Page 28 of Mistletoe & Magic
The hardware store is next. The bell over the door gives out a sad little ring as we step in. She heads straight for the lumber aisle and inhales like she paid for the experience.
“You are sniffing wood,” I say.
“It is aromatherapy,” she says. “Cedar. Pine. Amazingness.”
“I own a tree farm. You can sniff wood there anytimeyou like.”
She turns, eyes bright, smile slow. “Say that again, Beast.”
“No,” I clip and mutter, “fired.”
She laughs, and the sound slides under my ribs like heat. An older guy two aisles over pretends not to hear us and fails.
We collect wire, hooks, felt pads for the chair legs, a tape measure that I don't need, and a key ring shaped like a tiny saw that she definitely doesn't need but looks thrilled to own. Ivy hums in a low, cheerful way that makes the bland store lights feel kinder. She bumps my shoulder in time with the beat. I tolerate it. I like it.
The mercantile creaks like a ship. Ivy tries on a hat that features a small pom at the crown, studies herself, then studies me as if testing whether I will admit I like it.
I don’t. She swaps the hat for a plaid scarf, crosses the floor, and lifts it toward me.
“No,” I say.
When she loops the scarf around my neck, the fabric is warm and soft against my skin, but it’s her closeness that hits me first like a quiet spark right at my throat. Her scent drifts up with it, a bright rush of oranges and something subtle, and it wraps around me just as much as the scarf does. It’s distracting in the best way, making my breath catch without me meaning it to.
Her knuckles graze lightly over my beard, brushing the rough stubble, and it’s a jolt, not painful, but electric. The contrast between her soft skin and my scratchy beard pulls my attention sharp into the moment. I feel a pulse in my chest, a little too aware of the space between us.
Then she tilts her head, eyes narrowing as if she’s sizing me up, judging my ‘craftsmanship.’ It’s playful, but it gets under my skin, too. Like she’s seeing something I’m trying not to show. I don’t say anything, but I’m caught between wanting to laugh and wanting to close the distance just a bit more.
“Rugged Christmas lumberjack dream,” she announces. She drops it into our basket. “Done.”’
“I am not buying this.” I add, even though I’m still lost in this moment with her.
“Good,” she says. “Because I am buying it for you.”
“That is unnecessary.”
I haven’t been given a gift like this—a ‘just because’ kind of gift—in so long, I’m not sure what to say. Warmth trickles through me at the thought of Ivy doing this for me.
“It is happiness. Don’t fight me on happiness, Remy. It's all I have left."
She pays in cash, pops up on her toes as if she is celebrating a minor victory, then holds the brown paper bag to her chest as if it is evidence of a life well lived. I am absurdly jealous of a scarf.
On the sidewalk a gust of wind lifts and she tucks her chin into her collar. Someone tests the string of lights on the library fir, and the bulbs come up one by one like a slow inhale. A kid chases his hat, catches it, and holds it over his head like a trophy. Ivy claps for him, quiet and proud, like she has been waiting all day for that win. I feel it hit low in my chest, that soft pull she has. She claps for strangers, and it makes me want to protect the part of her that believes people are worth cheering for.
In the truck she finds an oldies station and starts singing the verses she half remembers. She taps the dash like it is a snare drum and tries to harmonize with a trumpet that does not want a partner. I should be annoyed. I’m not. She narrates the town like a tour guide who got bored and decided to be funny. I catch myself smiling where she cannot see it. My hand eases on the wheel. The air in the cab changes.
Every time she laughs, it slides under my skin and warms a place I try to keep cold. Every time she points out some small, good thing, I want to pull the truck over and let her collect allthe good things, so she never runs out. I tell myself to keep my eyes on the road, to remember why she is here, to keep the lines straight. Then she hits the chorus wrong on purpose and looks at me like I better back her up.
I do. And I feel the shift, quiet and sure, like the truck has found a smoother lane and I don’t want to leave it.
"Let's play a game," she says. "Like twenty questions. Get to know each other better. You go first."
“What makes you happy?” I ask after a stretch of road that feels easy.
She thinks. “Small things,” she says. “Fresh pens that actually write. Dogs to snuggle. Bookstores that smell like paper and dust and stories. The first snow of the season. When a song turns a bad mood into a good one. Cinnamon rolls fresh from the oven.”
“Those are good,” I agree.
"What about you, Beast?" she says with a smile.
