Page 38 of Love Story

I froze.Running was officially off the table now.My throat tightened, but I forced myself to step forward, offering my small, awkward smile.

“Yeah,” I said, my voice quieter than I wanted.“I, uh… didn’t want to miss it.”

His smile didn’t falter, and it made my chest ache.How could one person be so steady, so welcoming, like the whole world could fall apart, and he’d still be standing there, ready to catch whatever was left?

“Are you okay,” he asked, taking a step closer, his hands tucked into his coat pockets.

I shook my head, trying to find my voice.“Yeah, of course.Excited for my first time.”He raised an eyebrow.“First time tapping, I mean.”

“Sure,” he said, his grin softening into something warmer, “you’re in for a treat.”

And just like that, I forgot why I’d been so scared in the first place.

Like everything about the farm, the tapping ceremony was simple and beautiful.People gathered around one of the larger trees, bundled against the cold, their breaths misting in the air.Sam stood front and center with what I guessed was the ceremonial first spile in hand, his dad beside him with a small drill.Everyone was smiling and chatting quietly, the kind of easy, happy energy I hadn’t felt in a long time.

Then Sam stepped forward.His movements were steady and sure, and as he drilled into the tree—just enough to set the spile—there was a hush over the group.When he tapped the spile in place, the faintest trickle of sap appeared, glistening in the morning light.

The crowd erupted into cheers, clapping and laughing as if that tiny drop of sap was the best thing they’d seen all winter.

“Before we start,” Sam’s mom said, her voice carrying easily over the quiet crowd, “I want to share something about this tradition that started with my husband’s great-grandfather, Samuel P Caldwell.”

Sam P.I tucked the name away in my archive, recognizing it from the letters.It seemed she was talking to me, and when I glanced around, I guessed maybe I was the only stranger there.

“He was the one who decided that tapping the first tree should be more than just the start of the season,” she continued.“He wanted it to be a way to show gratitude for the trees, the land, and the harvest.”She smiled at the memory, staring down at the bucket in her hands.“So, he started this little tradition.We mix a bit of the first sap with cider, a pinch of sugar, and something from the land—a sprig of pine and a handful of snow—then pour it out at the tree’s base.It’s our way of saying thank you for another season.”

The crowd murmured appreciatively, a few nodding.She handed the bucket to Sam, and I couldn’t look away.He moved with this quiet precision, every motion deliberate, his hands steady as he poured some of the sap into the bucket.The morning light caught on his dark hair, highlighting the sharp angles of his face, and his expression—focused, thoughtful—was enough to make my chest ache.

His dad stepped up next, pouring a splash of cider into the bucket, followed by his mom, who sprinkled in a pinch of sugar from a small pouch.Then, Sam tucked in a sprig of pine and carried the bucket to the tree.

Everyone fell quiet as he knelt and slowly poured the mixture onto the snow-covered roots.It soaked in, darkening the white ground.I couldn’t explain it, but the moment felt heavy with meaning, even to someone like me, who had no connection to this place beyond what I’d seen.

The silence broke with a soft cheer, and the crowd began to scatter, chatting again, the easy energy returning.I stood where I was, watching Sam straighten and glance back at the group with a wide grin and blue eyes bright with emotion.

I couldn’t help but smile.For the first time in a long time, I felt like I wasn’t just watching something.

I was part of it.

WHEN WE MOVEDinto the main house, the party had wound down, the energy shifting from lively celebration to something quieter, more intimate.Only a few of us were left now—Mom and Dad, who headed upstairs.Mom had her book in hand, Dad a mug of coffee, leaving me and my friends alone in the large front room.

We’d started a tradition a few years after the tapping ceremony—a way to unwind, just me, Haider, Conor, and Ryan, sharing drinks and laughs long after everyone else had gone.But today, there was someone new in the mix.Ben stood near the door; his scarf half-wrapped around his neck as if he were seconds away from leaving.

He hesitated, his eyes darting around the room as though he wasn’t sure if he should stay.It was a little awkward, and I could tell he was debating whether to slip out before anyone noticed.Something about that hit me.I didn’t want him to leave.

“Hey,” I said, stepping closer to him, catching his eye before he could get away.“You don’t have to leave yet.”

Surprised, he glanced up at me, his cheeks faintly pink from the warmth of the house or maybe something else.“Oh, I don’t want to intrude,” he said, stepping back like he was gearing up to bolt.

“You’re not intruding,” I said, my voice lighter than usual.“I usually have a drink with my friends after the ceremony and you’re a new friend now, right?”

He blinked, startled, and for a moment, he looked like he didn’t quite know what to say.“I—yeah, I guess so.If that’s okay.”

“It’s more than okay.Stay,” I said, smiling.

His expression changed, his uncertainty softening into something warmer.He tugged at his scarf, hesitating, and I realized I was holding my breath.It only loosened when he nodded and stepped closer to the group.

Haider, sprawled across the couch as if he owned it, grinned at Ben.“The more, the merrier,” he said, motioning for him to sit.Ben settled into a chair on the edge of the group, and I couldn’t help but feel like the night had gotten a little brighter.

The room settled into an easy rhythm that always happened when it was only the four of us.Well, five now, given that Ben was laughing at another of Conor’s stories and had stopped acting as though he was going bolt for the door.

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