Page 5 of Pining for You

I turn, and there she is again. Walking up the hill, with the little poet trailing behind her like a shadow, looking all cool and totally not like a girl who was just lightly assaulted by a stranger with a hot beverage. The sparkles start to flare again. What is this magic?

“That hat doesn’t come with priority boarding?” she asks when she’s close enough to read the Cooper Family Organic Farm patch sewn into my headwear, along with a button that says, FARMHAND, and in Sharpie, scribbled on myself, Ask me about our strudel!

Which is… so cool. I cringe imagining what else she’s seeing right now. I’m never exactly throwing fire for my morning shift at the bakery because… five a.m. But today, with all the anticipation around Naomi’s gift (and maaaaybe because I was up basically all night reading Happiest Season fanfic on Wattpad), I barely had time to put on my glasses and jam said hat over my mostly bleach-blond hair to hide the super dark roots (since I’ve been too indecisive about sticking with the color) before I had to head out into the cold, cruel world of a New England winter. I haven’t looked in a mirror in a while, but I’m pretty sure it’s bad.

Later, I’m sure I’ll come up with all kinds of clever responses, but right now, all I’ve got is:

“Y-you…”

And when I hear that come out of my mouth, I officially want to eat my hat.

“Me,” she confirms, her perfectly arched eyebrows climbing. “Cup of cheer?” she asks, holding a cup out to me. “Girl back there said she just made it fresh, so… maybe be careful this time. Probably pretty hot.” She hands it to me, steam curling from the plastic lid.

“Definitely, very hot,” I say, and actually freeze at my own awkwardness. “I mean, the cider. Is hot. Always is!” I add with a chuckle. I take a sip to stop my rambling, and it’s basically lava—I literally choke on it.

“Whoa, you okay?” she asks again, looking legit startled.

As I bid my taste buds farewell, I cough out a “Totally! Totally fine. And thank you. I mean, I appreciate it.”

She shrugs at my gratitude like it was no big deal. When you’re cool—and she definitely is—I guess maybe nothing is a big deal.

But then a thought occurs to me. She’d have had to move fast to get back over to Diya’s station, buy new drinks, and still find me…

While I ponder what that means, I follow her gaze and we both find the kid examining a waist-height Charlie Brown–ish tree. The girl lowers her voice, and continues, “Look, my brother’s book is in my bag. It’s literally his favorite thing on the planet, and he’d lose his mind if anything happened to it. I know it was an accident, obviously, so… I’m sorry for overreacting.”

“Oh,” I say. “It’s whatever.”

I go to run a hand through my hair, but nope, still wearing the hat. I really should have eaten it. Instead, I stuff my hands in my pockets like that was the plan all along, trying to match some of her cool. “I totally would’ve freaked out. Not that you did. Freak out, I mean. You were really very chill. Mostly.”

She cracks the slightest smile, and whoosh. Heat swells in my cheeks, like when my mom lights the fireplace on the first crisp morning of the season.

Then, as fast as the expression appears, she looks back toward the kid, who looks to be counting needles on the branches of the little Douglas fir.

“So, what are the kids reading these days, anyway?” I ask.

She reaches to unzip her bag and removes a very familiar red leather-bound text.

“Whoa,” I say, because I’d know that cover anywhere. It’s the same special edition Michelle gave me when I turned twelve, which is now dog-eared and beaten half to dead-as-a-doornail.

“A Christmas Carol,” I say with reverence. “And the red cover—a replica of Dickens’s original back in 1843. I’d protect that with my life too.”

“Wow,” she says. “That is… weirdly specific information.”

Her words say, Weird, but I’m pretty sure her expression is giving at least a touch of impressed. What can I say? A Christmas Carol is my I Ching. The Christmas magic handbook. The holy grail of holiday essence. The source text for all my personal philosophical needs. I have studied its history, its many iterations and interpretations, and could honestly put on a one-woman show for her right now.

Buuuuut I don’t, ’cause that’d be intense.

“Well, it’s a rare find, and an indicator of exceptional taste,” I say instead. “And also kind of like a secret handshake between those who truly understand the Christmas spirit.”

I direct the compliments to the kid, who appears beside his sister as if the book summoned him. She puts a hand on his shoulder, and I wait, but again, he doesn’t say anything. Actually, he doesn’t even look at me. Just at his sister, then back at his book.

“Sorry, he doesn’t talk,” she says, stashing the book away. Once it’s safely stowed, he steps away again, examining some of the footprints around us, and she chews her bottom lip a little, and that catches my attention. My mom always says I do the same thing—that it’s my tell for when I’m anxious.

“Oh, it’s cool,” I say. If that lip chewing thing is her anxious tell too, I don’t want to push her by asking questions.

“But he definitely loves this place,” she says as we watch him crouch for a front-row seat to a pair of squabbling squirrels on a pine branch. “That’s obvious, at least.”

“Well, the owner is a big Dickens fan too. And it’s like the website says, ‘Cooper Farm: Famously providing family fun for over half a century!’ ” I quote.