Page 22 of Meet Me on Mistletoe Lane

“James.” He stuck out his hand.

“Gianna,” I said, shaking it.

“Be careful out there, Gianna.” He gave a small salute before he disappeared into Eve’s café.

Thirty minutes and one run-in-with-a-cranky-aunt later, I made my way back onto Mistletoe Lane, my eyes darting everywhere for any more unexpected ice patches as I parked outside of The Market. Fresh Christmas wreaths with bright red bows hung on the two open barn-style doors. Potted poinsettias covered the tops of the barrels that framed the entrance along with two new large trees with silver and gold ornaments.

Trees that perfect must’ve come from the Holts.

Inside, white lights ran across every exposed beam in the ceiling, and the garland Aunt Helen had attempted to wrap around the mason-jar chandelier a week ago now hung perfectly from it. Bing Crosby crooned from the nearby record player, and for just a moment, it felt like it always did this time of year.

Magical.

Sandy, an old American bulldog who technically didn’t belong to anyone but nevertheless made herself at home at The Market, trotted inside carrying a small square frame in her mouth.

“Come here, girl,” I said, crouching down. She walked right up to me and cocked her head as if to question why I summoned her. “Whatcha got there?”

Sandy gently dropped the frame to the floor. I patted the cluster of spots on her back before picking up the frame and wiping away the grime on the glass. It was an older picture of my Papa and Sam’s grandpa, arms around each other’s shoulders, both beaming with pride, as Sam’s grandpa held up a large fish.

“I love that picture,” Sam said, suddenly appearing at my side with two travel mugs of something steaming hot. “Gram used to have one just like it near her piano…”

It had only been five years, but it still felt like yesterday. Gram had said their husbands passed on the same day because they hated competing with each other. Nona believed it was because they didn’t want either of their wives to be a third wheel.

Whatever the reason, that kind of friendship was precious and rare.

I should know, because I felt the same way about the boy in front of me.

And yet I still couldn’t stop Taylor Swift’s “Ruin the Friend-ship” from playing through my head.

“Do you want to keep it?” I stood and held out the picture for Sam.

He shook his head. “Let’s just add it to her pile of other stuff.”

Sandy had been presenting everyone in Mullings Creek with random items from the town and its history for years. We all assumed they held some cosmic purpose we didn’t yet understand, so we chose to keep all of them in an old chest near her doggy bed at the back of The Market.

I placed the frame next to Sandy and rubbed her cold fur before she picked it up again and ambled away.

Sam held out one of the cups. “I got your favorite: cocoa with a shot of peppermint and a dash of cinnamon on the whipped cream.”

I took the cup and breathed in the familiar scent. “Thanks.”

“Sure.”

We both drummed our fingers on our cups for a moment before speaking at the same time.

“I’m sorry—”

“I’m sorry.” I laughed.

“You have nothing to be sorry about.” Sam stepped closer to me. “I was the jerk who completely ruined your good news about Italy. And it is good news, G. I’m so excited for you.”

He smiled, but I knew that smile.

It was the same one he gave his parents when they forced him to accept a mayoral award for “Spirit of Mullings Creek” a couple of years ago after he spent weeks building new benches in the park. The same one reserved for any foolish adult who argued with him about pine trees, despite knowing a thousand times more on the subject.

And seeing Sam fake smile about my news gave me a pang of sadness deep inside.

“I know it’s not how you envisioned our senior year going, but I promise to make up for it with the best holiday season ever. Okay?” I touched his arm, and that new warm, fizzy feeling wound around my hand and wrist.