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She walks past me with a sigh. “You think just because we’re engaged, I’m going to give you my number?”
My bark of laughter is swallowed by the falling snow, and I follow her inside, where we both kick off our shoes and brush the snow from our hair and shoulders.
Misty looks through the pane of glass in the front door. “It’s really coming down out there.” She wrinkles her nose. “I wish you could have seen it with the lights outside.”
Me too, but I just shrug. “Next year. When we’re married.”
Damn, that pretty eye roll. Then, “You ready to do this thing?”
Hell, yes, I am. “Lead the way, Mistletoe.”
There are a fuck-ton of decorations in totes in the basement. They aren’t that heavy, but I totally flex carrying them up. Not that Misty notices. She’s suddenly a woman on a mission, moving furniture around and clearing surfaces. Pointing out what decorations go where and only stopping when she gets to a special one to tell me the story behind it.
I could listen to her laughing and detailing exploits of her Christmases past all night. Longer.
When we’ve done everything but the tree, the place is transformed.
Fresh garlands with white lights wrap the banister, and stocking holders shaped like shiny wrapped presents sit on the mantel. Nesting bowls filled with candies from Falter’s Trees replace the magazines and mail on the coffee table, and an Elf on the Shelf is poised for some pole dancing on a lamp in the corner.
I stack the empty totes together, leaving the one with the ornaments, and return them to the basement. When I come back up, Misty’s standing at the top of the stairs with a worried look on her face.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” I ask, reaching for her on instinct.
“Stormy just texted and they aren’t coming tonight.”
My chin pulls back, and I check my own phone. One missed text. Two words:Sorry, man.
Shit.
I look up at Misty and push a smile I’m not feeling to my face. That’s it. They’re not coming. Which means I’m not waiting on Diesel and it’s time for me to go.
I’m not ready. Not ready to give up this thing between us or the magic of a holiday I haven’t let myself experience in years.
“You’re leaving?” she asks quietly.
“I’ll bring the tree in for you, but it looks like you’re going to be on your own with the ornaments.”
Arms crossed over her chest, she doesn’t look any happier about it than I am. Only unlike this morning, when she’d been beautifully pissed on my behalf, now, she just looks a little sad.
“Well, but what are you going to do?”
“First thing? Get your digits, Mistletoe.” I hand her the phone. “I want a picture of you and the fam in front of the tree tomorrow.”
Her thumbs move over the screen, and her phone lights up with the text she sent herself. She doesn’t look at me, and something in my chest tears open.
“And what are you going to send me a picture of?”
I think about Vegas. I could get an Uber to the airport. Catch the next flight and be there before midnight. I could, but I know I won’t.
“My apartment. Maybe I’ll get my Uber to stop at a tree stand. Pick up the last spindly Charlie Brown tree on Christmas Eve and bring it home.”
She nods, still not giving me her eyes. And I want them.
“I’ll make microwave popcorn and use one of those hotel sewing kits I’ve got in my bathroom drawer to string a garland.”
A laugh, but not what I’m craving.
Then, quietly, “You don’t need to go.”
