Page 131 of How My Neighbour Stole Christmas
“People deal with grief in their own way. If you’re really that uncomfortable, I don’t have to help, but I’d love to hang out, so if you want to come over to Aunt Cindy’s, we can hang out there.”
The option is tempting. To not give her a view of the life I’ve been living for ten years, to just fall in the comfort of continuing to hide.
But that’s not what I want to do.
I want more.
I can feel it deep within me. This change. The certainty I have surrounding me, telling me that I’m ready. That I can do this, and I don’t want to lose that courage.
So I clear my throat. “I’d actually like it if you came over.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive,” I reply.
“Okay.” She smiles up at me, her expression like a warm summer’s day, pulling me into a tight embrace. “Do you want me to help you with the tree first?”
“Think you can manage?” I ask. “I watched you trying to stretch sugar and saw what an embarrassment that was.”
She playfully pokes me. “I can handle a tree.”
“We shall see.” Before I move away, I pull her into a hug. Her arms wrap around me tightly, and I love the feel of it. I love the contact with another human. I can’t remember the last time I actually hugged someone like this.
Probably when my parents were still alive.
“You okay?” she asks as she looks up at me, her chin resting on my chest.
“Yeah,” I answer. “I am.”
“Okay.” She squeezes me one more time and then moves to the back of my truck. She takes in the tree, feeling the needles on the branches. “This is so soft.”
“It’s the Evergreen Farm way,” I say as I lower the tailgate. “Full, lush pines with soft needles. They’ve perfected the Christmas tree, which is why people come from many miles away to grab a tree from them.”
“I can see why,” she says as I tug on the trunk. “I’m surprised you didn’t wrap it up. Weren’t you afraid you were going to lose needles?”
I shake my head. “Short drive, and we tend to not wrap trees up when we can avoid it. The Maxheimers are all about sustainability and the netting has been found to be dumped in the ocean. Max went on a rampage one day about it, tearing through the farm and telling every single person, including his parents and siblings, that there would be no more netting usage. Then he flashed a picture of a seal being strangled by netting and that was that.”
“Oh God, that’s sad.”
“It was. So now when people buy their tickets to come to the farm, there’s an email sent with a barcode for their tickets, and then a large warning in red that says ‘If you plan on buying a tree, bring old sheets or blankets and we’ll properly wrap your tree up for you.’”
“That’s a good idea, actually.”
“Max was proud of it for sure.” I tug on the tree until it slides out of the bed of my truck and stand it up by its trunk.
“Wow, that’s pretty tall,” she says, staring up at it. “You don’t get a Christmas tree for ten years and then you just…go for the biggest one.”
“This wasn’t the biggest one,” I say. “But it’s up there.”
“Daring,” she says with a smirk. “Now, how do you want to do this?”
I could really handle the tree on my own, but knowing she wants to help, I tip the tree down so it’s on its side and say, “You can take the top, I’ll grab the base. Let’s bring it up on the porch and then leave it there while I get everything else ready.”
“That works,” she says.
Together, we lift the tree and haul it down the walkway to my houseand up the steps to the porch. We slide the tree to the side and then brush off our hands.
“Any sap on your hands?” I ask her.
