Part 17 (1/2)

Nate shook his head at me. ”You are way too cynical for your own good. Come on, Annie. Come pick out a Christmas tree with me.”

I sighed. ”Fine,” I said. ”But you have to stop and buy me hot chocolate on the way home.”

He grinned. ”Sold.”

Minutes later, I was s.h.i.+vering while Nate walked up and down the rows of trees. A tree lot had sprung up a few weeks ago down the street from his apartment and he had been bugging me to go with him to find the perfect tree ever since.

”Hmm, we always get a nice blue spruce at home,” he said, squinting at a tree in front of us. ”What do you think this one is?”

”If you can't tell them apart, why do you care what kind you get?” I asked.

”It's tradition!” he replied, grabbing me around the waist to pull me close. ”Come on, don't you have any traditions?”

I shrugged. ”My mom had an ugly old silver fake tree that she would pull out every year and decorate while I was at school.”

Nate looked at me with an expression akin to horror on his face. ”Are you kidding me?” he asked.

”No,” I said, pulling away. ”Why would I be kidding?”

”You guys didn't put your tree up together? What about the eggnog? What about the cookies?”

”Nate, I was too old for that stuff by the time I was ten.”

”No,” he said seriously, shaking his head. ”No, no, no. You're never too old for decorating a Christmas tree. Oh, Annie. Now my mission is clear to me. I must impress upon you the wonderfulness of Christmas traditions.”

”Oh, Jesus,” I muttered.

”Seriously, Annie. Some of my favorite memories are of putting up the tree. We would go out with my whole family, all my cousins and my aunts and uncles, and we'd find a good tree farm-”

”A what?”

”A tree farm,” he said. ”You know, a place you go to cut down trees.”

”You actually went out in the woods with an axe to chop down your tree?” I asked him. ”Are you sure you're not confusing your life with a Laura Ingalls book?”

He pulled on my earlobe, an annoying habit he had picked up to get back at me when I teased him.

”We did not go into the woods,” he said with dignity. ”We went to a tree farm.”

”Like that's so much better,” I muttered. He just looked at me. ”Sorry,” I said. ”You were saying?”

”So we would all go out and find the perfect tree for each of our houses. And then we would take turns with the saw to cut them down. And after we got them all loaded up on top of the cars, we would go back to my aunt's house for pizza. It was so great.”

”I guess you had to be there,” I said drily. Nothing that he had described sounded remotely like fun to me.

”Maybe,” he said. ”Maybe next year we can go out to Maryland to visit them and you can come along for the tree-picking day.”

I stared at him, aghast. He was not seriously making plans for us in a year-especially not for me to meet his entire family.

Before I could say anything, Nate started cracking up.

”Oh, you're too easy,” he said. ”G.o.d, it looked like your head was about to explode there, Annie.”

”Haha,” I replied, turning away. ”You're such a laugh riot.”

”Anyhow,” he said as he grabbed my hand, undeterred. ”The next weekend my dad would spend all day Sat.u.r.day putting lights up on the tree. And he would complain the whole time because the needles were so p.r.i.c.kly. Then he and my mom would fight about the tree-he would say that next year we were getting a scotch pine, something with softer bristles. And she would yell at him and say that the blue spruce was prettier and she would be d.a.m.ned if she would get anything else. And then he would say, *Well you can put the lights up yourself then!'”

Nate's face suddenly turned wistful, the way it did when he would get carried away in telling a story about his dad. It was almost like he would forget for a few minutes why he was sad...

I squeezed his hand. ”Would they make up?” I asked softly.

He shook his head almost imperceptibly, as if he was clearing it, then smiled down at me. ”Yeah. By that night they would be snuggling in front of the lights. And then they'd have the exact same fight the next year.”

”Who's doing the lights this year?” I asked, feeling suddenly guilty for monopolizing so much of his time when his mother probably wanted him at home.

”She got a fake tree,” he said, his face clouding over a little. ”The year after he died. One of those pre-lit ones. She can set it up all by herself.”

Something about the story made me feel incredibly sad. I squeezed his hand again, determined to change the subject. ”I'm freezing my b.u.t.t off out here, Hughes,” I said. ”Let's pick that tree and get it home.”

He smiled at me, a grateful smile, and started to lead me down the rows of trees. I squinted at the tags in the darkness, hoping I would find...

”Here,” I said, tugging on his hand so he would stop. ”This one looks perfect.”

He looked at it for a long minute, his head c.o.c.ked as if in serious consideration. ”It does look pretty good.”

”I think it's beautiful,” I told him.

He peered down to look at the tag. ”Blue spruce,” he murmured.

”Your mom has good taste,” I said.

Nate looked up at me, a grin spreading across his face. Then he leaned forward and kissed me.

”So do you,” he said. ”Come on, let's get this home.”

We dragged the tree behind us on the sidewalk. My fingers were freezing around the trunk in spite of my warm mittens. ”G.o.d, you owe me so big for this,” I muttered. ”I'm so cold!”

”Oh, stop being such a baby,” he said, looking at me over his shoulder. ”This is good for you. Fresh air, exercise...”

”Nate, it's five below,” I said. ”This isn't fresh air, it's torture.”

”Such a baby,” he said sadly.

We finally reached his apartment and dragged the tree up the stairs to the second floor. It wasn't until he was unlocking his door that I remembered what was missing. ”Hey!” I said loudly. ”You were supposed to get me a hot chocolate!”

”Not to fear,” he said, opening the door and pulling the tree through. ”I have hot chocolate right here in the house.”

”Seriously?” I asked, following him in and stamping my boots on the welcome mat to rid them of their cover of snow. ”What twenty-eight-year-old man keeps cocoa in his house?”