“Yeah, but I just thought since you seemed so shocked over my lack of tree that trees must be a big deal to you.”
He shrugs, tossing up tinsel. “Since I usually spend Christmas at Sofia’s house, I didn’t think it mattered if I had one or not at mine.” He leans closer to the tree and inhales deeply. “But in Los Angeles, real trees are hard to come by. At least ones that last through the actual holiday with most of their needles.” He digs through the decorations, unearthing a plastic snowflake on a red hook. “But this…”—his hand stills, the grin sliding off his face like melting ice—“tree reminds me of the ones my parents had when I was little.” He blinks, clearing his throat and hanging the snowflake. “I don’t remember much, but I do remember the smell.” He steps back, admiring his handiwork, seemingly satisfied with the cluster of ornaments and tinsel he adorned just one section of tree with.
I spend the rest of Jack’s playlist following him around, reshuffling and re-spacing his—our—decorations.
Jack
“Let me just switch these two…”Audrey moves around our tree, muttering under her breath as she fixes my questionable bow placement.
Our.
The word slips through my head uninvited, lodging deep like a splinter I don’t want to pull out.
“Ready?” I squat in my new fleece-lined khakis—another local purchase I made and one that I hope doesnotattract local wildlife—and hold the plug dramatically by the outlet.
Audrey rolls her lips, trying not to laugh.
God, that half-hidden smile is enough to wreck me.
She nods, eyes dancing. “Ready.”
I shove the plug in. The tree detonates.
White, red, multicolor—every strand on a different setting. A disco supernova. One blinks like an ambulance flatlining, another twinkles like a Vegas marquee, and a third glows steadily, smug as hell.
Audrey throws her hands up, laughing, and I can’t look away. Not at the chaos. Not at the glitter now dotting her cheekbone. Just her, radiant in the gaudiest light show ever conceived.
“That”—her voice shakes with laughter—“is by far the ugliest tree I’ve ever seen.”
“Uh.” I stand, hand on chest, mock-offended. “How dare you?”
But when she points at the angel tree topper wobbling like it’s had too much sacrificial wine, it’s hard to keep a straight face.
I shrug, a chuckle catching in my throat. “You may have a point.”
We laugh together. And in our shared amusement over the catastrophe we’ve built, something shifts. An emotion catches in my chest—like a lock clicking open. I don’t want the moment to end.
I get my wish, as it doesn’t end so much as transforms—the laughter fading while the air thickens between us.
She steps closer. Too close. Close enough that I catch the scent of pine on her sweater, sugar on her skin.
Her hand lifts, tugging a tinsel strand from my hair, and I forget how to breathe.
“Jack?” Her eyes hold mine, unguarded.
“Yeah?” The word comes rough because she’s so close,her lips parted like she might say something that’ll undo me completely.
“I love our tree,” she whispers.
I was right—Our.
Nat King Cole croons “O Holy Night” from my playlist as something inside me reorients.
Her lips curve, and I feel like I’ve been walking off-kilter for years and just found solid ground.
My hand lifts before I can stop it, brushing glitter from her cheek. “Me too.”
And then we kiss.
