by Wendy Loggia
Then I freeze. Did I just grab Jacob’s hand?
“I’m sorry,” I say, shocked. I try to retrieve my hand from Jacob’s grasp.
But his bare fingers interlace with my gloved ones. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those girls who apologizes for things she doesn’t need to apologize for.”
“I’m not,” I say, feeling my face flush. “I just…I guess something came over me. I’m…”
“Not sorry,” Jacob finishes for me, swinging my hand forward. “Because I’m not.”
“Oh. Okay,” I say, fully aware that I’m blushing. I try to remain nonchalant, as if I always traipse through tree farms holding hands with boys.
“So, to answer what I think you were getting at,” Jacob says, “my family has owned this farm for two generations. Hopefully I’ll be the third.”
I gaze around in wonder. “Your family owns this place? You own a Christmas tree farm?”
“Indeed we do,” Jacob says, gesturing to the barn and the land. “My grandfather built it from the ground up, and when it got too much for him, he sold it to my dad and my uncle Billy.”
He pulls me toward the green barn and explains how it works. Once you pick out your tree, the workers put the tree in this loud orange contraption that bags the tree in netting. Then the workers carry the tree to your car and strap it to the roof. In the meantime, you pay for your tree inside the barn.
A woman in a blue puffer vest, a quilted pullover, and a striped pom-pom hat is finishing up with some customers. She puts cash inside an old-fashioned cash register, and when she looks up, her face brightens.
“Hi, honey,” she says, smiling at Jacob. “This must be Bailey. I’m Christine Marley, Jacob’s mom.”
Instinctively I drop Jacob’s hand. “Oh, wow, hi,” I say, both taken aback and excited that she knows who I am. Jacob’s mom has his same, easy smile and the same hair color. The main difference is…she’s much shorter. “And this is Dickens.” There’s a worn cushioned dog bed behind the register and Dickens goes over to it and lies down.
“Aw, man, I wanted him to explore the farm with us,” Jacob says as Dickens wags his tail at him.
“Next time,” Mrs. Marley says. “Let him stay here with me. I like having a four-legged companion.”
“That sounds great,” I say, tossing my end of the leash beside him. “If he starts any trouble, just text Jacob and I’ll come back and get him.”
“All right, Ma. Do you need me to do anything?” Jacob asks. He puts his palms on the worn wooden counter and lifts himself off the ground, then drops back to his feet.
His mom picks up a travel coffee mug and takes a sip. “You can see if there are any saws left out there on the farm.” She shakes her head and gives me a What can you do? smile. “Even though we tell people to make sure to bring their saws back, only half of them do.” She sighs. “I guess they’re just too excited about their trees.”
Jacob leans over and kisses his mom on the cheek. “We’ll go round ’em up.”
“It was nice to meet you, Bailey,” his mom says as we leave. “I hope you enjoy yourself.”
“Thank you,” I tell her as I follow Jacob out of the barn. “I’m sure I will.”
We make our way down a worn dirt path toward the trees. “It might look like a postcard, but it gets pretty steep over here,” Jacob explains as we walk. “I don’t want you to fall.”
“Watch out. It’s very steep,” yell two girls who look like they’re in middle school as they run past us clutching their phones. “Safety first!” I hear faint laughter as they head up the hill.
“So let me get this straight,” I begin, taking in the woodsy fragrance. “You, the guy who wore a Bah Humbug sweater, the guy who turned off ‘Dominic the Donkey,’ own a Christmas tree farm?”
Jacob shakes his head. “I don’t. My family does.”
I gesture expansively at the hundreds of trees that dot the wintry landscape. “Semantics.” Honestly, I can’t think of a better family business to own—other than a bakery. Or a bookstore.
“And I gotta tell you, I kind of think you got the wrong idea about me,” Jacob says, with a slight edge to his voice. “The sweater was a joke. Just because I don’t walk around barfing candy canes doesn’t mean I’m not into Christmas, Bailey. I grew up on a Christmas tree farm,” he reminds me. “Maybe you just go a little overboard.”
My friends have made fun of my spirit before, but hearing Jacob say it stings a little. I’m silent for a second, processing. “You’re right.” I shrug. “I guess I’m so into the holiday season that sometimes I go a little hard. It can be rough for me to relate when people aren’t as into it as I am.”
“No worries. You keep being you. My brother’s that way about Disney,” Jacob says as we avoid a muddy tractor print. “He’s got lists ranking his top favorite rides, he knows whenever there’s going to be a new attraction, he has Mickey Mouse sheets…he’s obsessed.”
I gasp. “Me too!”
Jacob chuckles. “Should have known.” We wander around for a while. Jacob moves apart some tree branches and shows me how to spot the remnants of a bird’s nest. “I think you’re really lucky to have this place,” I tell him after he points someone in the direction of a Norway spruce. “I admit it—I’m jealous.”
“Thanks,” he says. “It’s fun showing the place off to someone who appreciates it.”
“Your mom said something about saws?” I remind him. “What’s that about?”
“When people walk through the barn, they’re supposed to pick up a saw so they can do the actual sawing,” he explains. “And then they’re supposed to bring the saw back up to the barn when they’re done. But sometimes people forget to bring the saws up and leave them out in the fields.”
“That seems kind of dangerous, letting people run around with saws,” I say, glancing warily around for potential hackers.
Jacob laughs. “Handsaws only, no power saws. It’s not exactly the chainsaw massacre out here. People aren’t just randomly running with saws,” he says. “Some farms only let staff do the sawing. But my grandpa says that takes away from the whole experience of picking out your own tree. At Marleys’, you pick out your own tree and you handsaw it. And that won’t change,” Jacob tells me. I get the feeling that he’s telling himself as well.
Jacob looks downcast. “This is kind of a strange year for us. It’s the first year without my grandpa here full-time, and it’s the first year without Wags running around making everyone laugh.”
“That sucks.”
“Pretty much,” he says. “My uncle and my dad said that this year would be our most important yet.” He shakes his head. “It’s like they have to prove to themselves they can still keep the holiday spirit going without them both around.”
“What was he like?” I ask. “Wags,” I clarify hastily. “Your grandpa is still alive, right?”
“Oh, yeah. My grandpa’s good. He comes by once a week to check on things.” Jacob grins. “And Wags, man, he was so cool. He’d run around the trees and bark whenever he found a saw. He loved playing with kids. He loved apples and dried chicken. And he kept everyone company in the barn. He was fourteen when we put him down, but up until the last few weeks, he still acted like a puppy.” Jacob looks up at the clouds, like he’s blinking back tears, which makes me get a lump in my throat. It’s like when someone yawns and you start yawning. I’m that way when I see people crying.
“We don’t deserve dogs,” I say.
Jacob fist-bumps me. “Truth. My mom and brother want to get another one, but my dad and I aren’t ready,” Jacob says, sounding like that day is very far away. “We’ll see.” We come to a stop in front of a cluster of trees and he reaches over and gives one a shake. “These are Douglas firs. They’re our most popular type of tree. They hold up pretty good as long as you water them.”
“How much are they?” I ask, happy to change the subject.
“We charge eleven dollars per foot,” Jacob says.
“Worth it. It’s so classic-looking,” I say, admiring a tall one with a full shape. “This one is nice.” It even has tiny sprouted pine cones.
Jacob pulls off a dark green needle and rubs it between his fingers. “The needles smell really sweet when you crush them,” he says.
I lean over and take a sniff. “Mmmm, piney.”
We walk a little farther, wandering around the trees. Twigs and pine branches are scattered in the snow. “Over here we have some Fraser firs and Norway spruce,” he tells me, and it’s fun to see how proud he is. “And our blue spruces are pretty popular too. People like how symmetrical they are and they’re really good for holding heavy ornaments.”
“Blue spruce…that’s what we got this year,” I say. “My dad picked our tree up at a local garden store. If I’d known that your family owned a tree farm, we totally would have come here to cut it down.”
“That’s what they all say.”
“I mean it,” I insist. I point to a short tree. “I claim this one for next year.”
“I’ll put a Reserved sign on it,” Jacob says, pretending to write out an invisible tag and hang it on the tree. “You haven’t lived until you’ve played tree tag. Running through the rows of firs, making sure my uncle doesn’t yell at us…you up for it?”
“Christmas tree tag?” I blow out my breath. “Remember, I’m the girl who goes overboard, Jacob. How could I not be up for it?”
“Okay, well. First we need to collect the saws so we don’t face-plant and get an unexpected trip to the ER.” He rubs his hands together. “And then it’s game on, Briggs.”
I can’t keep the smile off my face after Jacob drops me off. This has possibly been one of the best days of my life. Okay, maybe that’s dramatic, but it definitely is one of the best days I’ve had in a long time. I still can’t get over the fact that Jacob’s family owns a Christmas tree farm. I imagine Jacob there as a kid, playing hide-and-seek in the woods, running around like Taylor Swift when she was a little girl growing up on a Christmas tree farm. (I have only watched that video, oh, about twenty times.) Toddler Taylor was so cute. Toddler Jacob would have been pretty darn adorable. When we were leaving the farm, Jacob took Dickens on a run through the trees. Dickens was panting, his little pink tongue hanging out of his mouth, and Jacob was egging him on to go faster as I laughed.
So basically? He’s adorable now.
I’ve tried to fight how I’m feeling, but it’s no use. Jacob makes me happy. He’s sweet to his mom. He’s hardworking. He’s straightforward. And he has a soft spot for dogs. All the traits I’ve projected on him at school…some of them might have been accurate, but not all of them. I realize it isn’t fair to judge a person until you get to know them. And I am liking getting to know him.
My dad and Liam are watching Sunday Night Football and are so busy yelling at the TV that they don’t even notice me walk in holding Dickens. “I feel so seen,” I say to their backs as I enter the kitchen, where I lower him to the floor. Then I warm up a bowl of spaghetti Mom has left for me. This is the second Sunday dinner I’ve missed in a row, and by the way the kitchen smells, I have a pretty good hunch there was garlic bread and Liam ate it all.
“Here you go, D,” I say to Dickens, filling his bowl with kibble. He wags his tail. I shake some Parmesan cheese onto my pasta and then shake some more on top of his kibble before putting his bowl down next to his water. “Eat up, dude.”
I pour myself a glass of water and sit at the island. This had been a day. Jacob really opened up to me. It makes me feel special knowing that he considers me someone he can confide in. Though I’m not sure I should put too much weight on it, I decide, absently twirling my pasta. It’s hard to imagine any of the guys he was dueling with at the party or hanging out with at school being sympathetic about losing your dog. I have a hunch he keeps things on a bro level with them. I’ve seen it with my own brother: guys have deep, real feelings…but they don’t always show them.
Not that Jacob’s friends would be mean about it or anything. In fact, if he had posted about his dog’s passing on Instagram—which I know he didn’t, because I went back through his feed for the past year—people would have left all kinds of sympathetic comments, like So sorry for your loss and Love you, man and Here for you, bro. But it would just be a bunch of words and likes—it was a lot different to have a face-to-face conversation or to sit and really listen.
I pull out my phone and reply to a few texts and Snapchats from my friends while I eat. Then I put my dishes in the dishwasher and go up to my room. I still have homework to do, and I want to shower before Karolyn takes over the bathroom. She has a very intense regimen on Sunday nights—she washes her hair, applies a fruit-scented conditioning mask, waits for thirty minutes, then rinses it off, all while hogging the bathroom. She insists that since it’s only a once-a-week thing, I can deal.
It feels good to peel off all the layers and wiggle my toes after a day spent outside and in boots. After I shower, I put on a pair of flannel pj bottoms and a T-shirt, wrap my hair up in my Turbie Twist, and slather peppermint body lotion on my legs. I have a bunch of beauty products I only use during the holidays—candy-cane body scrubs, marshmallow lip balms. I even have a body spray called Winter Wilderness. It’s a bit extra, but I apply it anyway.
An hour later, I’ve finished all my homework and am lying on my bed scrolling through Instagram on my phone and listening to music when there’s a knock at my door.
“Laundry fairy!” Mom pushes open the door, a stack of folded tops and lacy underwear in her hands. She puts it on top of my dresser and inhales. “It smells like a peppermint explosion in here.”
I shrug. “What can I say? I like to moisturize.”
She sits down on the edge of my bed. I know what’s coming. “So, by the way you’re acting it seems like you had a pretty good time today,” she says, her tone light.
“How am I acting?” I ask, trying to stay poker-faced. Then my lips split into a grin. “Yeah. I did have a pretty good time.”
My mom smiles back at me. “Do you want to tell me about it?”
And so I do. I tell her everything, from the Christmas tunes in the truck to the fact that Jacob made us tea to the bigger fact that his family owns a tree farm. I tell her about Jacob’s mom and how the two of them have the exact same smile and how everyone was so nice to me.
“Well I’d hope so,” she says, nudging my shoulder. “You’re a real catch.”
“Mom, stop.” I lean back on my plush cream-colored high-backed reading pillow. “Don’t say things like that if you want me to keep talking.”
She laughs. “Knowing you, I can’t believe you didn’t come home with a tree.”
I hesitate. “I…did?” I say, giving her my best I know you really love me so please don’t kill me look. “Jacob’s family insisted that I leave with a tree,” I add quickly. “I didn’t want to hurt their feelings.”
Mom looks around my bedroom with a confused expression, as if the tree were going to pop out of my closet. “Uh, okay,” she says. “But where is it?”
“On the front porch,” I say. “It’s really small. We named it Wilbur.”
“The runt of the pine trees, huh?” Mom says, recognizing the Charlotte’s Web reference like I knew she would.
“Yep.” I roll onto my side. “I didn’t want to bring it in until we figured out where it can go.”
“How about right here, in your room?” Mom asks. “We can put it next to your dresser.” She raises an eyebrow as she takes in the piles of clutter next to my bed. “That is, if it will fit.”
“Oh, it’ll fit,” I say excitedly. “I love that idea.”
Mom kicks off her slippers and lies down facing me, propping herself up on one arm.
“But do you love Jacob?” she asks, using what I guess she thinks is a French accent. Instead she sounds like she has a bad cold.
“If you want me to tell you things, can you not?” I say with a frown. Of the three of us, I am the one sibling my parents can count on to tell them every minute detail of their day, but right now I’m not in the mood. I wave my finger at her. “That was a really dumb thing to say.”
She holds up the hand she isn’t using to support herself. “I’m kidding, Bailey. Obviously.” Then she winks. “But Jacob did look pretty happy to see you, from what I could tell. And I liked that he held the door for you.”
“Argh! I knew you guys were watching us out the window,” I groan, whacking her on the thigh with my furry avocado pillow.
But the weird accent she used makes me think of accents, and then I think about Charlie. Cute, witty, model-perfect Charlie. He hasn’t entered my mind the entire day. It’s like my head only has room for one guy at a time. When I’m with Jacob, he’s all I can think of. And when I’m with Charlie? Same. Thinking of him now makes me feel confused, and almost sick to my stomach. I don’t want to hurt either of them.
“Jacob seems like a fun person to spend time with, and he’s a gentleman,” Mom muses, picking a long stray hair off my quilt and tossing it into the trash can next to my bed.
It’s strange to hear her say this because (1) I highly value my mom’s opinion and she is usually right about people, and (2) I never thought Jacob would be placed in the “gentleman” category.
“Yeah, a gentleman,” I echo, but now I’m the one who sounds weird. “Mom, do you think you can like two boys at once?” I blurt out the question that has been plaguing me. “Hypothetically speaking.”
“Like, like them?” she asks.