People were everywhere. Booths lined both sides of the street, each one decked out in its own brand of holiday insanity. There was an ornament-decorating station where kids dipped glitter with reckless abandon, a wreath-making tent spilling over with pine and ribbon, and a hot chocolate stand doing a booming business. Someone had even set up a makeshift ice rink at the corner near the river, where the younger crowd skated in wobbly circles while parents cheered them on with phones in hand.
Across the way, a man in a Santa suit was posing for photos with a toddler who was very clearly not on board with theconcept of bearded strangers. Laughter carried on the cold air, mixing with the scent of cinnamon and roasting chestnuts… and somehow garlic.
Lydia noticed my nose wrinkle and grinned. “Chili cook-off starts at two.”
“Of course it does,” I said. “Why have one festival when you can have four at once?”
She nudged me. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It’s… overwhelming,” I admitted, even as my lips twitched.
Truthfully, it was overwhelming, but in a good way. The whole scene buzzed with life and laughter, a town collectively choosing to be happy even if their fingers were freezing.
Sometimes I wondered if that was why I chose teaching grade school. The familiar buzz of activity during the day was in such stark contrast to my nights at home.
Alone.
In my apartment.
But I wasn’t here to reconsider all my life choices.
We made our way toward the river, past the row of food vendors setting up shop. The air grew crisp, carrying the spicy scent of pine and smoke. Someone was selling caramel popcorn, someone else homemade fudge, and I swore there was a booth devoted entirely to gingerbread baked goods.
“Lydia, this is insane,” I said, turning in a slow circle to take it all in. “You weren’t kidding about Reckless River going all out for the holidays.”
“I told you,” she said, linking her arm through mine. “It’s magic. Pure, small-town, peppermint-scented magic.”
“I thought you were exaggerating.”
“I never exaggerate.”
I gave her a look. “You literally told me last week that your engagement ring sparkles brighter than the Northern Lights.”
“Well, it does,” she said, entirely unbothered.
I laughed, shaking my head. “You’re hopeless.”
She smiled. “And you’re smiling.”
I froze. “What?”
“You heard me.” She stopped walking, facing me with that knowing expression that could see through every wall I’d ever built. “You’re smiling. Like,reallysmiling. I don’t think I’ve seen that in months.”
“Don’t start,” I warned, though it came out softer than I intended.
“I’m just saying,” she said, watching me closely. “You’ve been wound tight for a while. And now…”
“Now what?”
Her smile gentled. “You look like you finally snapped a few strings.”
I wanted to roll my eyes, to make some sarcastic quip about small towns and their contagious wholesomeness. But the words stuck in my throat because, dammit, she was right.
Standing here, surrounded by the smell of pine and cocoa, hearing kids shriek with laughter while adults haggled over fudge prices, it did something to me. Something I didn’t expect.
It reminded me of when life used to feel… simpler. Before schedules, before city noise, before my heart got all tangled up in things it shouldn’t have.
“Can you believe it feels like this?” I asked quietly.
