Page 7 of The Bright Side of Christmas
I know it would work on me.
But for now, I’ll give her the wreath. After all, what could one Christmas decoration hurt?
FOUR
The next morning, when I head outside for my run, I realize what it could hurt. On either side of my walkway is a single two-foot-tall candy cane sunk a few inches into the frozen ground.
“Wren,” I say in warning when I see her stepping out of her house. She gives me wide, innocent eyes, and I want to be annoyed—really, I do—but instead, I find myself fighting back a laugh instead.
Don’t encourage her, Porter. She clearly doesn’t need it,I tell myself.
“Yes?”
“Why are there candy canes on my lawn?”
She looks to where the plastic sticks, finding them instantly. “Huh. No idea. I thought you were just getting into the Christmas spirit. Did you not put them there?”
“You and I both know I didn’t.”
She shrugs like it’s no big deal, then heads down her walkway. “Must be someone in the neighborhood trying to spread some holiday cheer. Have a good day, Adam!” She gives me a cocky grin before ducking into her car and driving off. I let out a huff, grabbing the candy canes and tossing them onto her lawn before heading out.
The next morning, the number of candy canes had doubled, though I have no idea when she put them into my lawn since her car was already gone when I stepped outside at seven a.m. When I return from my run, I pull them out of the lawn again, only for them to reappear the next morning.
By Saturday, I have a small trove of decorations on my lawn, and I’ve come to terms with the fact that the candy canes, at the very least, are probably staying. We’re up to six, and when I tried to pull them out yesterday, I realized she did something to make them much more difficult to remove. Even though she wasn’t outside watching me, when I turned to glare at her house, I caught her in the window for a split second before the curtains shifted closed as if she was hiding away.
After that, the candy canes stayed. The next day, a snowman joined their ranks.
It has not escaped my notice that this is the most fun I’ve had with anything even slightly resembling Christmas in a long, long time, but that’s neither here nor there.
After another long day staring at a blank paper, I decide getting out might be what I need. I head downtown to The Mill, seemingly the only bar in town, around six o’clock, and instantly regret it when I walk in to see all eyes on me. The space is dim but clean, featuring dark hardwood floors and beams, with a dozen tables of various sizes and heights lining the room's sides. On one side is a bar with bottles lining the walls, a half-dozen stools, and a jukebox in the corner.
The tables are each full, which is when I regrettably remember it’s Saturday. Of course, the only bar in town is busy on a Saturday night. I catch a few women at a table staring before they turn away quickly, whispering to each other, but I keep my head down, making my way to the bar on the left side of the room. Finding a stool, I slide onto it and take in a deep breath once my back is to the crowd. Sure, people areprobably still staring, but it’s at my back, so I can ignore that. I look around for a bar menu, but don’t find one by the time the bartender hands over the drink he was making to a customer and moves my way.
“Hey, how’s it going?” the bartender asks.
I tip my head in what I think is a polite nod, then give him my order. “Whatever you recommend on draft, please.”
The bartender’s face goes confused for a moment before he turns to grab a glass and begins pouring from one of the taps. When it’s full, he slides the frosted glass across to me. I reach for my wallet to pay, but he shakes his head.
“No need, we’ll set you up a tab. So, how’s it going? How’s your day?” It’s the second time he’s asked this, and that’s when I realize he isn’t asking as some kind of habitual greeting. He actually wants to know.
I recall my call with Greg the other day, where I made a sarcastic quip mocking him for not even bothering with the nicety. Yet, this utter stranger seems genuinely interested in my answer. Something about that settles strangely in my chest, but I push it aside and answer out of obligation.
“I, uh…not bad. You?”
“Oh, just living the dream back here, can’t complain.” Once more, I think he’s being sarcastic, but then I really take him in and realize he’s not. He means that with his whole chest. He has nothing to complain about because he’s happy as can be working at this bar. “Colt, by the way. I own this place.”
“Adam,” I say, reaching across and shaking his hand. Panic surges for a split second when he hesitates, thinking he might have put pieces together of who I am, but then the look clears, and he gives me a broad, genuine smile.
“New here?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Small town. You learn to take note of new faces when you know everyone who lives here.” I still haven’t wrapped my mind around that concept; it’s something I didn’t really think about when I decided a small town would be the best to disappear into, not that I ever planned on hitting up a local bar.
Thankfully, Colt gets called away to the other side of the bar before I can respond, but a moment later, the bell over the door jingles. With it, a squeal from one of the tables draws my attention. The woman who had been eyeing me when I walked in is standing and rushing to the door, her arms outstretched as she pulls another woman into a hug.
I recognize the newcomer instantly as my neighbor.
