste kiss. “Charlotte,” he whispers against my lips, then kisses me again. His lips are warm and our breath comes out as vapor in the cold air. I don’t want him to let go. I want his mouth to press against mine until winter evaporates into spring. I want to stay here, hidden among the Christmas trees until the night shifts over the sky and everyone has gone home. But Tate lifts his mouth from mine, both of us a cloud of warmth in the frosty snow. And then I feel the flakes, floating down from the muted gray sky. It’s snowing. Soft crystals land in my hair and on Tate’s shoulders.
And in that moment, in his arms, I have everything I could possibly want.
*
Tate and I agree on a skinny, floppy-looking tree. Nothing like what I pictured we’d choose. It sags a little on one side and bows oddly near the top, but somehow, it’s perfect. Tate carries it over one shoulder back to the entrance, where the holiday music continues to blare from the overhead speakers, now mixing with the falling snow.
Much to my surprise, Tate’s parents selected an equally homely-looking tree. Tate’s dad studies ours, running his hands over the limbs with a serious look on his face, then turns to Tate and says, “Looks like we both know how to recognize a good thing when we see it.” And he actually smiles, clapping Tate on the shoulder. Helen laughs and brings a hand to her mouth, like she might cry seeing the tension between them lift.
It takes Tate a second to absorb the compliment, to realize his dad is trying to make an effort, but when he does, I can see his face lighten. His eyes find me, his dimple flickering to life.
We decide to purchase both trees. But when Tate reaches for his wallet, his dad waves it away. “You might be Mr. Moneybags, but I’m still your father.”
His mom snaps a photo of us standing beside our chosen tree, one of Tate’s arms around my waist, the other holding up the lopsided tree. The snow drifts down around us in slow motion, and the twinkle of Christmas lights feels like a holiday dream.
I never want to wake up.
THIRTEEN
WE EAT DINNER BESIDE THE fire, baby potatoes and green beans and a cauliflower soup that tastes so amazing I keep closing my eyes with every bite, just to savor it. Until Tate points out my repeated eye-closing and everyone laughs.
We move into the living room and I steal a moment to send a text to Carlos, attaching the photo of Tate and me beside our tree, the snow like a halo around us. After a brief debate with myself, I send it to Grandma, too. Maybe it’s rubbing salt in a wound, given how we left things yesterday, but maybe she’ll see how happy we look and stop worrying quite so much.
Helen and Bill drink wine, and tell a few stories about what Tate was like as a child. Tate looks on, face stony, but I’m too amused to make them stop. This feels just like the perfect family life I always imagined. Christmas with my grandma and sister has always been a quiet affair, with Mia often preferring to spend the day with her friends or her boyfriend du jour. And when my mom was alive, holidays usually involved spending Christmas Eve sleeping on the couch of whatever guy she was dating at the time. The thought sobers me, and as the conversation drifts off, I stare into the fire, wondering if I’m somehow making the same mistakes that she did. But this is different, I tell myself. Tate isn’t like other guys.
“Well, Bill,” Helen says finally, setting her half-full glass of wine on the coffee table and standing up, “Tate and Charlotte might be used to waiting up for Santa, but we are not. Shall we call it a night?”
Bill swallows down the rest of his wine, patting Tate once on the shoulder before he rises and follows his wife into the kitchen, where they put things away and flick off the lights.
Once they’ve gone upstairs, Tate walks me to my room, touching a strand of my hair and circling it once around his finger before dropping his hand.
“I liked this day,” I tell him. “With you.”
His mouth edges into a smile. “I hope you get everything you want for Christmas tomorrow.”
“I’m pretty sure I already have,” I say.
I see the momentary struggle in his eyes. I want to touch him, pull him into my room with me. And his gaze says he might not be able to say no.
But then he clears his throat, resolve tightening the features of his face. “Good night, Charlotte.”
“Good night,” I respond, my voice barely above a whisper.
He leaves me in the doorway and moves down the hall. I watch until he slips into his bedroom and quietly shuts the door.
*
I should stay in my room.
I should go to sleep.
The house has fallen still, but my brain won’t turn off.