Page 16 of Winter Break Up

“Gosh, that night …” As if unconsciously doing so, her fingers reach to her lips.

Like I might have tattooed mine on them all those years ago.

“Em, I really thought what we had was—”

The squawk of her walkie-talkie between us has Em jumping away from me.

“Em, I need you over here, the couple is requesting it.” Charlie’s voice comes over the radio.

Immediately, the moment we were having completely disappears. Her eyes widen, and I shut my mouth.

“Sure, be right there.” She radios back and then heads for her four-wheeler.

With a lingering gaze, Em fires up her vehicle and tears off through the rows of trees. Fuck, that had been too much.

I almost just told her that what I thought we had was it for me. That I wouldn’t have left her, not for anything. That I was so incredibly in love with her, I would have moved heaven and earth to make our relationship work during the college years.

But she had not had that same faith in us, as evidenced by her dumping me weeks before we left. I have to remember that, remind myself that Emily has never seen us as a couple who could go the distance.

And I’m not in any position to take the risk that she could now. My future depends on me being focused and disciplined. Distractions aren’t permitted, and that’s all this is.

It’s not like Emily ever thought we were endgame. Surely she wouldn’t think that now.

8

EMILY

The words Mercer left unsaid ring in my ears, and I swear he was going to tell me that I was the one for him before Charlie interrupted on the radio.

What would I have said? It was the same for me? It still might be?

God, I’m an idiot. Part of me wants to go back in time and scream at eighteen-year-old Emily for being so dense. So insecure.

“Do you think the McGibbons are using growth hormones on their trees? I’ve heard rumors,” Mom wonders aloud, and I can’t help but snicker.

“Mom, if they’re really taking this competition so seriously that they’re doping their Christmas trees, then I don’t want to win.” Butter and flour stick to my hands as I roll out a ball of sugar cookie dough.

She greases a cookie sheet and sends a smile my way. “That wouldn’t be very Christmas spirit of us, now would it?”

“Maybe we should steroid test the entrants. Put it in the bylaws of the competition,” I suggest sarcastically.

Mom points a finger at me. “Our family has been submitting trees to this competition since you were born, young lady. It’s a holiday tradition.”

I put my hand over my heart. “One I will take as seriously as a heart attack, I assure you. Right after I check the mistletoe for performance enhancing drugs.”

She throws a paper towel in my direction, but it only floats to the counter that’s covered in cookie ingredients. We’ve been at the baking process for hours now, a tradition that I cherish with my mother.

We spend two weekends in December baking enough cookies to feed an army or at least the entire town of Queenwood. Mom hadn’t wasted any time lugging out the two mixers, various bags of flower, rolling pins, decorative sprinkles, and such this morning before I’d even woken up. Walking down to the kitchen was like entering a winter wonderland that smelled like chocolate and vanilla, and we’ve been at it ever since.

The thing with baking, though, is that the recipes for each cookie are so ingrained at this point I don’t have to focus on them. And that means my mind keeps wandering back to the very frustrating coworker who kept giving me looks that felt as if they penetrated my soul. The words of Rita and Steve, the couple whose tree we helped pick, have also haunted me. It never escapes my notice that Mercer and I still give off this vibe of intense chemistry, and clearly, they could see it.

“Honey, can you refill the bowl of Hershey kisses?” Mom asks, interrupting my reverie.

Just as I’m about to reach for it, a bunch of noises comes from right outside the room.

“Hey, Ma.” Charlie barges in through the door from the garage and comes around the counter, kissing our mother before he steals a chunk of chocolate chip cookie dough right out of the bowl.

“Gross.” I smack his hand away. “You didn’t even wash them.”

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