Page 4 of Pining for You

I can do some of this homework while I make my way to the Cooper tractor, which will take me and the waiting customers from base camp at Christmas Village out into the tree fields. But I’ve never been a great multitasker, so it probably shouldn’t be a surprise that reading, drinking cider, and walking all at once is not in my skill set. I learn this valuable lesson after I walk—with my eyes glued to Marley’s dossier—directly into a wall.

And by wall, I mean a human.

“Oof!” I choke out as cider erupts from my cup and splashes spectacularly to the ground.

Diya would be face-palming so hard right now. If I had a drop of cider for every time she’s reminded me to secure the lid, I’d be drowning in the stuff.

I do a quick body scan for splatter and injury, and the good news is that it seems I’ve mostly avoided being bathed in scalding apple juice. The bad news? The majority of my cup’s contents are dripping from the person in front of me. And that is… embarrassing.

“You cannot be serious,” I hear them say, while scrambling to collect my KeepCup from the ground. I come face-to-face with a pair of mahogany Doc Martens combat boots, then my eyes travel up to black denim jeans and a red puffer coat. The girl wearing them is about my age and oozing cool, except she’s now also wearing the rest of my very hot cider.

“Gah, I’m so sorry,” I grovel, and before I know what I’m doing, I’m wiping this stranger down with the biodegradable napkins. Which are degrading fast, leaving bits of napkin stuck to her.

“Dude. What are you even— Stop, just, stop,” she says, swatting me away.

I step back and put up my I surrender hands.

“I’m sorry, really. I… um, sorry,” I stammer.

“It’s whatever.” The girl looks down and must see there’s probably no risk of permanent damage, because she dials back the scowliness a touch when she adds, “Fine, I guess.”

But now I’m not fine because I’ve finally looked up all the way. This girl is stop-you-in-your-reindeer-tracks stunning, even with the scowl. Her eyes remind me of the ganache truffles we make in the bakery—the ones with gingerbread spices. Above them she’s wearing smoky shadow and her sweeping eyelashes could put the Grinch’s to shame. Her jet-black hair is this wild ocean of waves with golden highlights the color of a tree topper star, and she has a hoop in her nose and one hanging from each ear. She’s giving Jenna-Ortega-as-Wednesday-Addams, and I am here for it.

I shake my head and blink hard. She’s probably a hallucination, right? Too much sugar. Caffeine overload. More of gravy than of grave and all that. But I can’t help that I feel something in my stomach. Not butterflies, exactly. More like… sparkles. The kind that glint off freshly packed snow in the sun.

“Um, are you okay?” she asks, now that I’m just… staring. And okay, so maybe she is real.

She’s also not alone. There’s a kid standing beside her, dressed in a tall top hat and a shirt, tie, and vest that are just visible under his overcoat. He looks like a tiny Victorian poet and has apparently been watching this whole scene silently, with what appears to be great concern.

“Uh, yeah, yes!” I practically shout at her, then cough out a shaky laugh because that seems better than more stammering. “Totally good.”

Good god, acquire some chill, Bosley, I think.

“Really, I am sorry,” I say again, looking between the two of them. “I’ll pay for the dry cleaning or whatever.”

I look back at her coat, ostensibly to survey the damage, but also so I can collect my thoughts. That’s when a glint catches my eye—she’s wearing three enamel pins: a rainbow flag with Love Is Love just beneath her collar, along with a She/Her pronoun pin and a lesbian flag on the other side. Rarely does one run into an outward expression of queerness in Ripton. I am fully about to welcome her to the farm, bake her a big gay rainbow surprise cake filled with sprinkles, and cue up some boygenius real quick, but I’m not getting the vibe that she’s prepared for a one-woman pride parade.

She kneels in front of the kid, even though he isn’t a whole lot shorter than she is. “It’s okay, bud, I promise. It’s safe.”

Maybe I startled him?

I study his outfit more closely. It’s incredible. Not like any off-the-rack Halloween costume I’ve ever seen. He’s got on a charcoal-colored frock coat, a brown brocade waistcoat, an ivory shirt, pinstriped trousers, and even a silk cravat. (File under: Things I Know Thanks to Cash…)

“Impeccable suit, dude!” I say to him cheerily. “Who’s your tailor?”

The girl turns to me again. “Okay, thanks, but we’re good, okay?”

“Okay. Yeah,” I say, stepping back.

I snatch the soaked map off the ground, try to collect some shreds of my dignity, and turn to head in the direction of the tractor stop. And then I try not to look back at her, even though I want to.

I inhale the cool late morning air, which always feels grounding, but I can’t help the feeling of irritation. I don’t see the need to be so salty about what was clearly an accident. But I’m honestly more upset with my own reaction—like, I seem to have no actual control over my mind and body.

I let out a huff and try to shake it off. I can’t let this—whatever this is—interfere with Operation Marley. If I botch our plan, I’ll tank my only chance to secure the single family tradition I can salvage for my mom this year, and blowing my friends’ time and goodwill toward me too. The tractor station finally comes into view—and it’s just in time to see it pulling away.

“Wait! Noooo,” I whine-shout, not that anyone is around to hear me. “Come on.”

Another ride won’t show for at least fifteen minutes. I’m about to grab my phone to reluctantly text the group chat, ask Cash to stall, and update Izaac, when I hear boots crunching through fallen branches.