“Come on, Scrooge,” Lydia said, looping her arm through mine. “You love Christmas.”
“I love it in theory,” I said. “Like I love yoga or kale. I admire it from afar.”
She gave me a knowing smile, one that said she remembered all my Decembers spent stress shopping at midnight and mailing presents late with passive-aggressive notes.
“Maybe your visit to Reckless River will soften you up.”
“Softening is for butter,” I said, sidestepping a toddler wielding a candy cane like a weapon.
We passed a woman screaming into her phone, “No, Gary, the twelve-foot tree! Thetwelve! We’re not going small again this year!”
I gestured at her. “See? My people.”
Lydia just shook her head, all peaceful and serene. “You really need a vacation.”
“That’s what this weekend is!” I said. “My annual mental health retreat. You, me, and a trip up north with peppermint schnapps. What could possibly go wrong?”
The universe answered immediately.
A street performer dressed as Frosty the Snowman tripped on his own striped scarf and faceplanted into a pile of fake snow. A cheer roared from the crowd.
I applauded. “And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the true meaning of Christmas.”
Callum had dropped Lydia off last night on his way to pick up some huge contraption from the restaurant supply store in Seattle, so he could save on shipping. I didn’t have the heart to mention he probably used up the savings in gas.
By the time we’d hit our third store, I was carrying three candles, two pairs of novelty socks, and one catastrophic attempt at a matching Christmas sweater that ended with me stuck halfway through a size medium.
Lydia tried to peel it off my head while I flailed.
“Hold still,” she said.
“Iamholding still!” I shouted through a mouthful of acrylic. “This thing’s tighter than Santa’s waistband after cookie season!”
“Breathe out.”
“Why would breathing out help? What are you trying to tell me?”
“I’m trying to keep you calm,” Lydia said, chuckling.
I peeked through the neck hole at a passing teenager who filmed us on her phone, and I realized my tragic wardrobe encounter at Nordstrom might go viral. When Lydia finally freed me, my hair was standing on end like I’d been electrocuted, and she was crying from laughter.
We stumbled back into the cold, damp air, clutching our coffees. It had started snowing or, more accurately, slushing. The umbrella we shared drooped sadly, dripping cold water onto my boots.
“I don’t know why people romanticize this weather,” I said. “It’s like being sneezed on by a snow globe.”
“Reckless River snow isn’t like this,” Lydia said. “It’s soft and quiet. You can actually hear the flakes falling.”
“Adorable,” I deadpanned. “Do the flakes sing carols too?”
She nudged me. “You’ll see when you visit.”
“Your town doesn’t even have Uber.”
“No, but it has stars you can see at night,” she countered, smiling. “And a man who makes the world’s best hot chocolate.”
I squinted at her. “Callum?”
She just grinned wider. “Maybe.”
