Page 24 of Christmas in Vines

“Says the man who bought the package called the Lovers Route,” she giggle-snorted. “You trapped yourself with that one.”

As we traveled down a quiet one-lane road, the soft jingle of bells on the horses' blankets and the clop-clop of their hooves complemented the serenity of our surroundings. Moonlight reflected off the fluttering white snowflakes, transforming them into glitter cascading from the sky.

A contented sigh escaped Willow's lips, her wispy breath disappearing into the stillness of the night as she cuddled closer. I grasped her hand and traced circles on the back of it with my thumb as we rounded a bend in the lane. This deep in the park, the trees were denser, and the branches interlocked overhead at one stretch.

“Tyler?”

“Hm?”

“Have you ever fallen in love?” she asked.

“Can’t say I have,” I replied. “I’ve never…”

“Stayed in one place?” she asked. “Or should I say, with one person? You seem like an emotional drifter.”

“Excuse me?” I mock-gasped. “Emotional damage much?”

She smiled at me. “I’m right, though?”

“Sadly, yes,” I agreed reluctantly. “I never thought about relationships as nothing but finding a companion for a couple of months and then parting ways on genial terms. Long-term was never in my wheelhouse.”

“I figured,” Willow’s lips slanted.

“You’re the relationship kind of girl, aren’t you?” I asked.

“To my detriment, yes,” she sipped her drink, “Maxwell has put me off relationships for a while. That’s where you come in.”

I slapped my hand over my heart. “I am your rebound guy? Good God, woman, you could have told me that I am just a tool for sexual satisfaction.”

Her brows lifted. “You didn’t know? Do I need to get a label maker and print TOOL in capital letters for you? I can superglue it to your forehead if you’d like. In… bright pink.”

“Make it black,” I replied dryly. “Pink is not my color.”

I would never tire of hearing Willow’s laugh; it was so heartfelt and genuine that I wanted to keep her happy all the time so I could hear it. The sudden realization made me pause for a moment—what was that about?

“Tyler, what would you like your perfect companion to be like?” she asked.

“Perfectly… imperfect,” I told her. “I don’t need someone stepping off a magazine cover, but it wouldn’t hurt. I suppose, someone who is honest, caring, smart, trustworthy, who probably likes nutmeg in their coffee and doesn’t like pineapple on pizza—”

She elbowed me. “You’re walking on thin ice.”

“You’re a Hawaiian pizza person?” I asked, somewhat rhetorically. “You know what, don’t answer that. I should have known by the way you take your hot chocolate. By the way, pineapple on pizza is gastrointestinal terrorism.”

“Didn’t you just say perfectly imperfect?” She gave me an accusing eye. “What’s with this sudden backtracking?”

“I lost my train of thought,” I shrugged. “I don’t know what exactly makes up my perfect woman, to be honest. I suppose it would all boil down to how much of my shit she can put up with.”

“Ah,” Willow said sagely. “That’s the crux of the matter. You’re that guy, the one who loves his freedom, the rolling stone.”

“I’ve been called worse,” I replied. “Jackass, player, man-whore, gigolo, Casanova, heartbreaker, you name it, I’ve been called it. But the thing is…” I paused. How did I respectfully say that I had never made any promise to these women but still ended up drawing the short end of the stick without sounding like a douche?

“…You told them from the beginning you were not a relationship guy, but they always made you into something you weren’t, and they got made when you pulled away,” Willow murmured.

I damned well near gawped at her. Did she have a crystal ball or something? How was it that she knew exactly what it was that I didn’t know how to say and still managed to put it so elegantly?

“Yeah,” I replied. “I always ended up the bad guy.”

“Well, if you keep doing romantic things like this, I can understand why,” Willow said.

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