Page 96 of Mistletoe & Magic
Ivy looks up at me, cheeks pink, eyes laughing. I tuck a knuckle under her chin and kiss her. It is not a long kiss. It is not a show. It is a promise set to candlelight and snow. The town cheers, anyway. Junie groans and then giggles like she has been waiting for this. Pete laughs so hard he hiccups. He wipes his face with the back of his hand. “I am not crying,” he declares. “My eyes are thawing.”
“Liar,” Rowan says, delighted.
Donna presses her shoulder to his. “Hush. Let yourself be loved.”
He does. I watch it happen. I watch a man decide to stand in the warm middle of the circle and let us tell him who he is to us.
This is us celebrating and showing up for him while he’s still here. Some people have funerals after someone dies, and everyone talks. Not us. We’re going to love him well past whenhe’s gone. And he’s going to know it, feel it, and remember it for the rest of eternity.
After the candles gutter and people drift toward cocoa and the choir breaks ranks and steals candy canes, after Lilith tucks a scarf tighter around Willa’s neck and Tate pretends he is not cold and Finn loads a stack of folding chairs under one arm like a show-off, after Rowan leads an off-key chorus of “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” and nobody bothers to correct the tempo, after Donna announces that the after party is at the bookstore whether or not anyone has RSVPd, we walk there with our hands linked and our girl tired and happy between us.
The library windows glow like a lantern in the snow. That sight will always make my throat feel tight.
Inside, the air is warm and full of paper and pine. The plaque of a lighthouse waits on the counter, a tiny brass rectangle that catches the light. Willa ordered it. Tate drilled the holes this afternoon while pretending not to tear up. The inscription is simple.
For Pete.
I hold the tiny screws while Ivy steadies the plaque, and I turn the driver slow. The metal kisses wood. The engraving shines. My chest does that thing again, the hurt that is not pain.
Junie hovers, swaying with tired pride. “It looks fancy,” she says.
“It looks perfect,” Ivy says, and rests her head against my shoulder.
People trickle in with wet boots and laughter, as if Donna’s decree has the weight of law. Willa brings a tray of gingerbread and a thermos she swears is only hot chocolate and not spiked. Donna and Pete arrive last and stand in the doorway like a couple who have just walked into their own surprise party. I watch his face as he takes in the plaque. He looks like a manbeside himself with happiness. I have never been happier to witness this.
Later, after we make it home, I carry Junie to bed. She is heavy with exhaustion from a long week. She wakes enough to mumble, “Merry Christmas, Pete,” and is gone again. I stand there and watch her for a minute, because I won’t take these moments for granted.
I find Ivy back in the library, barefoot on the rug. She looks up when I step in. Her eyes are soft with a mix of tiredness, contentment, and sadness.
“How is she?” she asks.
“Dreaming about cocoa and candlelight,” I say.
I sit behind her and pull her into me, and we lean on the canvas of the three of us like we are leaning on a future we just started painting.
“I love you,” she says, simple as a breath.
“I love you,” I say back, because the best things are not complicated.
She tilts her head toward the window. “Look.”
The snow is falling harder now. The flakes streak through the lamplight like silver threads. Our windows glow like a house that has decided against darkness.
“We are really doing this,” she whispers.
“Yeah,” I say, tucking my chin into her shoulder and breathing the clean scent of her hair. “Forever.”
“We’re going to build a beautiful life here,” she says softly.
We don’t speak for a while. We listen to the small sounds a house makes when it is warm and full.
When I stand to turn off the lamps, Ivy catches my sleeve. “Leave the window light,” she says. “For him.”
“For Pete?”
She nods.
I leave the window light.
