Page 8 of Flirting with the Scrooge

THE CHRISTMAS TREE THIEF

Tatum

I open the car door and step out, my boot sinks into the freshly fallen snow. Tilting my face toward the warm afternoon sun, I inhale a deep breath. The crisp, cold air carries the earthy scent of pine and cedar, mingling with the invigorating aroma of fresh baked cookies and hot chocolate. Glancing around, the laughter of children running around all bundled up in their snow gear fills the air along with the muffled chatter of adults. A couple to my right discusses which type of tree they should get. These are my people. Everyone is here to find the perfect tree to bring home and decorate and admire for the next twenty-five days. We really need to normalize Christmas decorations all year round.

Growing up, going to the tree farm and picking out the perfect tree was always a family tradition. Sadly, sometimes traditions die. But I am determined to keep this, at least for me. A light breeze hits my cheeks and I tug my hat down a little more. My nose follows the lingering smell of hot cocoa and freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. Inside the open barn, I discover two young girls, maybe twelve or thirteen, working the counter of a small stand.

“What would you like ma’am?” one of the girls greets me.

“I’ll take a hot cocoa, extra marshmallows, and one of those amazing smelling cookies, please.”

I pass my money over to the young girl and grab my goodies. The warm sun hits my face as I step back outside. The loud rumble of a tractor echoes over the field as it rounds the corner from behind the barn. Children race across the open lot toward the entrance to wait for the wagon to pull us around the farm. I leisurely stroll behind the crowd to get in line. Just as I bring the cookie up to my mouth someone bumps into me and I lose my grip and watch it tumble to the white, fluffy snow. Dang it! My smile turns bitter as I mourn the loss of the cookie. I am once again jolted from the back when another person bumps into me and I lose grip of my cocoa, which spills all over my new boots, and discolors the once white snow brown. What is wrong with people? Can’t they watch where they are going? My gaze shoots up in hopes of spotting the culprit. Green flannel coat. And he’s just walking away without a care in the world. He’s not getting away that easily.

“Hey! Hey you!” Realizing that could mean anyone. I try again. “You in the green flannel! Stop!” This time everyone stops and stares at me. Luckily so does the inconsiderate cocoa spiller. FML. I can’t get away from him. I stomp toward him, snow kicking up beneath my boots. Any semblance of happiness has left my body and is now replaced with annoyance. I shove my pointer finger at his chest. “You made me spill my cocoa!”

His eyebrows pinch together. “Me? What are you talking about?”

Heat flushes my entire body as I glare at him. “Oh, don’t play stupid! You bumped into me, made me spill my cocoa, and didn’t even say sorry.”

“You want me to say sorry?”

“Yes, that’s the polite thing to do. You can’t just go around bumping into people.”

“And you assume I’m polite?”

Why is this man so infuriating?

“Well, when you bump into someone…” I hold up my hand, palm out, “you know what? Forget it. The wagon is filling up and I don’t want to miss the first round.” I would have a better chance at a civilized conversation if I were talking to a snowman.

I swivel on my heel and make my way to where a crowd is forming in front of a ramp to get on the wagon. When I’m next in line to get on, an older gentleman holds out his hand to help me over the small gap. With a sigh, I nestle down on the firm, cold straw bales, regretting not grabbing the blanket from my car as a chill runs up my spine. I survey the farm, taking in the rows of evergreens and Douglas firs as I search for the perfect tree. I’ll know it when I see it. Finding the perfect Douglas fir requires careful consideration of its height, fullness, and overall shape, ensuring it will be a stunning centerpiece in my living room. It’s almost like a superpower. Instead of Spidey sense it’s my Dougyfirsense. Upon turning my head forward, I’m met with an unwelcome face beaming a big smile at me.

Once again, my happiness plummets. This time it’s to the floorboards of the wagon. “Are you following me?”

“Um no? Did you accuse all these other people of following you too?” Connor waves his hand in front of him.

“Why do you always answer my question with a question?”

“Why do you always ask so many questions?”

“Ugh! I just can’t with you.”

“So, you’ve said.” He then brings a steaming cup of hot cocoa up to his lips and takes a sip. “This cocoa is so good. You should have gotten a cup.”

Under my knit cap, the tips of my ears flame red hot. I cross my arms over my chest and give him a death glare.

With the cup still up to his lips, the crinkle in the corner of his eyes doesn’t go unnoticed.

When the wagon is full, it jolts to a start. I secretly pray that it will cause him to lose his hot chocolate, but no luck. Slowly, we slide down the snow covered path that winds around the tree farm. Again, I start glancing around to see if I can spot my perfect tree. The sooner I find it, the sooner I can get away from the jerk across from me. Peering over my left shoulder, I scan all the trees, but nothing catches my eye. When I rotate to glance over my other shoulder, I’m met with a familiar green flannel.

“Why are you sitting there?”

“I like this view better.” He crosses his ankle over his knee. His foot coming dangerously close to invading my space.

“Well, at least you didn’t answer with a question.”

“Would you rather I did?”

“Ha. Ha. You’re distracting me from my Christmas tree shopping.”

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