Джей Эшер: What Light

When I was younger, Heather’s family brought me with them to the parade a few times, and I will admit it was sentimental fun. Most holiday parades I see now are on TV, coming out of New York or L.A. They don’t often include entries like the Society of Pug Owners, or Friends of the Library, or tractors that blast country music Christmas carols as they roll down the streets. Although I can picture them doing that at the hometown parade back in Oregon.

I hold the last poster against a wooden light pole at the entrance to our lot, punching a staple into each of the top corners. Running my hand to the bottom of the poster, I hear Andrew’s voice behind me.

“Need any help?”

My shoulders tense. “I’ve got it.”

I punch two more staples into the bottom corners. I then step back and pretend to study my work long enough for Andrew to move on. When I turn around, I see that he wasn’t talking to me, but to a gorgeous guy around our age a couple of inches taller than Andrew. The guy holds a tree upright with one hand and wipes his dark hair out of his eyes with the other.

“Thanks, but I’m fine,” he says, and Andrew walks away.

The guy looks at me and smiles, a beautiful dimple digging into his left cheek. I can feel my face instantly flush, so I lower my gaze to the dirt. My stomach flutters, and I take a deep breath and remind myself that a cute smile means absolutely nothing about the person.

“Do you work here?” His voice is soft, reminding me of the old crooner songs my grandparents played during the holidays.

I look up, willing myself to act professional. “Did you find everything you need?”

His smile remains, along with that dimple. I brush some hair behind my ears and force myself not to look away. I have to hold myself back from taking a step closer.

“I did,” he says. “Thank you.”

The way he looks at me—almost studying me—makes me flustered. I clear my throat and look away, but when I look back, he’s already walking off, the tree hoisted onto his shoulder like it weighs almost nothing.

“That’s a nice shade of red, Sierra.”

Standing beside the light pole, Andrew shakes his head at me. I want to respond with something sarcastic, but my tongue hasn’t untied yet.

“Did you know dimples are actually a deformity?” he continues. “It means he has a muscle in his face that grew too short. It’s kind of gross if you think about it.”

I put my weight on one foot and give Andrew my best Are we done here yet? look. This maybe comes across as meaner than I’d like to be, but an anvil clearly needs to be dropped on his head if he thinks this kind of jealousy is the way to my heart.

I take the staple gun back to the counter and wait. Maybe the guy with the dimple will return for some tinsel or one of our watering cans with an extra-long spout. Or maybe he needs lights or mistletoe. But then I feel dumb. I told Heather all the reasons I don’t want to get involved with anyone while I’m here—good reasons—and those reasons have not changed in the last ten minutes. I’m here for a month. One month! I do not have time, nor the heart, to get involved.

Still, the idea has now taken hold. Maybe I wouldn’t mind a little expiration dating. Maybe I wouldn’t be so fussy, as my friends like to say, about imperfections if I knew I wouldn’t—I couldn’t—be with him for more than a few weeks. If he happens to be hot with an adorable dimple, well then, good for him! And me.

I send a text to Heather that afternoon: What exactly would a holiday love affair entail?

The sun has barely risen, but I have two texts waiting for me when I wake up.

The first is from Rachel, complaining about the amount of work it takes to plan a winter formal when sane people are either cramming for finals or holiday shopping. If I were there, I know she would easily convince me to help, but there’s not much I can do from nine hundred miles away. Thankfully, balancing my work on the lot with schoolwork isn’t too difficult. My teachers send class notes and visuals, and I do the assignments when things slow down and I can hop online. Talking to Monsieur Cappeau once a week won’t be the most fun thing in the world, but at least I won’t fall out of practice for the oral part of my French grade.

Sitting on my bed, I read the second text from Heather: Please say you’re serious about a holiday boyfriend. Devon spent the whole night talking about his fantasy football team. Save me! I’m about to make him need a fantasy girlfriend.

I stand up, texting: A really cute guy bought a tree yesterday.

As I’m on my way to take a shower she responds: Details!

Before I can untie the knot on my drawstring pajama bottoms, she texts again: Never mind! Tell me when I bring lunch.

After the shower, I put on a gray sweatshirt and jeans. I pull my hair into a high ponytail, tug out a few strands so they’re loose around my face, add a bit of makeup, and then step out into the cool morning. In the Bigtop, Mom stands behind the counter putting change in the register. When she sees me, she points at my still-steaming Easter egg mug on the counter, with a candy cane already sticking out.

“Have you been up long?” I ask.

She blows gently across the surface of her own drink. “Not everyone can sleep through those texts pinging on your phone.”

“Oh. Sorry about that.”

Dad walks over and kisses us both on the cheek. “Morning.”

“Sierra and I were talking about her text messages,” Mom says. “I suppose she doesn’t need her beauty sleep, but—”

Dad gives her a kiss on the lips. “You don’t need it either, honey.”

Mom laughs. “Who said I was talking about me?”

Dad scratches the graying stubble along his jaw. “We did agree it’s important for her to stay connected to her friends back home.”

I decide not to tell them one of the texts was from Heather.

“That’s true,” Mom says, and then shoots me a look. “But maybe ask your life back home to sleep in occasionally.”

I imagine Rachel and Elizabeth right now, probably on the phone planning the rest of this long Thanksgiving weekend.

“Since you brought up life back home,” I say, “I think it’s time you told me whether or not we’re coming back next year.”

Mom blinks and rears back her head. She looks at Dad.

Dad takes a long drink from his thermos. “Eavesdropping on our conversations?”

I twist a loose strand of hair. “I wasn’t eavesdropping, I overheard your conversations,” I clarify. “So how worried should I be?”

Dad takes another sip before answering. “There’s no reason to worry about the farm,” he says. “People will always want Christmas trees, even if they buy them at a superstore. We just may not be selling them ourselves.”

Mom touches my arm, an uneasy look on her face. “We will do everything we can to keep the lot open.”

“It’s not only me I’m concerned about,” I say. “Of course I want it to stay open for personal reasons, but this place has been here since Grandpa opened it. It’s where the two of you met. It’s your life.”

Dad nods slowly and ultimately shrugs. “The farm is our life, really. I guess with all the early mornings and late nights back home, I’ve always seen this as the prize. Watching people get excited about finding the right trees. It’ll be hard to let that go.”

I admire so much that they’ve never let this become just a business.

“All that will still be happening with our trees,” Dad says, “somewhere, but…”

But someone else will get to watch it happen.

Mom drops her hand from my arm and we both look at Dad. This would be the hardest for him.