"Tonight," I said, "you're off the clock."
Epilogue
The first rule of decorating Zane's Christmas tree was apparently that the lights had to behave like irrigation tubing: straight, untangled, and corrected before they developed character.
I stood in his living room with a cardboard ornament box against my hip, watching him frown at a strand of white lights like it had personally betrayed the season. Snow tapped softly against the front windows. A fir wreath leaned against the wall by the coat hooks, still waiting for the ribbon I'd bought in town, and the whole house smelled like pine needles, coffee, cinnamon, and the laundry Zane had folded after looking at the chair and saying, "Temporary system."
Temporary systems, I had learned after five months of living with the man, could last three days if I didn't intervene.
"Are you measuring that?" I asked.
Zane glanced down at the light strand stretched between his tattooed fingers. He wore faded jeans and a dark thermal shirt pushed up at the forearms, which was rude of him considering I was trying to be useful with ornaments and not stare at the way ink disappeared under cotton.
"No," he said.
"You paused before answering."
"I was deciding whether you needed the truth."
"That means yes."
His mouth moved at one corner. "It means this tree is going to look right."
"It's a Christmas tree, Zane. Not a municipal project."
He looked at the half-lit branches, then at me. "You say that like municipal projects don't benefit from planning."
I set the ornament box on the coffee table beside our two mugs. Mine had a chip near the handle. His had black coffee in it, because Zane believed flavored creamer was dessert wearing a disguise.
Outside, the porch steps were salted, the shovel was by the door, and my gloves were drying over the heating vent. I knew winter. I knew slick roads, wet cuffs, stubborn ice, and the exact second a person should stop pretending bare hands were fine.
"Plan the tree," I said. "I'll supervise emotionally."
"You're good at that."
"I'm excellent at many kinds of supervision now. I've learned from a stern professional."
Zane looped the strand around a branch with maddening competence. "That stern professional remembers you negotiating with bean vines."
"That stern professional kissed me after sign-out."
His eyes came to mine across the branches, and the room warmed by several degrees without any help from the thermostat.
"That stern professional waited until after sign-out," he said.
"Yes, and he's been impossible about rules ever since."
"Rules kept you coming back."
"Court kept me coming back."
Zane's gaze dropped to the ornament box, then to the chipped mug beside mine. "Court got you through the gate."
My throat tightened. I looked down into the ornament box because cardboard and tissue paper seemed safer than the way he looked at me when he said things like that. There were plain glass balls from the hardware store, a set of red wooden stars from the P-Patch holiday swap, and one tiny ceramic carrot withTyler's paper tag tied to the stem: SEASONALLY FLEXIBLE. SNOWMEN HAVE NOSES.
I lifted the carrot. "I still can't believe you let Tyler contribute to Christmas."
"I didn't let him. Birdie did."
