Page 11 of A Season of Second Chances
"You look really pretty," Alana says, and Winter's eyes meet mine over her head.
"Thank you, sweetie. So do you." And she does, in a red velvet dress that's probably too fancy for decorating, but she's five, so it's perfect.
"I like your sweater," Winter says, his voice washing all over my body. I remember how he used to whisper intimately in my ear as we'd push and pull against each other in the cab of his truck. "Very festive."
I glance down at the ridiculous reindeer pattern. "I figured if I'm going to be stuck in a Christmas storm, I might as well look the part. I don't even know why I packed this thing. Must've known that I'd need it."
"Well, you nailed it." The way he's looking at me makes me feel like I'm a teenager again, standing in the hallway waiting for him between classes.
"Are we ready to do this?" I ask, gesturing to the boxes of what I assume are ornaments and lights stacked nearby.
"Yes," Alana yells. "Dad and I do this every year at home by ourselves. Sometimes we have help when we come here, but we've never had anyone as pretty as you."
The innocent comment hits harder than it should. Just the two of them, year after year, making memories while I was in Indianapolis chasing a career that apparently doesn't even value me enough to be honest about my competition.
That's a hard fucking pill to swallow.
"Well, I'm honored to be included," I tell her, and I mean it.
Winter starts untangling strings of lights while Alana digs through ornament boxes with the enthusiasm that only a five-year-old can. I find myself drawn into their happiness, hanging ornaments where Alana directs, laughing when she insists certain ones have to go in specific spots for reasons only she understands.
"That one is my favorite," she explains, holding up a handmade ornament that looks like it was crafted by a smaller child. "I made it when I was little."
Winter and I look at each other, him pushing a laugh back as she says she was little.
"It's beautiful," I say, taking it from her carefully and hanging it on a branch at her eye level.
Winter catches my eye and mouths thank you. My chest tightens with pleasure.
"Hot cocoa delivery." Carol appears with a tray holding three steaming mugs topped with whipped cream and mini marshmallows.
"Carol, you're amazing," I tell her, accepting a mug. "It's been a very long time since I had hot chocolate."
"It's tradition," she says with a wink. "Can't decorate a Christmas tree without hot chocolate."
Alana takes her mug carefully, blowing on it before taking a tiny sip that leaves whipped cream on her nose. Winter reaches over and wipes it off with his thumb, and the gesture is so tender it makes my throat tight. These two are closer than either of us had been with our parents.
This is what I gave up. This warmth, this family feeling, this sense of belonging somewhere.
"Joy, can you put the angel on top?" Alana asks. "Dad always has to use the ladder, but maybe you could do it this year?"
"I still need the ladder, sweetheart," I laugh. "I'm not that tall."
"I'll help you," Winter says, already moving the ladder into position.
As I climb up, ornament in hand, I'm acutely aware of Winter's hands. One of them is steadying the ladder, the other curved around my waist, his presence right below me. When I place the angel and climb back down, Alana claps her hands together.
"It's perfect." She grins, so happy to have it done. "Can we plug it in now, Dad?"
Winter flips the switch, and the tree comes to life with hundreds of twinkling lights. In the dimmed lobby, with the fireplace crackling nearby and snow falling outside the windows, it's almost magical.
"It's beautiful," I whisper.
"It really is," Winter agrees, but when I look over, he's watching me, not the tree.
We spend the next hour finishing the decorating, with Alana directing us like a tiny, festive general. She wants certain ornaments grouped together, others spread out, and has very specific opinions about which side of the tree is the front. It's more fun than I've had in a very long time.
By the time we're done, Alana is yawning, her earlier energy gone. She curls up on one of the leather couches near the fireplace, her eyes drooping.
