by Tawna Fenske
A disco flutter of red and blue lights dances across the pasture, and we all turn to see a police cruiser coming up the driveway. Brandon must have summoned them, or maybe it was the gunshot. Instead of feeling annoyed, I’m filled with gratitude.
“Brandon,” I whisper, turning back to him. I need to get the words out fast before we have company. “I’m so sorry about our conversation this morning. The things I said to you. I was hurt and lashed out and—well, anyway. Can you forgive me?”
“Forgive you?” He shakes his head, looking genuinely baffled. “What on earth for?”
“For being a bitch,” I say. “For not giving you a chance to help when that’s all you were trying to do.”
“No, Jade, I’m sorry.” He steps forward and takes my hand. “You had every right to be upset. I understand why you felt disrespected and threatened and—well, you shouldn’t feel that way on your own property. Or anywhere, ever.”
He’s looking at me like he wants to say more, and I wonder what it is. I wonder if he knows about high school, about why Matthew’s words poked and pinched like barbed wire around my heart. Something tells me he does. Something tells me we’ll have time to talk about it later. To spread our stories out on the kitchen table and exchange them like Christmas cards.
“It’s okay,” I tell him. “I can stand up for myself.”
“I know you can.” He squeezes my hand. “And I’m so damn proud of you for that.”
I shake my head, still needing to apologize. “I could have been more tactful,” I tell him. “And I definitely shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”
“No, Jade—couples argue. It happens. It was a simple disagreement we could have resolved like adults. I’m the one who stomped out of here like a toddler having a tantrum. That’s not me. I can promise that won’t be me ever again if you give me a chance to prove it.”
He takes my other hand, and we stand there with our gloved fingers interlaced as lights from a second cop car dance across the snow. It’s the sheriff’s department this time, and I can’t help wondering how they got here so fast.
But that’s not what I care about right now. I meet Brandon’s eyes again and swallow hard. “I definitely believe in second chances,” I say. “For both of us.”
“Good,” he says. “Because I love you. I love you, and I want to make this thing work between us.”
Something pings through my chest like a lightning bolt going off in a hay field. Tears sting my eyes, and I squeeze Brandon’s hands so hard I hear a knuckle pop.
“I love you, too,” I breathe. “So much.”
“Oh, puke,” Zak grumbles.
“Shut up!” Amber snaps, pointing the pistol at him.
Beside her, Tammy bends her knees in a slight squat and offers proof of our commitment to ensuring the livestock are well-hydrated. Rivulets of reindeer pee trickle through the snow-caked dirt in a direct path toward Zak’s head.
“Gah!” he grunts and tries to roll away.
My sister plants her boot on his chest and waves to the cops trudging toward us through the pasture. “Over here! Hurry!”
I turn back to Brandon, breathless in the cold air. “I love you,” he says again. “So much.”
“Me, too.”
As far as romance goes, it leaves something to be desired. My toes are frozen, and we’re standing in barn muck and reindeer pee while my sister holds a gun on her ex. This isn’t the love scene of my youthful fantasies.
Somehow, it’s better.
And as Brandon draws me into his arms, I can’t think of anyplace I’d rather be.
Epilogue
BRANDON
I toe off my boots in Jade’s entryway and set them by the door. Silently, so I don’t wake anyone, I tiptoe sock-footed up the stairs toward the second floor.
It’s ten minutes to midnight on Christmas Eve, and I’m not even sure Jade’s still up. But she asked me to come tonight, no matter how late, so we could wake up together on Christmas morning. I’m later than I’d planned, thanks to an evening spent watching the old Rudolph cartoon with my dad—three times through, at his urging—but I’ve made it before midnight.
I follow the scent of gingerbread to the kitchen, where Jade stands at the counter pressing little decorations into still-warm cookies. She looks up and smiles as I walk into the room, and I seize the chance to steal a cookie.
“Ooh, they’re reindeer,” I say, pausing to admire the cutout shape before biting off its head. “Pretty tasty,” I mumble around a mouthful of crumbs.
“You goober, those are for the reindeer.” She snatches the cookie out of my hand and sets it back on the tray, where I get a closer look at the cookies.
“They’re made with high-cellulose orchard hay meal for fiber,” Jade informs me. “Plus rehydrated beet pulp pellets for protein and minerals.”
I study the reindeer shapes, wavering between curiosity and nausea. “What’s that on top?”
“Little bits of lichen,” she says. “Their favorite treat.”
I grab a paper towel from the dispenser and wipe my tongue with it, grinning in spite of myself. “I love that you baked Christmas cookies for the reindeer.”
I love a lot of other things about her, too, which I’ve been making the effort to tell her every single day. “Are you at a stopping point?” I ask. “I have something for you.”
“Oooh, presents?” She grins and sets down the little dish of greenish pellets she’s been holding. “I have one for you, too. I’ll go grab it and meet you in the living room.”
I watch her scurry out of the room, admiring the curve of her hips and the way her hair trails behind her as she twirls around the banister and up the stairs.
Mine, I think.
The thought warms me all the way through. I turn and head toward the living room, where Jade and Amber have set up the family Christmas tree. Ornaments from their childhood dangle from each branch, and I stoop to admire a lumpy star made of play-dough. Beside that is a tarnished silver ornament with a family photo in the center, and I peer at the image of Jade and Amber as pigtailed grade-schoolers sandwiched between two beaming grownups. The parents are flying from Hawaii in the morning, since Christmas-day flights are cheaper. I can’t wait to meet them.
“Here we go,” Jade announces as she bounds into the room in stocking feet. She’s holding a gift-wrapped package the size of a thin paperback, and I follow her to the overstuffed sofa beside the tree.
“Mind if I tuck my feet under you?” she asks as we cozy up together.
“Not at all. Mind if I ask if you’re wearing a bra?”
She gives a gasp of mock indignation, but I can tell from her smile she’s not offended.
I can also tell she’s not wearing the bra, but I want to hear her say it.
“You said that was your Christmas wish, right?” she says. “Snuggling beside the tree with Christmas carols on the stereo and a braless babe beside you.”
She grins and jerks a thumb toward the stereo, which is playing her favorite Barenaked Ladies Christmas album. I grin back like the lucky bastard I am and lean close for a kiss, skimming my thumb over her breast through the thin fabric of her t-shirt.
“You make all my wishes come true,” I tell her.
It sounds cheesy, but it’s honest to God true.
Jade smiles and points to the package she’s handed me. “Open it.”
I tug at the edges of the tape, not sure if I’m supposed to save the wrapping paper or rip into it. Jade seems like a save-the-paper kind of girl, so I take my time peeling back the edges and unfolding the red and green wrapping from the hard shape inside.
The metal edges of a photo frame come into view, and I hold it in my palms for a few silent seconds, staring at the image. It’s me at seventeen years old, football helmet under one arm, hand raised for a high five.
Beside me, with his own palm clapped against mine, is my father.
The image is grainy and a little out of focus, but his eyes are clear and brig
ht, and his smile is so broad it takes up his whole face.
“Where on earth did you find this?” I breathe.
“Zak,” she says, sounding a little embarrassed. “I know it’s weird, since he’s in jail right now for trying to burn down our ranch and—”
“It’s amazing.”
“It is, isn’t it?” Jade shifts her weight so her toes curl under my leg and her breast brushes my arm. “Amber dug it out of a box of pictures Zak took in high school. His mom was going to throw the whole thing out, but Amber found this.”
“I can’t believe it,” I murmur. “This has to be one of the last pictures of my dad and me together before his stroke.”
She beams, looking relieved. “I’m glad you like it. I was worried about dredging up old memories, but you both look so happy here.”
I touch the side of her face, so in love with her I’m almost dizzy with it. “Sometimes it’s good to dredge up old memories,” I tell her. “It’s how you make things better moving forward.”
She smiles and turns her head to plant a kiss in the center of my palm. “I couldn’t agree more.”
She doesn’t need to say anything else. Over the last week, we’ve spent many late nights sharing our stories. About high school and family and past and present and future. I could never get tired of holding her in my arms and talking until we both fall asleep.
I grip the photo frame tighter in my hands. “It’s perfect,” I tell her. “Thank you.”
I can’t stop staring at the image. My throat is thick with emotion, and I’m blown away by the magnitude of this gift. By the thought that went into it.
“I love it,” I say, tearing my eyes off the photo to look at Jade. “And I love you.”
“I love you, too.” She grins. “Did you say you had something for me?”
I nod. “Yeah. I do.”
I set the photo on the coffee table and slide a hand into my jacket pocket. The envelope I withdraw is faded and torn on one corner. Jade’s expression is curious, probably wondering why the hell I’m giving her a beat-up, used greeting card when she gave me such a thoughtful present.
I flip over the envelope and turn it so she can read the name on the front of the card.
Brandon.
Her eyes jerk to mine and then go wide. It’s not the name that startled her. It’s the handwriting. The fact that she recognizes it as her own.
She opens her mouth, but no sound comes out.
“It’s yours, right?” I ask. “You slid it in my locker my senior year?”
Slowly she nods and draws a hand to her mouth. “How did you—where did you—oh my God.”
She takes the envelope and draws the card out slowly. The envelope is tattered and soft with age, and she holds the Christmas card gently like an injured butterfly.
A smile warms her face as she reads the front of the card. I know the words without looking, and the image is burned into my brain. A cartoon Santa in the back of his sleigh, gesturing with exasperation as a lone reindeer snoozes beside the rest of the team.
“Oh, great—a flat!” read the words on the front of the card.
But that’s not why I kept it all these years.
Jade opens the card, her eyes moving back and forth as she reads the words inside. When she lifts her gaze to mine, those blue lakes are filled with tears.
“You’re one of the good ones, Brandon Brown,” she whispers. “You knew I wrote that?”
I shake my head. “No. Not until a few days ago when I saw your handwriting and made the connection.”
“But how did you—why—” She stops and takes a breath. “I can’t believe you kept it all these years. An anonymous Christmas card from a stranger?”
“Because it meant something to me,” I say. “The week you slid that card in my locker was the same week my mom left.”
“Oh my God.” She covers her mouth with her hand. “I had no idea.”
“No one did.” I swallow hard, aching to get out the rest of the words. “But seeing these words you wrote—that someone saw me as one of the good guys. It meant something to me.”
“And you kept it all these years.”
I nod. “It went with me on all my tours. Iraq, Syria—”
“I can’t believe this.”
I move my arm to the back of the couch, wanting to touch her hair. To be close enough to feel her body soft and warm and pressed against mine. “It was a reminder that someone saw something good in me,” I tell her. “Something besides the touchdowns and the military honors and the jock reputation. Something in me.”
A tear slips down her cheek, and I reach out to catch it with my thumb. Jade smiles and sets the card down in her lap. Then she stretches up to put her arms around my neck. “I love you so much, Brandon,” she murmurs against my neck. “You are one of the good guys.”
“I love you, too.” My throat cinches up like there’s a hot rubber band inside, but I swear to God I’ve never been this happy in my whole life.
I don’t tell her about the other gift. Not yet. The engagement ring is tucked safely back at my cabin, waiting for the time a few weeks or even months from now when it’s a saner moment to propose. I don’t want to scare her off, but I know without a doubt she’s the woman I’m meant to spend the rest of my life with.
I just need to give her time to reach that same place.
“Merry Christmas, Jade,” I murmur.
“Merry Christmas.” She draws back and gives me a smile that’s tipped with mischief. “So,” she says. “You brought the Santa costume like I asked?”
“You ditched the bra,” I tell her. “It seems fair I should honor your Christmas request.”
“Good.” She grins wider. “I was thinking you could put it on later. And maybe I could sit on your lap.”
I laugh and pick up the card, then set it carefully atop the picture frame on the table. “Oh yeah?” I scoop my hands under Jade, earning myself a startled squeal. She giggles as I pull her onto my lap and snuggle her close against my chest. “Maybe we should practice now?”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I plant a kiss along her hairline, and another at the edge of her mouth. “And maybe we can talk about the first thing that pops up.”
She throws her head back in laughter, and I seize the chance to draw a long trail of kisses through the hollow of her throat. “Merry Christmas, Jade.”
“Merry Christmas, Brandon.”
* * *
***
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AMBER
“Picture a bunch of twinkle lights in those rafters, and the hay bales over there would be the edge of the dance floor.”
I deliver my most charming smile to the bride and groom before zeroing in on the mother of the bride. She beams like I’ve handed her a puppy and a vodka-laced Frappuccino, and I’m positive I am currently her favorite person in this barn.
I have that effect on moms.
But it’s the bride who needs convincing, so I turn back to her. Julia’s blonde hair is arranged in a stylishly messy French twist, and her outfit is classic college-girl-approaching-the-threshold-of-real-life. I want to ask where she found her vintage Coach bag, but now’s not the time.
“Did you get the Pinterest page I sent with those flowers in mason jars?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says slowly, glancing around like she expects a farm animal ambush. “They’d be pretty with rose gold ribbon.”
“Absolutely.” I flick a hand toward the imaginary tables. “Picture them with little stargazer lilies. Or maybe early-season tulips. Those should be available this time of year.”
Julia’s blue eyes continue a survey of the space, and I know she’s seeing it in her mind.
The rustic wine barrels spilling with wil
dflowers.
The cute chalkboard signs pointing people to her guest book.
The train of her gown gliding through a pile of fresh reindeer droppings.
The beast responsible for the droppings snorts and rubs her branchlike antlers on a post.
“Tammy won’t be invited to your ceremony,” I assure the bride and groom. “We keep the reindeer penned up during weddings.”
Tammy the reindeer stamps a hoof and keeps banging her antlers on the post. She’s due to lose them any day now, and I say a silent prayer it won’t happen in the next five minutes.
“It’s totally fine, honey,” the mother of the bride assures me. “The whole point of doing a rustic, country-style wedding is having some flavor.”
“We can certainly offer that.” I turn back to the happy couple. “We’re all about the quaint, country charm.”
The groom—who’s been mostly quiet up to this point—takes his bride’s hand and studies her face as intently as she’s watching Tammy. “What do you think, honey?” he says. “It has that homey, folksy vibe going for it.”
Julia does an agreeable little head tilt, though I can’t tell from her face if she thinks that’s a good thing or a bad thing. “I guess rustic country chic is all the rage right now.” She glances at me for affirmation. “I see a lot of that on Pinterest.”
I nod like a bobblehead, grateful for the powers of Pinterest in backing up my business plan. “Did you see last month’s cover of Bride magazine? Country chic is in.”
The mother of the bride puts a hand on her daughter’s arm. “Remember that episode of Say Yes to the Dress where they had those adorable burlap table runners and centerpieces with bright red apples in little metal tubs?”
Tammy the reindeer swings her antlers our direction, and I hold my breath. She knows that word, and she’s poised to stomp over here and start snuffing at pockets for Honeycrisps. I focus very hard on using mental telepathy to beg my sister to come drag the blasted reindeer out of the barn.
