Not letting it go. Not making it a thing in front of everyone. Just noting that it exists, setting it aside with intention, letting me know it hasn't been forgotten.
My heart rate is doing something it has no business doing in a Christmas market over a cup of cider. It’s beating faster than the drumming from the sound of The Little Drummer Boy coming across the speakers.
"Okay," I say.
He nods. "Come on. Holly's starting the wreath station. I know you’ve been looking forward to it." He takes my hand. Actually takes my hand and we go to the wreath station.
We'll talk about it later keeps replaying in my head.
Later is after the tree lighting.
The ceremony is beautiful. Justin gives a short speech, the resort staff counts down, and the thirty-foot tree in the atrium blazes into life in gold, ivory, and green and the gasp the preview crowd makes is involuntary and collective. I have photos I know are going to be the piece's anchor image. I have a lump in my throat I'm not going to examine too closely. Holly is crying and not trying to hide it. They’ve worked so hard all year in building this place in Aspen. It’s not The North Pole amusement park his family has owned for generations. This is their place, Holly and Justin’s and it means so much to her. My chest swells with pride for everything my beautiful friend has accomplished.
Anthony is beside me for the countdown. He doesn't say anything and he doesn't need to. He's just there, beside me, present in the moment, and when the tree lights I feel his arm go around my shoulders and neither of us moves away. I lean into him and it just feels right.
After the ceremony, when the crowd has broken into smaller groups and the mulled wine has reappeared, I take a glass and drink it quickly. Liquid courage, one might say. The second glass I sip at slowly, and he looks at me with an eyebrow raised. It’s the look, the one the heroines in the books I read come to know well. I am aware of our previous conversation. I’m also still holding that half-drunk bottle of water. The one he glanced at and then glanced at the cup of mulled wine and glanced at again. He was communicating with his eyes. I understood exactly what he was saying, and still, I raised the glass to my lips and took a long drink of the wine.
Look, no one has ever accused me of being subtle. Was it a bratish move? Yes. Am I testing the dom side of this potential Daddy? Also yes. Was it immature and perhaps a bit stupid? Well, I guess I’ll find out because the second the glass comes down from my lips, he touches my elbow and tips his head toward the corridor.
"Walk with me," he says.
I take his outstretched hand and go.
He walks me silently down the east corridor where we eventually end up in a small library that I didn’t know was here. It’s one of the quieter resort spaces. There’s a three-piece leather seating area, large bookshelves, a fireplace, and dim lights. He closes the door and I sit down in one of the armchairs and he stays standing for a moment, looking at me.
"Tell me what happened today," he says.
I’m surprised by the way he phrases the question. He doesn’t tell me I made a mistake or accuse me of not paying attention or bratting, but instead he asks me to tell him what happened,like he wants my side of the story. Like, it matters what I think occurred and why.
"I grabbed the cups without reading the sign," I say. "I know you don't drink. It’s important for you to understand that I didn’t hand you alcohol intentionally right after you told me you weren’t drinking. I just… I wasn't being careful."
"Why weren't you being careful? Please tell me the truth this time."
I look at my hands. He caught me. Earlier when I said I was distracted by the market, I was fibbing. I look up at him. "Because I was thinking about other things and I was comfortable enough with you that I stopped paying attention to the details. Which is, honestly what I do a lot, in my day to day life. I get enthusiastic about something and I move fast and I skip the step where I slow down and check. Sometimes, it’s an impulse, sometimes it’s just pure excitement."
He nods, slowly, and looks at me like I’ve confirmed something he’s been wondering about. "You do it with the animals too. At the barn, with the calf and at the ranch when you nearly walked into the bear enclosure."
I nearly walked into the bear enclosure.
He saw me do that. He redirected me with a look before I'd fully processed, I was doing it. I hadn't thought about it as a pattern. But he isn’t wrong. I act first and think second a lot.
"I'm not reckless," I say. "I'm not trying to be anyway, sometimes I just act because —"
"I know you're not reckless intentionally." He sits down, not across from me but in the chair angled toward mine, close enough that I could touch him if I reached. "You're not reckless. You're unguarded. There's a difference. Reckless doesn't care. You care too much. You get pulled toward the thing you love and you forget to watch where your feet are."
Oh.
Nobody has ever said that to me before. Not like that. Not like it's a thing that's mine, a thing about how I'm made, rather than a failing I need to correct.
Unguarded. Not reckless. You care too much.
"That's —" My throat feels strange. "That's a generous way to say it."
"It's an accurate way to say it." He looks at me steadily. "But accurate doesn't mean it doesn't matter. You could have gotten hurt at the bear enclosure. The alcohol isn’t a big deal but what if instead of alcohol I’d had an allergy and you grabbed the wrong one and I drank it? I need you to be more careful, especially when you’re not with me. I’m hoping that won’t be often, but I know, especially at first, it’ll be more time than I’d like. I’m not angry with you,” he softens his tone. “I don't want you to get hurt."
I need you to be more careful when you’re not with me.
When you're not with me.
