Page 102

It connects. Admittedly, not as confidently as mine did. But it connects.

James’s bright eyes look at me, clearly seeking a compliment. I’m trying not to laugh at his unspoken Did you see that? How about that?

“Great job, buddy,” I tease. “Now do it again.”

His swings get more confident over time, and before long, the power I knew he had catches up with him. It takes only another five or six minutes before his one swing matches two of mine (not something I’m gonna take personally; my view of working out is lifting the milk jug four or five times at random when I take it out of the fridge). We cheer with the sound of the final crack and the tree begins to tilt.

“Grab it!” I cry giddily, and he runs over to the top as it topples.

“What is that, another tradition? Can’t let the tree hit the ground?” he says, holding on to the top.

“As a matter of fact, yes. We honor the tree. We don’t let it hit the ground. Kinda like we honor the American flag. We don’t let it hit the ground. Just be glad we don’t do a five a.m. reveille.”

I lift the hefty trunk of the tree and his brows lift. “And we’re seriously supposed to walk it back now?”

“Well, when we permitted Earl to use the four-wheeler, he had just turned ninety, so . . .”

“We have no excuse.”

“No excuse,” I affirm.

“I’m not sure I like your family traditions anymore.”

“Welcome to my mindset the first eighteen years of my life. Now get moving.”

I make to take a step but he’s not budging. “Well, let me take the trunk.”

“Be my guest.”

He shuffles toward me. “Let me guess . . . We can’t put it down to trade places?”

“Correct.”

“Terrific.”

So we move together, shuffling and balancing the beautiful, massive twelve-foot tree as we go. The branches poke out in all directions at us. We’re swallowed, the both of us, in pine.

Finally, I feel his coat as we meet in the middle.

Hoisting the tree over one shoulder, he takes one hand and swipes at the branches. His eyes twinkle as he finds me. It’s just the two of us, hidden inside a tree. Humorously. Sweetly.

“Are you having fun yet?” I say, my voice quieter.

“The most fun I’ve had in years,” he says with conviction. Then after a pause he adds, as though inspiration has hit him, “Hey, Chloe?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re well acquainted with tree culture. Have you ever . . . been kissed in a tree?”

My cheeks warm. I can’t help a grin slipping up my face.

“You know, I can’t say that I have.”

“Would you . . . be opposed to the new experience?”

“I’m thinking about it, and . . . I can’t say I would be.”

His eyes shine. And then he leans in, careful, like he’s checking to make sure I won’t bolt.