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“What are you thinking about?” His question interrupts my thoughts. Thoughts I definitely don’t want him knowing I’m having.
“The tree,” I lie.
“Well, come on then.” Mason turns and holds out his arm, offering his elbow to me like we’re on some manor in Bridgerton, taking a formal stroll to the living room.
Iadoreit.
Tucking my hand into the crook of his elbow and curving it around his arm, I don’t even try to fight my grin. Oh, this isdefinitelydatey.
Too bad our walk to the tree is only like fifteen steps. Boo! John really should have sprung for a bigger loft. I hate having to drop Mason’s arm once we get to the living room. But I hardly have an excuse to keep holding onto him.
“Where did you even get this tree?” I ask, admiring the seven-foot behemoth. I’m guessing the size based on Mason’s height, and it stretches about six inches above his head. “When I looked, I only found stragglers—the dead and dying. Charlie Brown trees.”
Mason chuckles. “Got lucky, I guess.”
There is zero way Mason just got lucky. My guess? He went to at least three places to find this gem. Maybe he ventured out into the woods and cut it down himself. Now, there’s an image I like—Mason wielding an ax.
All I know is that it wasn’t random or luck.
“Well, I love it. Thank you.”
His cheeks flush lightly, and he dips his chin. “You’re welcome.”
“And thanks for not thinking I’m ridiculous for wanting to decorate a treeafterChristmas. I know most people probably wouldn’t get it—”
“I get it,” he says, and I know he does.
My throat gets tight as our eyes meet, and I can only nod. He knows that my dad was the one who insisted on keeping the tree up until after New Year’s. Mom thought it should go up on Thanksgiving weekend and down by December twenty-eighth. It was something my parents playfully fought about every year. After he died, Mom never mentioned taking it down earlier again.
It just seemed right to have a tree here at John’s too, even if only briefly, and it means more than I can say to have Mason understand this.
Thankfully, he hands me the first box of ornaments, offering the perfect distraction from the sudden wash of emotions.
“Oh—I almost forgot,” Mason says, reaching for the remote. And then—be still my heart—he turns onMean Girls, my favorite Christmas movie.
Sure, there are only afewholiday scenes, but they’re pivotal. Fresh-faced Lindsay Lohan singing “Jingle Bell Rock” a cappella? Amy Poehler as the cool mom doing their choreography in the aisle? Candy grams for Glenn Coco and none for Gretchen Wieners?
If people can callDie Harda Christmas movie, then I can claimMean Girls.
It’s the Christmas spirit, I tell you! Fight me on it.
Instantly, my mood is lightened. There’s still a rich depth of nostalgia mixed with joy flaming in my chest, but also an easy happiness—something Mason always gives me. Along with a whole kaleidoscope of butterflies. I actually looked up the term for a group of them—a murder of crows, a gaggle of geese, and a kaleidoscope of butterflies.
Mason definitely gives me a whole kaleidoscope that manages to accompany the sense of ease and peace I feel around him. The two feelings shouldn’t go together, but somehow, around him, they do.
“Is there a particular way you want to decorate?” he asks. “I wasn’t sure what you wanted, so I picked a few colors that suited you.”
The colors Mason thinks suit me are an icy blue, a bright pink, and pure white. He bought a variety of sizes in these colors, some with sparkles and some with simple patterns.
“They’re exactly what I would have chosen for myself,” I tell him. And it’s true. Mom is more of the classic style mixed with ugly pasta craft ornaments John and I made in preschool.
“Yeah?” Mason asks.
“Yeah,” I say with a smile. “But maybe we should start with lights?”
Mason goes still. “I … didn’t think about lights. How did I not think about lights?”
This last part he mutters to himself, rubbing a hand over his forehead in a way that almost looks painful.
