Caleb takes a sip and we walk a few more steps in silence. “Jeremiah. He’s an old friend.”
“And he’d rather march in a parade than do commentary with all of you?” I ask. “Shocking.”
He smiles. “No, probably not. But he wouldn’t be hanging out with us even if he could.”
After a long hesitation, I ask, “Is there a story there?”
His answer is immediate. “It’s a long story, Sierra.”
I’m obviously prying, but then why would I consider even a friendship with him if I can’t ask a simple question? It’s not like the question came out of nowhere. It was regarding something that happened right in front of me. If something that small shuts him down, I don’t know if I want to stick around. I’ve walked away for much less than this.
“You can go back to your friends if you want,” I say. “I need to help Heather anyway.”
“I’d rather come with you,” he says.
I stop. “Caleb, I think you should be with your friends tonight.”
He closes his eyes and scrubs a hand through his hair. “Let me try again.”
I look at him, waiting.
“Jeremiah was my best friend. Stuff happened, which I guess you’ve heard some of, and his parents didn’t want him hanging around me anymore. His sister is sort of the hall monitor—a mini version of his mom—and she somehow manages to always be around.”
I replay the way Jeremiah’s mom looked at Caleb as she drove by and his sister marched him down the sidewalk. I want to ask for more details, but he needs to want to tell me. The only way we can get closer is if he’s the one asking me in.
“If you need to know what happened, I’ll tell you,” Caleb says, “but not now.”
“Then soon,” I say.
“Just not here. It’s a Christmas parade! And we’ve got peppermint mochas.” He looks at something behind me and smirks. “Anyway, you’d probably miss some of what I said because of the band.”
As if on cue, the marching band breaks into a loud, percussive rendition of “Little Drummer Boy.”
I shout over them to be heard. “Point taken!”
We find Heather and Devon standing a block from where the parade begins. Devon clutches the clipboard to his chest, almost like a security blanket, while Heather glares at him.
“What’s up?” I ask.
“The Winter Queen asked for his number!” Heather blurts. “And I was standing right there!”
A tiny smile passes over Devon’s lips, and I almost smile back. Christy Wang has not changed at all. It also makes me wonder whether all of Heather’s talk about breaking up was just that . . . talk. She has to feel something for him, even if it only comes out as jealousy.
Caleb and I follow them to a small gap between families sitting on the curb to watch the parade. Heather sits down first and I squish up close beside her. Devon remains standing and Caleb gives him a fist bump before sitting next to me.
“She really asked for his number?” I say.
“Yes!” Heather hisses. “And I was standing right there!”
Devon leans forward. “I didn’t give it to her, though. I told her I already had a girl.”
“Had is almost right,” Heather says.
“She is a good-looking Winter Queen,” Caleb adds.
I hear the teasing in his voice, but I elbow him anyway. “Not cool.”
He smiles and bats his eyes like Mr. Innocent. Before Heather can say anything more, or Devon can dig himself a deeper hole, the Bulldogs marching band rounds the corner, led by the cheerleaders. The crowd cheers along to their instrumental “Jingle Bell Rock.”
I watch Jeremiah pass, drumsticks pattering away. We all clap along, but I slowly stop and study Caleb. After everyone else has turned to see the next group in the parade, Caleb’s eyes are still on the band. The drums are distant now but he keeps the rhythm, tapping his fingers against his knees.
Caleb shuts the tailgate behind another tree in the back of his truck. “Are you sure you have time for this?” he asks.
Actually, I do not have time for this. The lot gets slammed after the parade every year, but we came straight back and I asked Mom if I could go on this one run with Caleb. She gave me thirty minutes.
“It’s not a problem at all,” I say. Two more cars pull up to our lot and he gives me a skeptical look. “Okay, maybe it’s not the most convenient time, but I want to do this.”
He dimple-grins and walks around to his door. “Good.”
We pull up to a small, dark house only a few minutes away and both get out. He takes the middle of the tree and I grab the trunk. We walk up a few concrete steps to the front door and adjust our grips. At the sound of Caleb ringing the doorbell I can feel my heart start to race. I’ve always enjoyed selling trees, but surprising people with them is a whole new level of excitement.
The door opens fast. An irritated man glares from Caleb to the tree. An exhausted-looking woman beside him gives the same look to me.
“The food bank said you were coming earlier,” he snaps. “We missed the parade waiting for you!”
Caleb drops his gaze momentarily. “I am so sorry. I told them we’d be here after the parade.”
Through the doorway, I see a playpen in the living room with a diapered baby asleep inside of it.
“That’s not what they told us. So were they lying?” the woman says. She pulls the door open wider and nods into the house. “Just put it in the stand.”
Caleb and I carry in the tree, which now feels ten times heavier, and get it set up in a dark corner while they watch. After adjusting it a few times to make it as straight as possible, we stand back and look it over with the man. When he doesn’t object, Caleb motions for me to follow him back to the door.
“I do hope you have a merry Christmas,” Caleb says.
“It’s not off to a great start,” the woman mutters. “We missed the parade for this.”
I begin to twist around. “We heard you the—”
Caleb grabs my hand and pulls me toward the door. “Again, we’re very sorry.”
I follow him out the door, shaking my head. When we get back in the truck, I unload. “They didn’t even say thank you. Not once!”
Caleb starts the engine. “They missed the parade. They were frustrated.”
I blink. “Are you serious? You brought them a free tree!”
Caleb throws the truck into reverse and eases into the street. “I’m not doing this to earn a gold star. They had a little baby and they were probably tired. Missing the parade—misunderstanding or not—would be frustrating.”
“But you’re doing this with your own money on your own time . . .”
He looks at me and smiles. “So you would only do this if people tell you how awesome you are for it?”
I want to scream and laugh about how ridiculous those people were. About how ridiculous Caleb is being right now! Instead, I’m left speechless and he knows it. He laughs and then looks over his shoulder to change lanes.
I like Caleb. I like him even more every time I see him. And this can only lead to disaster. I’m leaving at the end of the month, he’s staying, and the weight of everything not said between us is growing too heavy to carry much longer.
Back at the lot, Caleb puts the truck in park but keeps the engine running. “Just so you know, I am very aware of how mean they were about getting a free tree. I have to believe, though, that everyone is allowed a bad day.”
The lights surrounding the lot bring shadows into Caleb’s truck. He looks at me, his features half hidden, but his eyes catch the light and beg to be understood.
“I agree,” I say.
CHAPTER TWELVE
It’s the busiest day at the lot so far. I barely have time to go to the bathroom, let alone eat lunch. So I pick at a bowl of mac and cheese at the counter in the rare moments between ringin
g up customers. Monsieur Cappeau sent an email this morning asking me to call him over the next day or so pour pratiquer, but that’s way down on my need-to-do list.
Today’s tree delivery came early again, not only before we opened but before any of the workers even arrived. Dad called a few of the more dependable ballplayers to come in early, so at least there were a handful of us to tiredly unload the shipment.
As exhausted as I am from unloading so many trees before breakfast, I’m grateful for the extra business. It feels like things may be picking up, and keeping the lot open another year could be a possibility.
I stand beside Mom at the register and point toward Mr. and Mrs. Ramsay outside. I attempt some tree lot commentary, like Caleb and his friends at the parade.
“Folks, it looks like the Ramsays are arguing over whether or not to pay extra for this stunning white pine,” I say.
Mom looks at me as if questioning my sanity, but I continue.
“We’ve seen this before,” I say, “and I don’t think I’m spoiling it to tell you Mrs. Ramsay will get her way. She’s never been a fan of the blue spruce, no matter what Mr. Ramsay says.”
Mom laughs, motioning for me to keep my voice down.
“A decision looks imminent!” I say.
Now we’re both glued to the scene playing out within our trees.
“Mrs. Ramsay is flapping her arms,” I say, “calling for her husband to just make up his mind if he wants to bring home anything at all. Mr. Ramsay compares the needles on both trees. What’s it going to be, folks? What’s it going to be? And . . . it’s . . . the . . . white pine!”
Mom and I throw our hands in the air and then I give her a high five.
“Mrs. Ramsay wins again,” I say.
The couple enters the Bigtop and Mom, biting her cheeks, ducks out. When Mr. Ramsay sets the final twenty-dollar bill on the counter, Mrs. Ramsay and I exchange knowing smiles. I hate to see anyone leave even slightly discouraged, so I tell Mr. Ramsay they made a great choice. White pines hold their needles better than some trees. They won’t need to vacuum them up before their grandkids arrive.
Before he can put away his wallet, Mrs. Ramsay takes it from him and slides me a ten-dollar tip for my help. They both leave happy, although she good-naturedly swats him and tells him he’s too cheap for his own good.
I stare at the ten-dollar bill, a hazy idea taking shape. I rarely receive tips since most people tip the guys who load their trees.
I send a text to Heather: Can we do some cookie making at your house tonight? Our trailer is a good home away from home, but it’s not built for a baking frenzy.
Heather texts back right away: Of course!
I immediately text Caleb: If you do a delivery tomorrow, I want to go. I’ll even have something to contribute besides my beguiling personality. I bet you never used that in a sentence!
A few minutes later, Caleb responds: I have not. And yes you may.
I tuck my phone away, smiling to myself. For the rest of the afternoon and evening the anticipation of spending more time with Caleb keeps me going. But as I count out the register at closing, I’m aware that this time needs to be about more than trees and cookies. If he makes me feel this happy now, and I can easily see things growing more intense, I need to know what happened with his sister. He did admit something happened, but knowing all that I do about him and all that I’ve seen, I can’t imagine it’s as bad as what some people believe.
At least, I hope it’s not.
Time drags at half-speed the next day. Heather and I were up late talking and baking Christmas cookies at her house. Devon stopped by in time to add frosting and sprinkles and help us sample about a dozen of them. With firsthand experience now, I agree that his stories are mind-numbing. His skills at cookie design almost made up for it, though.
I finish showing a customer how to price our trees based on the colored ribbons tied to them. Once he gets it and moves on, I hold on to one of the trees and close my heavy eyes for a moment. Upon opening them, I see Caleb’s truck pull in and feel suddenly fully awake.
Dad notices the truck, too. When I head to the Bigtop, he meets me at the register, a few tree needles stuck to his hair.
“Still spending time with this boy?” he asks. The tone is embarrassingly obvious.
I flick a few needles from his shoulder. “The boy’s name is Caleb,” I say, “and he doesn’t work here, so you can’t scare him out of talking to me. Plus, you have to admit, he is our best customer.”
“Sierra . . .” He doesn’t finish, but I want him to know that I’m not blind to our circumstance.
“We’re only here a few more weeks. I know. You don’t need to say it.”
“I just don’t want you getting your hopes up,” he says. “Or his, for that matter. Remember, we don’t even know if we’re coming back next year.”
I swallow past the lump in my throat. “Maybe it doesn’t make sense,” I say. “And I’m fully aware that I’m not usually like this, but . . . I like him.”
The way he winces, anyone watching would think I told him I was pregnant. Dad shakes his head. “Sierra, be—”
“Careful? Is that the cliché you’re looking for?”
He looks away. The unspoken irony is that he and Mom met this exact way. On this lot.
I brush another needle from his hair and kiss him on the cheek. “I hope you think I usually am.”
Caleb approaches the counter and sets down a tag from his next tree. “Tonight’s family is getting a beauty,” he says. “I noticed it the last time I was here.”
Dad smiles at him and politely claps him on the shoulder and then walks away without muttering a word.
“That means you’re winning him over,” I explain. I grab a sleigh-shaped cookie tin from below the register and Caleb raises his eyebrows. “Stop salivating. These are staying wherever we take the tree.”
“Wait, you made those for them?” I swear, it’s like his smile lights up the entire Bigtop.
After we deliver the tree and cookies to tonight’s family, Caleb asks if I would like to taste the best pancake in town. I agree, and he drives us to a twenty-four-hour diner that was probably last remodeled in the mid-1970s. A long stretch of windows lit by orange-hued lights frame a dozen booths. There are only two people seated inside, at opposite ends of the diner.
“Do we need to get tetanus shots to eat here?” I ask.
“This is the only place in town you can get a pancake as big as your head,” he says. “And do not tell me that hasn’t been a dream of yours.”
Inside the diner, a handwritten sign duct-taped to the register says Please seat yourself. I follow Caleb to a window booth, walking beneath red Christmas ornaments hung by fishing line to the ceiling tiles. We slide into a booth whose green vinyl covering has seen better days, but more than likely not in this century. After we each order the “world famous” pancake I fold my hands on the table and look at him. He thumbs the top of a large syrup pourer beside the napkins, sliding the lid open and shut.
“There’s no marching band,” I prompt. “If we talk, I should be able to hear you just fine.”
He stops playing with the syrup and leans back against the booth. “You really want to hear this?”
I honestly don’t know. He knows I’ve heard the rumors. Maybe I haven’t heard the truth. If the truth is better, he should jump at the chance to tell me.
He picks at the cuticle on his thumb.
“You can start by explaining why you haven’t used your new comb,” I say. The joke falls flat, but I hope he knows I’m trying.
“I used it this morning,” he says. He scrubs his fingers through his hair. “Maybe the one you got was defective.”
“I doubt it,” I say.
He takes a sip of water. After several more moments of silence, he asks, “Can we start by you telling me what y
ou’ve heard?”
I bite my lower lip, considering how to say this. “Exact words?” I say. “Well, I heard you attacked your sister with a knife.”
He closes his eyes. His body, almost undetectably, rocks back and forth. “What else?”
“That she doesn’t live here anymore.” It feels wrong that I even notice the butter knife on the napkin beside his hands.
“She lives in Nevada,” he says, “with our dad. She’s a freshman this year.”
He looks toward the kitchen, maybe hoping the waitress will interrupt our conversation. Or maybe he wants to get through it without interruption.
“And you live with your mom,” I say.
“Yes,” he says. “Obviously that’s not how things started.”
The waitress sets down two empty mugs and then fills them both with coffee. We each grab creamers and packets of sugar.
He’s still stirring his drink when he continues. “When my parents split, my mom took it really hard. She lost so much weight and cried a lot, which is normal, I guess. Abby and I both stayed with her while they figured things out.”
He takes a sip of his drink. I pick up mine and blow away the steam.
“Abby and I were given our own lawyer, which happens in some cases.” He takes another sip and then holds his mug in both hands, staring into it. “That’s when it all started. I was the one who said we should stay with our mom. I convinced Abby it’s what we needed to do. I told her she needed us and that Dad would be fine.”
I take a sip of my coffee while he still stares into his.
“But he wasn’t fine,” Caleb says. “I think I knew that for a while but I kept hoping he would pull it together. I think if I actually saw him every day, looking as hurt and broken down as my mom, I might have chosen him.”
“Why do you think he wasn’t fine?” I ask.
The waitress sets down our plates. The pancakes really are the size of our heads, but it does nothing to bring about the easy conversation Caleb probably hoped for when he chose this place. Still, they offer a distraction for both of us as the talk continues. I pour syrup over mine and, with a butter knife and fork, start cutting up half of it.