In a Holidaze

“I don’t think that’s silly,” he says. “I used to feel so bad for you.”

I’m a little startled by the track change. “For me?” He nods. “Why?”

Andrew looks at me like this should be obvious.

“No, seriously,” I say. “Why?”

“Because for a few years I saw how much you struggled with your parents being together at the cabin, but it was obvious they weren’t together. You were all here physically, but there were times you looked so . . . sad,” he says. “And then the year they announced their divorce, it was like you could breathe again.”

I stare at him, stunned. He saw all that in me?

“I’m sorry,” he says quickly, “I’m speaking out my ass, I don’t—”

“Don’t,” I cut in. “Don’t apologize. I’m just surprised, I guess. That you saw that.”

“I’ve known you your whole life, Mae. How could I not?” He grins at me again. “And here you are this year, impulsive and taking up space and flipping all expectations. You’re all take-charge and bossy.”

“I’m just seeing things with fresh eyes, I guess. It’s time to grow up.”

Andrew bats at some fluffy snow on a branch. “Coming into this holiday like a wrecking ball.”

A rebellious streak races through me. “It’s more like, I see my life stretching out ahead of me and figure, why not go for what I want?”

“Jam and applesauce on your blintzes,” he jokes. “Cocktails on the porch. Snowball fights.”

The word rockets from me: “You.”

His smile freezes, and then slowly slips away. “Me?” An awkward laugh escapes. “Well, you’ve got me.” He grins and spreads his arms wide, gesturing around us to the trees and snow, the twinkling lights overhead.

“It’s more than wanting your company at the tree farm, and I think you know it.” My heart is racing. “But we can pretend that’s what I meant, so it doesn’t get weird.”

Andrew stares at me, and I’m both proud and horrified to realize I’ve made him speechless. “You mean . . . like . . . ?” His brows rise meaningfully.

Adrenaline spikes my blood. “Yeah. Like that.”

“I sort of assumed you and Theo—”

“No.”

“But he—”

“He may have, but I haven’t.” Guilt flashes coolly through me, and I clarify, “I’ve never felt that way about him, I mean.”

“Oh.” Even in the low light, I can tell he’s blushing hotly. Have I ruined what was burbling between us? Maybe. But all of this is instructive, I realize. At least the next time I reboot, I’ll know what not to say.

“Come on.” I tug on his sleeve. “Let’s find a tree.”

We move forward, but the silence hangs heavily. The crunch of snow between our boots, the audible gulp of Andrew swallowing a sip of cider. I scrape around in my brain for a way to change the subject, but I can’t find anything.

Finally he manages, “Do you, um, have any goals for the New Year?”

God, this is painful. And all of the answers that immediately pop to mind are things I can’t say—I’d like to figure out why I keep time traveling—or most likely impossible: I’d like to kiss you on the mouth. I’d like to quit my job . . .

I stop in the path. “Yeah. I do, actually.”

On an impulse that feels like a damn revelation, I pull out my phone and start a new email to my boss.

Neda, please consider this my 30-day notice. I appreciate all of the opportunities you’ve given me, but I am ready to explore new adventures. Happy to talk more after the holidays.

All my best, Maelyn

Before I can question myself, I hit send. Deep breath in, and another one out. Neda appreciates frank and straight-to-the-point. It’s fine.

Oh my God. I really did that. Relief falls over me like a weighted blanket. “Wow, that felt good.”

“What’s that?” Andrew asks.

I grin over at him. “I quit my job.”

“You—? Just now?” His eyebrows disappear beneath his wild curls. “Wow. Okay. You are figuring things out, aren’t you?”

“I’m trying.” I close my eyes and take another long, slow breath. “It was time. I hope it changes things.”

“How could it not? That’s a huge decision.”

I look up at him. “It’s just hard to know which choice is right until it’s all over, I guess.”

“Isn’t that the truth?” Andrew stops in front of another tree, spreading his arms out like he might hug it. “This one.”

But this tree isn’t right, either. My biggest fear in the car before the accident was the prospect of things changing. But isn’t that what I wanted when I threw that wish out to the universe? For everything to change?

“I don’t like any of these,” I admit.

“These are literally perfect trees,” Andrew says.

“I think that’s why.”

Change can be good.

I push through a row toward the back, where they hide the trees that are flat on one side, sparse in obvious places. Too short, too skinny, too crooked.