“Promises. Promises.” He did, and because it’s Drew and his hands know how to choose, he picked a bunch that was exactly right—green on green, pinecones, just enough red. He paid before I could argue, then looped the twine around his wrist like he’d wear it before he’d drop it. I pretended not to melt and failed.
“Hungry?” I asked, as if I didn’t already know the answer to that question for a man who can make three pancakes look like a religion. “We can do Beecher’s for cheese or Piroshky forcarb pillows or the chowder place with the line that wraps like a python.”
He tilted his head, listening. “What would you do if you were alone?”
“Don’t make me choose between children.”
“Top two.”
“Mini-donuts,” I said, because honesty is brave, “and squeaky cheese.”
He laughed. “Lead on.”
We did both. At the donut stand, the guy behind the counter shook fresh sugar over a paper bag and slid it toward me with a wink I didn’t deserve but took anyway. Drew bit into one still hot enough to threaten lawsuits and actually closed his eyes.
“I’m suing,” he said, powdered sugar dusting his bottom lip. “I can’t live like this and then go back to not living like this.”
“Let’s see if the cheese fixes you,” I said, because chaos was winning and carbs were its hors d’oeuvres.
At Beecher’s, we watched the cheesemakers stirring curds in giant open vats like benevolent witches. The sample guy gave Drew a cube and said, “Squeak means it’s fresh.” Drew bit down, eyes widening at the tiny protest of the curd.
“Squeak,” he repeated, delighted. I was a goner.
We wandered Post Alley so I could traumatize him with the gum wall, which is exactly as disgusting as you imagined.
He stared for a long, horrified moment. “That’s not very holidayish,” he said gravely.
“No,” I agreed. “That’s Seattle’s collective DNA.”
“We’re never coming here again.”
“Agreed.”
“Do you always do this?” Drew asked suddenly, soft enough that it didn’t cut through the music. “Walk and point and love it?”
“If I’m in a good mood,” I said. “If I’m lonely. If I forget why I picked a place and need to remember. This is the reminder.”
He considered that. “And does it… remind you right now?”
I felt the answer anywhere a pulse happens.
“Yes. And not just about the city.”
He looked at me like I’d given him something he didn’t know how to ask for. Then he tucked the wreath more securely around his wrist and bumped my shoulder with his.
“Good.”
We bought a ridiculous chocolate-dipped marshmallow shaped like a snowman and split it, both of us making faces we would deny in court. And he found a compass ornament that made me wonder what it all meant.
At some point, without making a thing of it, his hand found mine.
Our steps synced. My mouth forgot its job and smiled for thirty straight minutes.
“Okay,” he said eventually, tipping his chin toward the neon fish sign and the tangle of people near the produce. “What’s next, Tour Director?”
“Rooftop,” I said, tugging him toward the market steps. “Best view.”
We climbed past the brass pig photo op and the Santa hat on the bronze sculpture. At the top, the wind nosed our coats open, but the payoff was worth frostbite.
