Page 80 of Seeds of Christmas
I should probably tell him.
My throat is too tight. My chest too full.
Instead, I squeeze his hand.
I can’t do this. Not when I’m still figuring out who I am alone. What if it happens again?
The slow dissolve.
“I need some air,” I say, standing abruptly.
Carter looks up, concerned. “You okay?” “Yeah, just—it’s warm in here. I’m going to step outside for a minute.”
“Want company?”
“No!” Too sharp. I soften my voice. “No, I just need a minute. Fresh air. I’ll be right back.” I grab my coat and escape before he can ask more questions.
The cold airslaps my face.
I’m already rearranging myself around him. I’m already thinking about spring semester in terms of “we” instead of “I.” I’m already imagining a future I have no business imagining with someone I barely know. Matthew and I dated for three months before I started canceling plans with friends because he wanted me home with him. Six months before I started choosing my classes based on his schedule instead of my interests. And I told myself it was love.
That’s what love was, right? Compromise. Accommodation. Putting someone else first.
Except it wasn’t compromise. It was erasure. And I might be doing it again. I can feel it. The way I’m already softening my edges. Making myself smaller so he has room to be bigger.
He hasn’t asked me to. That’s what makes it worse. Carter hasn’t asked me to change a single thing.
He likes me exactly as I am—neurotic and particular and opinionated. But I’m changing anyway. Because that’s what I do. That’s what I’ve always done. I become whoever the person I’m with needs me to be. And I lose myself in the process.
I can’t do this. The thought arrives clear and cold.
I need to slow down. I need space. I need to remember that I’m a whole person on my own, not just half of something that feels good but might destroy me.
Even if it hurts him. Even if it hurts me. I have to protect myself.
After coffee and toast—becauseCarter insists I need actual food, not just sugar—we get ready for the day. Site Five is our last major data collection point, and the weather’s supposed to hold until tonight.
“You sure you’re okay to hike?” Carter asks, eyeing my ankle. It’s wrapped in the compression bandage from the first aid kit, still swollen but manageable. “We can skip it. Interpolate the data.”
“I’m fine,” I say, and I mean it. It hurts, but I’ve worked through worse. “Besides, this is the most important site for the thermal gradient analysis. We need direct readings.”
“Okay, but if it gets bad, we turn back. No arguments.”
“No arguments,” I agree.
He looks skeptical but doesn’t push.
We pack our equipment in comfortable silence, and I’m struck again by how easy this has become. How we move around each other without awkwardness, anticipating what the other needs. He reaches for the pH meter at the same moment I reach for the thermometer. I hand him sample vials before he asks. He adjusts my pack straps without being asked.
We’re a team now. Actually, genuinely a team.
And that terrifies me.
The hiketo Site Five is brutal—longer than any of the others, uphill through deep snow, my ankle protesting every step. But Carter stays close, breaking trail ahead of me, looking back every few minutes to make sure I’m okay.
“You good?” he calls back for probably the tenth time.
“Yep.” I’m breathing hard, my legs burning. “Just enjoying the winter wonderland.”
