What Light

  I reach across the counter to restock the mistletoe display. “I’m thinking this whole idea of a holiday romance isn’t going to work. I will admit I did consider it when I saw Caleb, but first impressions are clearly not my strength.”

  Heather looks me straight in the eyes and nods toward the parking lot. “Remember that, okay? Because here he comes.”

  I can feel my eyes go wide.

  She takes a step back and motions for me to come join her. I walk around the counter and she points to an old purple pickup truck. The cab is empty.

  If that is his truck, what’s he doing here? He already bought a tree. Below the tailgate is a bumper sticker for a school I’ve never heard of.

  “Where’s Sagebrush Junior High?” I ask.

  Heather shrugs, and a curl falls loose from where she had it tucked behind her ear.

  This city has six elementary schools. Each winter I went to the same one as Heather. Those feed into the one middle school, which I also went to, and then one high school. That’s when I started doing my assignments online.

  Heather looks into the trees. “Oh! There he is. God, he’s cute.”

  “I know,” I whisper. I avoid where she’s looking and instead watch the toe of my shoe dig into the dirt.

  She touches my elbow and whispers, “Here he comes.” Before I can say anything, she makes a beeline to the far side of the Bigtop.

  From the corner of my eye, I see someone emerge from between two of our trees. Caleb walks straight toward me, shining his dimpled smile. “Is your name Sierra?”

  All I can do is nod.

  “So you’re the one the workers are talking about.”

  “Excuse me?”

  He laughs once. “I didn’t know if there was maybe some other girl working today.”

  “Just me,” I say. “My parents own this place. And run it.”

  “Now it makes sense why they’re afraid to talk to you,” he says. When I don’t respond, he continues, “I was here the other day. You asked if I needed help?”

  I don’t know what I should say. He shifts his weight between his feet. When I still don’t say anything, he shifts his weight again, which almost makes me laugh. At least I’m not the only one who’s nervous.

  Behind him, I see two of the baseball players sweeping up needles between the trees.

  Caleb steps beside me and watches them sweep. I hold still, forcing myself not to move away. “Does your dad really make them clean outhouses if they talk to you?”

  “Even if he thinks they want to talk to me.”

  “Then your outhouses must be extremely clean,” he says, which is the weirdest pickup line I’ve ever heard, if that’s what that was.

  “Can I help you with something?” I ask. “I know you already have a tree . . .”

  “So you do remember me.” He seems a little too pleased by this.

  “I do the inventory,” I say, flipping the memory of him into pure business, “and I’m good at my job.”

  “I see.” He nods slowly. “What kind of tree did I get?”

  “A noble fir.” I have no idea if that’s true.

  Now he seems impressed.

  I walk around the counter, putting the cash register and mistletoe between us. “Anything else we can help you with?”

  He hands me a tag from a tree. “This one’s bigger than the last, so a couple of the guys are putting it in my truck right now.”

  I find myself staring into his eyes for too long, so I wrench my gaze to the nearest displays. “Do you need a wreath to go with it? They’re fresh. Or an ornament?” Part of me wants to just sell him the tree so he can leave and this awkwardness will end, but part of me also wants him to stay.

  He doesn’t say anything for several seconds, which forces me to look at him again, and he’s scanning everything inside the Bigtop. Maybe he does need something else. Or maybe he’s looking for an excuse to stay longer. Then, when he sees the drinks, his smile gets brighter. “I’ll definitely take a hot chocolate.”

  At the drink station, he lifts a paper cup from the top of the upside-down cup tower. Beyond him, I see Heather peek out from behind a flocked tree, sipping on her own hot chocolate. When she sees me watching, she shakes her head and mouths “Bad idea” before slowly sliding herself back behind the branches.

  My heart skips a beat when he unwraps a candy cane to stir the chocolate powder in his hot water. When he lets go of the candy cane, it continues spinning in the swirling drink.

  “That’s how I make mine,” I say.

  “Why wouldn’t you?”

  “It’s like a cheap peppermint mocha,” I tell him.

  He tilts his head and looks at his drink with new eyes. “You could call it that, but that sounds kind of insulting.” He passes the drink to his other hand and then reaches across the counter to shake.

  “Nice to officially meet you, Sierra.”

  I look at his hand, then at him, and hesitate for a split second. In that moment, I see his shoulders deflate a bit. I know better than to be so judgmental over a rumor even Heather wasn’t sure of. I shake his hand. “You’re Caleb, right?”

  His smile falters. “So someone told you about me.”

  I freeze. Even if he isn’t the guy I’ll have a holiday romance with, he doesn’t deserve to be second-guessed by someone who only recently learned his name. “I must have overheard your name from someone who helped you,” I say.

  He smiles, but his dimple doesn’t appear. “So, how much do I owe you?”

  I ring him up and he pulls out his wallet, which is stuffed thick with bills. He hands me two twenties and a whole lot of ones.

  “I didn’t get to cash out my tips from last night,” he says, a slight blush rising. The dimple pushes deep into his cheek again.

  It takes pure willpower not to ask where he works so I can accidentally on purpose drop by. “We can always use more ones,” I say. I count out the singles and hand him back fifty cents in change.

  He puts the coins in his pocket and the blush disappears, his confidence back. “Maybe I’ll see you some more before Christmas.”

  “You know where to find me,” I say. I’m not sure if that came across as an invitation, or if maybe that is exactly how I meant it. Do I want to see him again? It’s not my business to figure out his story, but I can’t stop picturing the way his shoulders dropped when I didn’t shake his hand right away.

  He heads out of the Bigtop, slipping the wallet into his back pocket. Giving him a moment, I then creep out from behind the counter to watch him leave. As he walks up to his truck, he hands a few dollars to one of the guys.

  Heather steps beside me and we watch as Caleb and one of our workers shut the tailgate together.

  “From my perspective, that looked awkward for both of you,” she says. “I’m sorry, Sierra. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  “No, there’s something there,” I say. “I don’t know how much is true, but that guy’s carrying some sort of baggage.”

  She looks at me with a vaulted eyebrow. “You’re still into him, aren’t you? You’re actually thinking about getting involved.”

  I laugh and return to my station behind the counter. “He’s cute. That’s all. It’s not enough for me to get involved.”

  “Well, that’s very wise,” Heather says, “but he is the only guy I’ve seen you this awkward around since I’ve known you.”

  “He was awkward, too!”

  “He had his moments,” she says, “but you won that contest.”

  After a phone call where I describe my week in French to Monsieur Cappeau, Mom lets me leave work early. Heather holds a movie marathon every year starring her latest celebrity crush and a bottomless bowl of popcorn. Dad offers me his truck, but I decide to walk. Back home I would have grabbed his keys in a second to avoid the cold. Here, even in la
te November, it’s relatively nice out.

  The walk takes me past the only other family-owned tree lot in town. Their assortment of trees and the red-and-white sales tent take up three rows of a supermarket parking lot. I always stop by a couple of times during the season to say hi. Like my parents, the Hoppers rarely leave their spot once the selling begins.

  With his arms buried into the top half of a tree, Mr. Hopper leads a customer into the parking lot. I walk toward them, squeezing between parked cars, to say hello for the first time this year. The guy carrying the trunk of the tree drops his end onto the lowered tailgate of a purple truck.

  Caleb?

  Mr. Hopper pushes the tree the rest of the way in. He turns in my direction and I don’t spin away fast enough. “Sierra?”

  I exhale deeply and then turn back around. Wearing a checkered orange-and-black jacket and matching earflapped hat, Mr. Hopper walks over and embraces me in a warm hug. I use that squeeze to look over at Caleb. He leans his back against the truck and his eyes smile at me.

  Mr. Hopper and I catch up quickly and I agree to stop by some more before Christmas. When he heads back to his lot, Caleb is still looking at me, sipping something from a paper cup with a lid.

  “Tell me what your addiction is,” I say. “Is it the Christmas trees or the hot drinks?”

  His dimple digs in deep and I walk closer. His hair sticks up in front, like all this tree lifting doesn’t allow him enough time to brush it. Before he answers my question, Mr. Hopper and one of the workers drop a second tree into Caleb’s truck.

  Caleb looks at me and shrugs.

  “Seriously, what is going on?” I ask.

  He nonchalantly lifts the tailgate shut as if finding him at another tree lot isn’t extremely odd. “I’d like to know what brings you here?” he asks. “Are you checking out the competition?”

  “Oh, there’s no competition at Christmastime,” I say. “But since you do appear to be an expert, who’s got the best lot?”

  He takes a sip of his drink and I watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows it down. “Your family has them beat,” he says. “These guys were all out of candy canes.”

  I feign disgust. “How dare they.”

  “I know!” he says. “Maybe I should stick with you guys.”

  He takes another sip, followed by silence. Is he implying there will be even more trees? That means more opportunities to run into him, and I don’t know how I should feel about that.

  “What kind of person buys this many trees in a day?” I ask. “Or even in a season?”

  “To answer your first question,” he says, “I’m addicted to the hot chocolate. I suppose if I have to have an addiction, it’s not the worst one. To your second question, when you own a truck, you end up with plenty of ways to fill it. For example, I helped three people my mom works with move over the summer.”

  “I see. So you’re that guy,” I say. I walk up to one of his trees and pull gently on the needles. “You’re the one everyone can count on for help.”

  He rests his arms on the wall of his truck bed. “Does that surprise you?”

  He’s testing me because he knows I’ve heard something about him. And he’s right to test me, because I’m not sure how to answer. “Should it surprise me?”

  He looks down at his trees, and I can tell he’s disappointed that I dodged the question.

  “I assume these trees aren’t all for you,” I say.

  He smiles.

  I lean forward, not sure if I should be doing this, but also feeling compelled. “Well, if you plan to buy any more, I know the owners at the other lot fairly well. I think I can get you a discount.”

  He takes out his wallet, again stuffed with one-dollar bills, and pulls out a few singles. “Actually, I’ve been there two times since I saw you hanging that parade sign, but you were out.”

  Was that an admission that he had hoped to see me? I can’t ask that, of course, so I point to his wallet. “You know, banks will let you exchange all those ones for something bigger.”

  He turns the wallet over in his hands. “What can I say, I’m lazy.”

  “At least you know your flaws,” I say. “That’s healthy.”

  He shoves the wallet in his pocket. “Knowing my flaws is one thing I’m good at.”

  If I were bolder, I would use that as an opening to ask about his sister, but a question like that could so easily send him into his truck, driving away.

  “Flaws, huh?” I take a step closer to him. “Buying all these trees and helping people move, you must be at the top of Santa’s naughty list.”

  “If you put it that way, I guess I’m not all bad.”

  I snap my fingers. “You probably consider your sweet tooth a major sin.”

  “No, I don’t remember that one being mentioned in church,” he says. “But laziness has been, and I am that. I still haven’t replaced the comb I lost a few months ago.”

  “And look at the results,” I say, eyeing his hair. “That’s almost unforgivable. You may need to peruse elsewhere for discounted trees.”

  “Peruse?” he says. “I mean, it’s a good word, but I don’t think I’ve used it in a sentence before.”

  “Oh, please don’t tell me you consider that a big word.”

  He laughs, and his laugh is so perfect I want to continue drawing it out of him. But this comfort in our teasing isn’t good. Regardless of how cute he is, or easy to joke with, I have to remember Heather’s concern.

  As if he can see the thoughts turning in my mind, his face turns resentful. His gaze falls back to the trees. “What?” he asks.

  If we keep running into each other, there will always be a conversation—this rumor—hanging over us.

  “Look, obviously I heard something . . .” The words dry up in my throat. But why do I need to say them? We can just go back to being the customer and the tree girl. This does not need to come up.

  “You’re right, it’s very obvious,” he says. “It always is.”

  “But I don’t want to believe it if—”

  He pulls his keys out of his pocket and still won’t look at me. “Then don’t worry about it. We can be nice to each other, I’ll buy my trees from you, but . . .” His jaw clenches. I can tell he’s trying to raise his eyes to look at me, but he can’t.

  There is nothing more I can say. He hasn’t told me that what I’ve heard is a lie. The next words need to come from him.

  He moves to the cab of his truck, gets in, and pulls the door shut.

  I step back.

  He starts the engine and then gives me a small wave as he drives off.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I don’t start work until noon on Saturday, so Heather picks me up early and I ask her to take us to Breakfast Express. She looks at me strangely but drives in that direction.

  “Did you find out if you can go to the parade with us?” she asks.

  “It shouldn’t be a problem,” I say. “The whole town goes to that thing. We won’t be swamped until after it ends.”

  I think about the sad wave Caleb offered when he drove off last night and the weight on his shoulders that kept him from looking at me. Even if there are reasons not to get involved, I still want to see his truck drive up to the lot again.

  “Devon thinks you should ask Andrew to the parade,” Heather says. “Now, I know what you’re going to say . . .”

  I’m thankful my eyeballs don’t pop out onto her dashboard. “Did you tell Devon that’s a terrible idea?”

  She lifts a shoulder. “He thinks you should give him a chance. I’m not saying I agree with him, but Andrew does like you.”

  “Well, I completely don’t like him.” I scrunch down in my seat. “Wow. That sounded so mean.”

  Heather pulls up to the curb in front of Breakfast Express, a 1950s-themed diner housed in two retired train c
ars. One car is the diner and the other is the kitchen. Beneath both cars, the steel wheels are anchored to actual rails set over splintered wooden ties. Best of all, they serve breakfast—only breakfast—all day long.

  Before she turns off the engine, Heather looks past me to the windows of the train cars. “Look, I wasn’t going to say no to this because I know you love coming here.”

  “Okay,” I say, unsure what that was all about. “If you want to go somewhere else—”

  “But before we go in,” she says, “you should know that Caleb works here.” She waits for that to sink in, and it sinks down like a rock.

  “Oh.”

  “I don’t know if he’s working today, but he may be,” she says. “So figure out how you’re going to be.”

  While approaching the stairs to the diner car, my heart beats faster and faster the closer I get. I follow Heather up the steps, and she pulls open the red metal door.

  Vinyl records and photos from old movies and TV shows decorate the walls up to the ceiling. The center aisle is lined on either side with tables that can seat no more than four, and plastic red cushions flecked with silver sparkles. Only three tables are occupied right now.

  “Maybe he won’t be here,” I say. “Maybe it’s his day—”

  Before I can finish, the door to the kitchen slides open and Caleb walks through. He’s wearing a white button-down shirt, khakis, and a paper soda jerk hat. He carries a serving tray with two breakfast plates to a table and then sets one plate in front of each person. He lowers the tray to his side and then makes his way toward us. After a few steps, he blinks with recognition, his gaze moving between Heather and me. His smile appears cautious, but at least it’s there.

  I stuff my hands into my coat pockets. “Caleb. I didn’t know you worked here.”

  He grabs two menus from a shelf beside Heather, his smile fading. “Would you have come if you did?”

  I don’t know how to answer.