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Rockwell’s grin climbs faster than my feet, and his pearly whites are as bright as the snow surrounding us, drawing me in. “I would settle for a kiss under a pine tree.”
I straighten. “I’m not some grocery store where you can order an off-brand kiss at will. You’ll have to wait for the real deal.”
“Is that a definite no?”
I glare at him because it’s far more appropriate than begging. Which I will not do. Yes, I want Rockwell to kiss me, but if he does, I want it to mean something. I want the commitment I’m not sure he’s willing to give. I don’t think either of us will be checking off our Christmas list kiss otherwise. I’m already falling hard, and I don’t want to get any more confused.
Rockwell’s teasing expression settles into one of sincerity. “I’m glad you’re making me work for it. It’s how it should be.”
I raise my brows. “An appropriate answer. I approve.”
He smiles, his lips pressed together. “I’ve missed you, Brie. I’m not sure I knew how much until I came back.”
“I wish you wouldn’t have cut me off.” I can’t believe I blurted those words, but once it’s out, I’m glad. I needed to say it.
“You know why I did it though, right? Even if you hate me for it.”
We’d started this conversation before but not delved very deep. “I think so?” The question in my voice is intentional. I’ve pieced several parts together in my mind, but it’s not the full picture.
“I was trying to protect you, Brie. I didn’t want to be like my dad and sister and hurt people.”
“Rocky . . .”
“I’m starting to believe what you said about seasons, and not being my dad, but I needed time to prove to myself I wasn’t him.”
I wish he could see himself the way I do. He’s the guy who ignored the cheerleaders and the popular girls who flirted with him and stayed loyal to me. While we were together, he was transparent about where he was and what he was doing. “You were never that kind of person.”
“But I did leave you.”
The words hit me low in the gut, and I want to bend over, reliving the pain.
“I’m sorry, Brie. I’m so sorry.”
“It was devastating,” I look at our feet. “But we weren’t married. You didn’t cheat on me. You didn’t even string me along. You broke up with me. It hurt a lot, but breaking up with someone isn’t a crime.”
He shakes his head. “I lost your faith, and to me that is a crime.”
I don’t respond right away. I can’t deny what he says isn’t true. Because of him, I haven’t actively searched or put myself out there to find someone to date. I wanted a relationship to simply happen to me, as a form of protecting myself. I couldn’t invest in something that could fail. Not again, anyway. I see now I should have put in more effort. My high standards weren’t the problem as much as my inability to let someone prove their worth.
I’m grateful for that silly notebook. Because of a few heartfelt wishes, I didn’t let my fears and insecurities keep me from chasing an opportunity with Rockwell. I can’t keep hiding behind what-ifs, but not knowing the end is torture. “I admit, I’m a little scared about whatever is happening between us right now.” I swallow. I didn’t want to be the first one to talk about it. I’m terrified of taking a step forward and rocking whatever fragile beginning we’re treading into.
Rockwell nods and quietly adds. “You’re not the only one.” He tightens his grip on my hand, sending a wave of warmth up my arm.
I wrap my other hand around his forearm, wanting to be closer.
A whisper of his earlier smile returns. “Is this a sign of your faith returning?”
My own lips pull into a smile. “For the record, it never left completely, but I’d say it’s a definite step in the right direction.”
I drop my cookies at the bake sale tent, and Rockwell and I meet Cathy. With more energy than a person twice my age should have, she jumps right into her explanation of how the Snowball Slam works.
“It’s simple,” Cathy explains, the antlers on her festive reindeer headband nearly taking out Rockwell’s eye as she turns to pick up a snowball launcher. “Use these launchers to throw the Styrofoam balls into the basketball hoop. Each ticket buys ten shots. Winners are entered to win an official NBA-size basketball hoop.”
I nudge him. “The kids only care about getting more balls in the hoop than their friends.” If you ask my first graders, they know exactly who made the most baskets last year but couldn’t tell you who actually won the ultimate prize. I wish Rockwell luck and leave him with Cathy, finding my way to the canopy with the bake sale sign. I tell myself that it’s the vast amount of chocolate on the table that has me more excited about tonight’s Wassail Night than previous years.
The event is soon underway, and from my privileged seat in front of the heater at the bake sale booth, I see plenty of rosy cheeks. People stream by me on their way to and from the orchard walk, passing between the two event barns and the row of game and vendor stalls lined up outside. Beneath the multitude of string lights and vintage-style streetlamps, an air of joy pervades. It’s by far the best night of the year in Bearwood.
I cut a few deals with my nieces and nephews and send hot chocolate to my parents who are helping with the Nativity set. I imagine Rockwell’s mom is there too since, even though she can’t sew as well as she used to, she always assists with the wardrobe. The first hour passes quickly, and I find myself anticipating Rockwell’s Snowball Slam ending. I want to walk through the orchard with him before the Nativity starts. I have several students and past students performing, and I want to give them all my attention.
