Page 33 of A Very Bumpy Christmas
Lucas pretends not to hear, but his ears turn sincere pink. “She needs something sturdy,” he says to Gus, like he’s ordering armor. “Good needle retention. Not too sappy. We’re on a hydration plan.”
I roll my eyes with a laugh because this man is ridiculous in the most protective type of way.
Gus leads us down a row. I wander between firs that tower and firs that are charmingly lopsided, touching needles like I’m choosing a bridal gown. Lucas trails me at arm’s length, hands in pockets, scanning in that easy way he does. Every so often I catch him just… watching me. Like he’s memorizing me laughing at a particularly pompous spruce.
“This one,” I announce, stopping in front of a six-foot noble fir with perfect symmetry and a faint tilt at the top like it’s asking to wear a hat. “She’s perfect.”
“Test,” Lucas says. He runs the branch through his fingers, checks the trunk, wiggles the stand cut. “Approved.”
Gus makes a show of trimming and netting while a little kid in a puffer jacket watches like Gus is doing a magic trick. Lucas hoists the tree like it’s a baguette and ties it to the roof with a series of knots that make Gus whistle.
“You been to sea?” Gus asks, impressed.
“Different oceans,” Lucas says, and I tuck that away for later because it sounds like a story.
We pause at the hot cocoa stand for paper cups and an argument about marshmallows. I am pro-marshmallow to a degree that should be illegal. Lucas is pro-whatever keeps my hands warm. He cups my fingers around the cup and then, with zero fanfare, swaps his beanie for mine so my ears are covered better.
“This is a hate crime,” I tell him, peering up from a beanie that’s now slouching over my eyes.
“You look good,” he says, so simply it shuts me up.
Downtown Saint Pierce wears December like it’s auditioning for a greeting card—garlands looped between lampposts, a brass duo playing jazzy carols outside the bookstore. We duck into a few shops, and the rhythm is… easy. He stands with his back to a wall while I compare scarves for Amelia, but he also weighs in—“blue suits her eyes.” He suggests a travel mug for Mom with a lid that won’t betray her in the car. He picks up a tiny wooden rattle in the toy store and turns it like a jewel, thumb rubbing the grain. When I reach for it, he sets it in my palm like he’s handing me something rare.
“For the baby?” I ask, voice small because I didn’t plan to talk about the baby this way, in public, where hope could overhear.
“For the baby,” he says.
We find an ornament that saysBaby’s First Christmaswith a blank for the year and a little space big enough to write “Mystery Peanut” if I’m feeling chaotic. Lucas buys it while I pretend to argue and then pretend to lose. He also sneaks a lemon slice ornament onto the counter and then into my bag because he is a menace who remembers muffins.
At lunch, we split a turkey club the size of my face and a mountain of fries. He takes the seat that lets him see the door and my face. Conversation drifts to ridiculous baby names (he pitches “Captain” as a joke and then we talk ourselves out of it ten minutes later), to whether dogs can sense when a baby is on the way (they can; we decide this is science), to how Asher’s going to react when I buy Charlotte a sweater that saysDog Hair, Don’t Care.
“Name update?” he asks when the server leaves. “We still not finding out?”
I bite a fry thoughtfully. “Still not. I like the surprise.”
He nods, a smile tucked into the corner of his mouth. “Me too.”
“Also,” I add, “if the baby is born and looks like a ‘Captain,’ we can revisit.”
He shakes his head. “That’s how children end up as lawyers with yachts.”
We pay (he tries to be sneaky about it, and I let him because I think it makes him feel useful and also because he promised me a Snacks Budget). Outside, the sky has gone that brilliant winter blue that makes everything look like a photo filter. We swing by the florist so I can grab eucalyptus for the bathroom because apparently I am the kind of person who steams like a spa now. Lucas carries my bundles and somehow keeps a hand on thesmall of my back whenever crowds thicken without making it a thing.
“Gingerbread check?” he asks softly once when we slip between a pack of teens in puffer jackets.
“Cinnamon roll,” I answer, code for “I’m fine but sugar would help,” and he laughs under his breath like he wasn’t already steering me toward the bakery.
By late afternoon, the tree is home and standing proudly in my living room. Lucas does the heavy lifting, and I do the “is it straight?” directing, which feels like the correct division of labor when you're harboring a tenant who kicks your diaphragm as a hobby. He crouches to tighten the stand, and I hand him ornaments from the couch, feet up per doctor’s orders, pretending I’m a queen dispensing baubles to a very handsome court.
And he is sosohandsome.
“This one first,” I say, passing him theBaby’s First Christmasornament. He turns it over in his fingers, expression gone soft around the edges.
“Here,” he says, coming close, lowering so I can write. My hand wobbles, pregnancy carpal tunnel being a festive treat, but together we manage2025and a tiny peanut doodle that looks more like a potato and I love it anyway.
We hang it front and center. He steps back, shoulder bumping mine. “Looks right there.”
“It does,” I whisper.
