Джей Эшер - What Light

I blink. “Are you serious? You avoid the girls around here because you don’t want to deal with explaining your past to them. That’s pretty focused on the difficult.”

The frustration pours out of him. “That is not what I said. I told you I wasn’t with anyone long enough to find out if they were worth it. But you are worth it. I know that.”

My head swims in what he just said. “Really? You think we’re possible?”

His eyes are adamant. “Yes.” Soon they turn gentle and he gives me a delicate, sincere smile. “Sierra, I combed my hair for you.”

I look down and laugh, and then push my hair out of my face.

He rubs his thumb along my cheek. I raise my chin toward him and hold my breath.

“My sister gets here this weekend,” he says. There’s a nervousness in his voice. “I want you to meet her. And my mom. Will you?”

I look deep into his eyes to answer him. “Yes.” With that one word, I feel like I’m answering a dozen more questions that he no longer needs to ask.

When I get to the trailer, I collapse on my bed. I set the picture of Caleb and me with Santa on the table, gazing at it sideways while I rest my head on the ugly-sweater pillow.

Then I leap to my knees and hold our picture up to my frames from back home. First I show it to Elizabeth. In my best Elizabeth voice, I ask, “Why are you doing this? You’re there to sell trees and hang out with Heather.”

I answer, “I have been, but—”

I switch back to Elizabeth. “This can’t go anywhere, Sierra, no matter what he says about focusing on the possible.”

I squeeze my eyes shut. “I don’t know, you guys. Maybe it could.”

I move on to Rachel’s picture. The first thing she does is whistle and point out his dimple.

“I know,” I say. “Trust me, that does not make it any easier.”

“What’s the worst that can happen?” she says. “You get your heart broken. So? It sounds like that’s going to happen anyway.”

I drop back onto my bed, clutching Caleb’s picture to my chest. “I know.”

I go outside to see if I can help in the Bigtop. Things are slow, so I mix hot chocolate in my Easter egg mug and head back to the trailer for schoolwork. Passing our tallest Fraser firs, I see Andrew tugging a garden hose between them. After our blowup the other day, I decide to make nice for the sake of working together.

“Thanks for always checking their water,” I say. “They look good.”

Andrew completely ignores me. He twists the nozzle on the hose and starts misting the trees. So much for staying cordial.

In the trailer, I pull out my laptop and review a chapter write-up I threw together late last night. Checking my email, I see Monsieur Cappeau is upset I blew off our last conversation, so I reschedule it and then shut everything down.

Peeking through the curtains I watch Dad approach Andrew, motioning for him to pass him the hose. He demonstrates the way he wants the trees misted and then hands it back. Andrew nods and Dad smiles, patting him on the shoulder. Then he walks into our forest of trees. Instead of resuming misting, Andrew quickly looks over to the trailer.

I snap back, letting the curtain close.

I decide to make dinner for the family, slicing up vegetables from McGregor’s and cooking them together in a large pot of soup. While that simmers, I watch another flatbed loaded with trees pull up outside. Uncle Bruce hops down from the cab. While some of our workers swarm the truck and climb the ladder to the trees, Uncle Bruce jogs over to the trailer and opens the door.

“Wow, it smells great in here!” He pulls me into a bear hug. “Out there, it smells like tree sap and teenage boys.”

He excuses himself and ducks into the bathroom while I check on the soup. I sprinkle in a few spices from the cupboard and then stir it with a wooden spoon. Uncle Bruce returns to have a taste before heading back out to the trees. I lean against the counter and stare at the door as it closes behind him. These are the moments that make me look forward to doing this for the rest of my life. When my parents get too old, it will be up to me to decide the fate of our farm and whether we run any lots.

When the truck bed is empty, Dad stays outside to direct the workers, but Mom and Uncle Bruce come in and join me. They’re so thrilled with the soup, slurping it up like hungry wolves, they say nothing about me bailing on the heavy labor.

Ladling himself a second bowl, Uncle Bruce tells us about Aunt Penny wrapping their whole Christmas tree in lights without plugging them in first. “Who does that?” he says. When she finally turned them on, half of the lights didn’t work, so now they’ve got a tree half as bright as it could be.

After Uncle Bruce goes outside to take over for Dad, Mom heads into the tiny bedroom for a short nap before the evening rush. Dad comes in and I hold out a bowl of soup for him. He stands just inside the door, seemingly agitated, like he wants to talk to me about something. Instead, he shakes his head and walks to the bedroom.

The next afternoon, when things slow down, I return a call to Rachel.

“You are not going to believe what happened!” she says.

“Some actor saw your post about the winter formal and accepted?”

“Hey, they do that sometimes—it’s good press—so I’m still holding out hope,” she says. “But this is way better than that.”

“So spill!”

“The girl in A Christmas Carol , the one playing the Ghost of Christmas Past, she has mono! I mean, that’s not good. But I’m going to replace her, which is!”

I laugh. “At least you recognize mono isn’t good.”

Rachel laughs, too. “I know, I know, but it’s mono, not cancer. Anyway, I know it’s last minute, but Sunday night’s the only show that isn’t sold out.”

“As in… tomorrow?” I ask.

“I already looked it up, and you can hop a train at midnight and—”

“Midnight tonight?”

“You’ll get here in plenty of time,” she says.

I must have paused too long because Rachel asks if I’m still here.

“I’ll ask,” I say, “but I can’t promise.”

“No, of course,” she says, “but try. I want to see you. Elizabeth does, too. And you can stay at my house. I already asked my parents. And then you can give us the scoop on Caleb. You’ve been way too quiet on that front…”

“We had the talk about his sister,” I say. “I think he told me everything.”

“So I’m guessing he’s not a knife-wielding psychopath?”

“I haven’t said much to anyone because it still feels complicated,” I say. “I’m not sure how I feel, or even how I want to feel.”

“That’s confusing to hear,” Rachel says. “It must be really confusing to think.”

“Now that I know it’s not wrong to like him,” I say, “I obsess over whether that makes it right. I’m only here for a couple more weeks.”

“Hmm…” I can hear Rachel tapping the side of her phone. “Sounds like you don’t expect to forget him when you leave.”

“At this point, I don’t know if that’s possible.”

After we end the call, I find Mom in the Bigtop hanging up newly made wreaths. Over her work shirt she wears a dark green apron that says It’s Beginning to Smell a Lot like Christmas. Last year we gave that apron to Dad on Christmas Eve. We always get him something cheesy before going home, where the real presents are.

I help her fluff up some of the branches within the wreaths. Eventually I blurt out, “Can I take a train and see Rachel be the Ghost of Christmas Past on Sunday?”