Джей Эшер - What Light

I like Caleb. I like him even more every time I see him. And this can only lead to disaster. I’m leaving at the end of the month, he’s staying, and the weight of everything not said between us is growing too heavy to carry much longer.

Back at the lot, Caleb puts the truck in park but keeps the engine running. “Just so you know, I am very aware of how mean they were about getting a free tree. I have to believe, though, that everyone is allowed a bad day.”

The lights surrounding the lot bring shadows into Caleb’s truck. He looks at me, his features half hidden, but his eyes catch the light and beg to be understood.

“I agree,” I say.

It’s the busiest day at the lot so far. I barely have time to go to the bathroom, let alone eat lunch. So I pick at a bowl of mac and cheese at the counter in the rare moments between ringing up customers. Monsieur Cappeau sent an email this morning asking me to call him over the next day or so pour pratiquer , but that’s way down on my need-to-do list.

Today’s tree delivery came early again, not only before we opened but before any of the workers even arrived. Dad called a few of the more dependable ballplayers to come in early, so at least there were a handful of us to tiredly unload the shipment.

As exhausted as I am from unloading so many trees before breakfast, I’m grateful for the extra business. It feels like things may be picking up, and keeping the lot open another year could be a possibility.

I stand beside Mom at the register and point toward Mr. and Mrs. Ramsay outside. I attempt some tree lot commentary, like Caleb and his friends at the parade.

“Folks, it looks like the Ramsays are arguing over whether or not to pay extra for this stunning white pine,” I say.

Mom looks at me as if questioning my sanity, but I continue.

“We’ve seen this before,” I say, “and I don’t think I’m spoiling it to tell you Mrs. Ramsay will get her way. She’s never been a fan of the blue spruce, no matter what Mr. Ramsay says.”

Mom laughs, motioning for me to keep my voice down.

“A decision looks imminent!” I say.

Now we’re both glued to the scene playing out within our trees.

“Mrs. Ramsay is flapping her arms,” I say, “calling for her husband to just make up his mind if he wants to bring home anything at all. Mr. Ramsay compares the needles on both trees. What’s it going to be, folks? What’s it going to be? And… it’s… the… white pine!”

Mom and I throw our hands in the air and then I give her a high five.

“Mrs. Ramsay wins again,” I say.

The couple enters the Bigtop and Mom, biting her cheeks, ducks out. When Mr. Ramsay sets the final twenty-dollar bill on the counter, Mrs. Ramsay and I exchange knowing smiles. I hate to see anyone leave even slightly discouraged, so I tell Mr. Ramsay they made a great choice. White pines hold their needles better than some trees. They won’t need to vacuum them up before their grandkids arrive.

Before he can put away his wallet, Mrs. Ramsay takes it from him and slides me a ten-dollar tip for my help. They both leave happy, although she good-naturedly swats him and tells him he’s too cheap for his own good.

I stare at the ten-dollar bill, a hazy idea taking shape. I rarely receive tips since most people tip the guys who load their trees.

I send a text to Heather: Can we do some cookie making at your house tonight?Our trailer is a good home away from home, but it’s not built for a baking frenzy.

Heather texts back right away: Of course!

I immediately text Caleb: If you do a delivery tomorrow, I want to go. I’ll even have something to contribute besides my beguiling personality. I bet you never used that in a sentence!

A few minutes later, Caleb responds: I have not. And yes you may.

I tuck my phone away, smiling to myself. For the rest of the afternoon and evening the anticipation of spending more time with Caleb keeps me going. But as I count out the register at closing, I’m aware that this time needs to be about more than trees and cookies. If he makes me feel this happy now, and I can easily see things growing more intense, I need to know what happened with his sister. He did admit something happened, but knowing all that I do about him and all that I’ve seen, I can’t imagine it’s as bad as what some people believe.

At least, I hope it’s not.

Time drags at half-speed the next day. Heather and I were up late talking and baking Christmas cookies at her house. Devon stopped by in time to add frosting and sprinkles and help us sample about a dozen of them. With firsthand experience now, I agree that his stories are mind-numbing. His skills at cookie design almost made up for it, though.

I finish showing a customer how to price our trees based on the colored ribbons tied to them. Once he gets it and moves on, I hold on to one of the trees and close my heavy eyes for a moment. Upon opening them, I see Caleb’s truck pull in and feel suddenly fully awake.

Dad notices the truck, too. When I head to the Bigtop, he meets me at the register, a few tree needles stuck to his hair.

“Still spending time with this boy?” he asks. The tone is embarrassingly obvious.

I flick a few needles from his shoulder. “The boy’s name is Caleb,” I say, “and he doesn’t work here, so you can’t scare him out of talking to me. Plus, you have to admit, he is our best customer.”

“Sierra…” He doesn’t finish, but I want him to know that I’m not blind to our circumstance.

“We’re only here a few more weeks. I know. You don’t need to say it.”

“I just don’t want you getting your hopes up,” he says. “Or his, for that matter. Remember, we don’t even know if we’re coming back next year.”

I swallow past the lump in my throat. “Maybe it doesn’t make sense,” I say. “And I’m fully aware that I’m not usually like this, but… I like him.”

The way he winces, anyone watching would think I told him I was pregnant. Dad shakes his head. “Sierra, be—”

“Careful? Is that the cliché you’re looking for?”

He looks away. The unspoken irony is that he and Mom met this exact way. On this lot.

I brush another needle from his hair and kiss him on the cheek. “I hope you think I usually am.”

Caleb approaches the counter and sets down a tag from his next tree. “Tonight’s family is getting a beauty,” he says. “I noticed it the last time I was here.”

Dad smiles at him and politely claps him on the shoulder and then walks away without muttering a word.

“That means you’re winning him over,” I explain. I grab a sleigh-shaped cookie tin from below the register and Caleb raises his eyebrows. “Stop salivating. These are staying wherever we take the tree.”

“Wait, you made those for them?” I swear, it’s like his smile lights up the entire Bigtop.

After we deliver the tree and cookies to tonight’s family, Caleb asks if I would like to taste the best pancake in town. I agree, and he drives us to a twenty-four-hour diner that was probably last remodeled in the mid-1970s. A long stretch of windows lit by orange-hued lights frame a dozen booths. There are only two people seated inside, at opposite ends of the diner.

“Do we need to get tetanus shots to eat here?” I ask.

“This is the only place in town you can get a pancake as big as your head,” he says. “And do not tell me that hasn’t been a dream of yours.”

Inside the diner, a handwritten sign duct-taped to the register says Please seat yourself . I follow Caleb to a window booth, walking beneath red Christmas ornaments hung by fishing line to the ceiling tiles. We slide into a booth whose green vinyl covering has seen better days, but more than likely not in this century. After we each order the “world famous” pancake I fold my hands on the table and look at him. He thumbs the top of a large syrup pourer beside the napkins, sliding the lid open and shut.