“I want everything we share to be real.” She winks a quick smile.
So do I. “Sounds like a date.”
3
Kendall
Magic in the Air
The Christmas tree lot is strangely jam-packed, on this, the final night to decorate over-glorified shrubbery. Kids run wild with cups of cocoa while clusters of people stand about, talking and laughing. I get the feeling this is what social gatherings will look like in the collegiate afterlife, once you gravitate outside the Greek system and procreation instincts take over.
The clouds overhead wear dusty purple skins, yet somehow the evergreens still manage to lend their shadows over the pale dirt that spreads wide for acres.
“Last day at the tree lot is always a madhouse,” Cruise says, navigating us through the melee. I watch as the muscles in his neck pop when he swallows, his jaw redefines itself with even the slightest inflection. He offers a soft smile to the kids who swim past us with glee, and that simple show of affection warms me to him. Everything about Cruise has my interest piqued, and it makes me wonder where these feelings came from. Had I been saving them up for someone like Cruise all along? Had my mother ever felt this way during one of her serial marriages? Maybe this is the magic that starts the ball rolling, then it evaporates, and you find yourself looking for an apartment with two kids in tow.
“It’s the opposite back home,” I tell him as we step through a cushion of pine needles at least a foot deep. “Everyone I know starts decking the halls the day after Thanksgiving—and the tree lots are bare two weeks into December.”
“Sounds like home is a nice place.” A plume of fog emits from his lips as he eases into a smile—this time it’s all for me. He picks up my hand and leads me through the crowd. “You mind?” He gives my fingers a gentle squeeze.
“Not at all,” I say as my shoes crunch over the discarded boughs. “We need to start somewhere if you’re going to teach me your womanizing ways.” I try to sound like it’s no big deal, but in truth, I feel weak, nauseated, and extremely giddy at the prospect of holding his hand. It’s electrifying—an honest to God high that rivals any narcotic known to man. The boys back home didn’t have the power to make me feel this way. And I certainly don’t have any desire to touch any part of Pennington, let alone any of his drunken frat brothers like I may have eluded. And since when did I add the fine art of lying to my personal resume? And for what? To trick him into some kind of twisted relationship? Although, someone like Cruise isn’t interested in something long-term for the same reason I’m not. It never works out in the end.
I shake the thought loose.
“You’ll be a man-eater by New Years’,” he guarantees as we make our way through the crowd gathered by the register. “There’s a special event today—local churches come out to buy trees for less fortunate families in the area. It’s sort of a tradition around here.”
“That’s so nice.” I like this altruistic side of Carrington. I try to catch my breath as he leads us to the distal end of the property, and a clearing opens up with dozens of trees to choose from.
Cruise heads over to a tiny anemic tree with sparse needles and gauges me for a reaction.
I shake my head at that one. I don’t tell him that’s the same tree my mother bought year after year because it was all we could afford—that I dreamed of trees fat enough to eat up the living room, dripping with jewels and a shiny white star on top. I suppose transferring all of my fantasies over to Cruise isn’t the greatest idea, but I can’t seem to help it. For some reason, I want him to be the one to make them all come true.
Odd, since I hardly know him.
“So you’re a size matters kind of girl,” he says it low, far too seductive for this early in the morning.
Soft bites of rain land over my scalp and I hold out my hand, surprised to find tiny white flakes amassing over my fingertips. “I’ve never seen snow,” I whisper the confession. “It’s magic. It’s beautiful.”
“You’re magic.” He takes a step in until we’re a breath apart. “You’re beautiful, Kenny.” He showers me with his gaze, watching as the snow freckles my dark mane.
Cruise leans in.
I can feel it coming.
My lips ache for him to do it.
My palms start to sweat, and my heart feels like it’s about to jackhammer out of my chest—killing us both in the process.
“This one,” I say breathless while plucking at the branch of a Douglas fir before I pass out from the idea of a kiss.
“Looks like we got our first tree,” he says, never taking his gaze off me.