Page 89 of Taking Turns

I’m the one who stares out the window this time. I’m the one pondering life as she waits for my answer. “Because if I do, then what we have here—in this apartment, in this Club, in this arrangement—will definitely be over for me. If I ever find her again, Chella, I’m leaving for good. She’s the love of my life and maybe she doesn’t feel the same way, but I won’t know unless I try.”

“So go look for her now.”

I shake my head no. “She left for a reason and I won’t go searching until I figure that out.”

“Maybe she’s just playing hard to get? Maybe she wants you to chase her to prove your love?” Chella is grabbing on to my upper arm now, holding me tight. When she looks up at me, she smiles. “Girls have been known to do stupid shit like that.”

I grin back, because she’s right. Fucking girls. But that’s not what I think. “I think Smith said something to her.”

Chella sits up straight, still holding my arm. “Like what?”

“I don’t know.” I shrug. “But that same night I found you in her bed, he admitted he was tired of her. Called her boring. Was ready for it to end.”

“So you think… he, like, paid her off, or something?”

“Let’s just say, when it comes to Smith Baldwin, it wouldn’t surprise me. And,” I add, “it wouldn’t be the first time, either.”

We think about that for a while. Just sitting in silence as the snow starts coming down in large flakes that want to stick to everything. And when I speak again, there’s a full-on storm going on outside. “What are you doing for Christmas? It falls on a Sunday this year so you’ll be alone.”

“My dad was supposed to come but…”

“Let me guess, he’s working?”

“How’d you know?” she asks in a sad whisper.

“I grew up with one of those fathers too. He’s dead now, so I don’t let myself think about all the fucked-up holidays in my past. But I get it.”

She nods, leaning back into my chest for comfort. “He’s made me a promise to come home from DC every Christmas since my mom died three years ago. But he never does. He never comes home.”

“Fuck him,” I say.

“Yeah,” Chella whispers. “Fuck him, I guess.”

“Hey,” I say. “You wanna go get a Christmas tree today?”

“For here?” Chella asks, sitting up straight again.

“No, for your other house. Yes, of course, here.”

She starts laughing and we let the depressing mood lift. “I haven’t had a Christmas tree in… Hell, I don’t even remember. I was very little.”

“You don’t celebrate Christmas?” I ask, a little stunned. “But your dad is—”

“Yeah. One of those fundamentalist Christians in Congress. I know. It’s a weird, long, complicated story.”

“Well, we’ve had enough of that bullshit for one day. Fuck him twice. We’re getting a tree. We’re gonna get a huge one, too. These ceilings are twelve feet high, that means we can get one that’s at least fifteen.”

She laughs again. And I realize… I like her laugh. “I think there’s a lot selling them a few blocks down.”

“Lot? Jesus Christ, woman. You don’t get a Christmas tree from a lot. You go into the goddamned mountains and cut that fucker down with your bare hands. Or an axe,” I amend.

“That’s not legal!” she squeals.

“The fuck it’s not,” I say. “I get a permit every year. Rochelle and I did it three times. It was always so much fun. So it’s settled. You’re getting the biggest Christmas tree I can strap to my Suburban. Ceiling height be damned.”

Chapter Twenty-Three - Chella

It’s the most perfect day ever. And since we spend five hours fighting snow to get to the forest where Quin has a valid permit, then another forty-five minutes hiking to find the perfect Christmas tree, and then we hike back to the Suburban—which takes twice as long because we’re hauling the tree behind us using ropes and we are not sled dogs—and tie it to the roof, we’re exhausted.