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No, I won’t think about that now.
“Your girl was perfect,” the director yells to him over the PA. “Ari, honey, you are perfect.”
Ari laughs, smacking Wes’ wet chest as he whispers something in her ear.
“Always,” Wes yells at the director, as he wraps a huge towel around Ari. I am sorry, but this is better than any movie they might be shooting right now. Wes is still wet, fully clothed and shivering, but he rubs her arms in the towel, letting his own robe fall carelessly to the ground behind him. “Hands off my girl, Tim.”
Everyone laughs, as if it’s a great joke that anyone ever should think of wanting his girl.
That’s it. I turn away.
“Hey, you ok?” Marco asks me, but I can’t even look at him right now.
“Yeah,” I say, gesturing towards the set on the lake. “Just, you know… All these feelings. Barf.”
He laughs, but it sounds hollow. As if he saw it too. As if he’s affected too by their relationship. That thing between them. No, that’s not possible. Boys don’t notice those kinds of things.
“Want to see something cool?” he asks.
“I seriously doubt that there is anything cooler than this on the planet,” I reply, “but, sure, give it a try.”
He comes to stand behind me, so close that his chest is pressed against my back. My breath hitches at his proximity. He brings his arms around me, and lifts his hands up to my face, and I think he will do that thing little kids do when they cover your eyes to show you a surprise, but he does something completely different.
He makes a circle with his fingers, cupping both hands, and brings the circle close to my eyes, so that I can only see through the tunnel of his hands. And this is what I see:
Winter. Winter in Vermont, just like I asked.
His hands somehow manage to isolate the fake-snow part of the movie set in my vision, and I blink, looking through his fingers at the gently drifting snowflakes. We stand like that for a few minutes, perfectly still. I pretend I can feel the snow land on my skin as well; I pretend it’s much colder than it is; I pretend that the smell of burnt leaves is the smell of roasted chestnuts.
“Does this count as Christmas in Vermont?” Marco’s voice says huskily in my ear.
I’m lost in the daydream and his voice jerks me abruptly back to reality. I nod, unable to tear my eyes from the scene of the snowy lake.
“Because if it’s not enough,” he goes on, his soft voice sending shivers down my body, “I have found about a place close to here that sells Christmas stuff all year long.”
I turn around abruptly to look him in the eye. He’s messing with me, isn’t he?
He raises an eyebrow, his arms still around me, although I am no longer looking at the snow. “Oh yes,” he says, “it’s real. And it’s not the only place that does it. Apparently...”
But I don’t let him finish.
“Yes yes yes yes yes,” I say, until he looks down, laughing, and turns on his heel to head for the bike.
It takes a few hours to drive to the perpetual Christmas store, but I don’t mind. We take a country road that’s coated in yellow and orange leaves, and the last of the sunlight hits us in the cheeks, slanting as the sun sets. I close my eyes and enjoy it, barely resisting the urge to let go of Marco’s waist and lean back as if I’m in a movie.
It’s important to remember, I’m not.
The image of the exploded car and the driver’s broken body flashes before me, and I shudder, pressing closer to Marco. He senses me doing it, and grabs my joined hands with one of his. We drive like that the rest of the way, safety be damned.
The Christmas shop is tacky, overloaded with Christmas things, and absolutely glorious. My eyes hurt from looking at the sea of red decorations, the Santas, the music boxes, the trees, the elves… The good kind of hurting. Christmas music is playing non-stop, which I would maybe find annoying if it was actually December (the truth: I don’t think I would) but right now, it almost makes me cry.
We spend a literal hour inside. The sky goes twilight blue outside the windows, and the shop’s tent lights up with fairy-lights. And then Marco notices me crying, and I swear if he makes a comment on how lame it is, I’ll—
“What next?” he asks simply. “Camping?” I am so grateful that he doesn’t comment on my tears, I could hug him. But I don’t. Of course, I don’t. Why would I?
“Camping!” I reply with fake enthusiasm.
He chuckles. “Tell me how you really feel.”
