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“What’s that?” I say, pointing to the corner of his lip as he zips up a forest-green puffer. “Is that . . . a smile?”

“I look like a tree.”

“A handsome tree,” I reply, then bite my tongue. I brush off the moment. “A very tall, sturdy, can-make-it-through-any-storm tree. A pine tree.”

He frowns at me.

“And by that I mean a redwood. A giant, sturdy redwood that laughs in the face of adversity and the troubles of all the puny pines around it.”

James puts his hands in each of the pockets. “A redwood,” he murmurs, not hating it. It’s obvious James is looking at a new side of himself.

Twenty minutes later, he walks out with two big bags that look like they’ve been stuffed with pillows, courtesy of the puffy coat and pair of ski pants he purchased. He holds open the door for me, and I zip up my own coat as I step onto the sidewalk. The way my nose goes numb immediately should be foreboding, given we signed up for an outdoor experience that will start in just a few short hours. Still, I’m smiling.

“You know, it’s funny. I hate shopping,” James says.

I tip my head. “I believe your shopping bags disagree with you.”

“I can’t even think of the last time I went inside a store. I don’t even go to grocery stores at home. I just have everything delivered. It’s an efficient use of time.”

“Ah. The grandmothers of our generation scorn people like you.”

“But this has been . . .” He looks at the people milling around the store beyond the front window displays. “Kind of nice. Human connection.”

“Well, sure. Like how we learned all about that lady’s turkey saga.”

“I could’ve done with that story in about half the time.”

“It is effective in forcing you to learn everything you both did and didn’t want to know about your neighbors,” I say. “Indeed. But you know, I’m happy for you. Not many men can admit the merits of retail.”

“I didn’t say I like shopping,” he corrects. “But it was . . . tolerable. Fun, even.” He clears his throat. “With you.”

The Christmas tree in the center of town lights up behind him at this exact moment. And unless I’m mistaken (which I could be), his eyes hold a twinkle that outshines the tree.

My heart stops beating. “Oh.”

We stand there on the crowded sidewalk just outside the door of Mountain Outpost, the only two people unmoved in a world of movement. Vehicles crawl forward on the crunchy snow road, their drivers looking for parking. Children in mittens cling to the gloved hands of parents as they navigate the street loaded down with presents wrapped in metallic red and green. I hear bells ding and feel the press of shopping bags against my backside as people pass by. I take a tiny step forward out of the way—and I don’t hate that it’s also a tiny step closer to James.

“Hey, so . . . I got you something,” James says.

“Me?” I laugh. “When?”

“Back there. You were working out the issue of the meat thermometer with the turkey lady.”

He digs a hand into one of the bags, and when that doesn’t work, he stops and sets the bags down. What he pulls out makes me laugh.

“It’s not a chaotically festive sweater, but I think it holds a certain charm.”

The hat he pulls out of the bag is a beautiful, thickly hand-knit piece of red and green. Fat white snowflakes are sewn across the middle. A pom-pom sticks out the top.

He holds it tentatively in his hands, hesitates, then gently puts it on my head.

He smiles. “There.”

My hands brush the fabric. I’m not sure I have words to say other than thank you.

He raises a finger. “Oh. And wait for it . . .”

He pulls out a second hat, this one gray with the knitting of a red truck hauling a green tree in the middle. He puts it on his head, looking massively proud of himself. “Ta-da. Festive.”