Page 64 of About Last Christmas
“I didn’t know any other way.” He glances around as if looking at the place with fresh eyes. “When I returned to Silver Creek, I debated moving back in here. It doesn’t really hold good memories for me.”
A surge of boldness overtakes me, holding for a breathless moment. “You can create some.”
His gaze pierces mine. “I can see that.”
It’s warm. Too warm. And to avoid his intense focus, I avert my eyes to a bare spot by the fire. “You don’t have a tree.” I suddenly realize. “You don’t have anything Christmas-y.”
He expels a heavy sigh. “I bought a tree and stuff last year but never took anything out of the boxes. The fire kinda threw me.”
The man fights fires regularly, but he’s referring tothefire. The one that claimed an elderly man, leaving behind a broken-hearted widow. “Do you still have the tree?”
“In the garage.” He catches on to my reasoning. “Want to help me put it up?”
I brighten. “You helped me decorate The Memory Bank. It’s only fair.”
He stands and helps me up. “Let’s get to it then.” He leads me to the garage, where he hoists the massive tree box on his shoulder like some lumberjack. I grab the designated containers of decorations.
We return to the living room, and he clears space for everything. Using a knife, he slices through the box and opens the flaps.
“Stop,” I say as he begins to pull out the artificial limbs.
“What’s wrong? Don’t tell me I’m already messing up?”
“Traditions!” I exclaim like a madwoman.
His face resembles the Leo of Last December. The confused brow that makes my fingertip tingle in want of smoothing it out, and my heart yearns in want of him to experience all he’s missed out on growing up.
I try to coax him along. “When putting up the tree, don’t you have certain things you do?”
He glances at the tree box, then at me. “Like spreading out the limbs to make it look more natural?”
“No. Creating memories and traditions go hand in hand. Like when I put the tree up at my house, I always watchWhite Christmasbecause that’s what we did every year.”
“Yeah, don’t have any of those.” His tone doesn’t hold traces of regret or hurt. It’s steady, like he’s only stating the facts.
“Okay. Will you humor me?”
He meets my gaze. “I told you before, I’m yours to command.”
I sputter a nervous laugh. “Let’s start with this. What’s your favorite Christmas music?”
“I like the traditional ones. But nothing in particular.”
“Okay, Christmas movie?”
“Easy.Home Alone.”
I clasp my hands together. “Nice! We can watch it during or after we put up the tree.”
He pauses.
I still, my skin flaming. “I’m doing that again, aren’t I? Where I’m too much?” It’s my impulsive nature that always wants to help. “You can tell me to chill. I won’t get offended.”
“No.” He stands and steps close. “You, Greta, can never be too much. In fact …” His knuckle is a whisper along my jaw. “I don’t think I can get enough.”
I want to tattoo his words onto my soul, so the next time I find myself looking inward, I’ll see the truth and remember this moment.
He cups my cheek for a pulse-pounding second, then drops his hand. “Let’s watch the movie as we set up everything.”
