Page 24

“Right.”

“Because of the tree.”

“Got it.”

“Obviously.”

I let her keep talking because interrupting would have made it worse for both of us and my heart had started beating so fucking loud that I didn’t want her to hear it.

She raced into the front room and started peeling tape away from the large cardboard box I’d brought in the day before. The tree had been packed in sections, the wooden branches wrapped in heavy paper. Emmy’s expression changed as the paper fell away.

“You really care about this thing,” I said.

She ran her fingers over one of the wrapped branches. “I wanted something people could do that wasn’t just buying stuff.”

“You own a store.”

“I’m aware. I just wanted the shop to feel like more than that.”

I waited for an explanation. She had a reason, and I wanted to hear it.

“When I was a kid, there was a tree at the library every Christmas where people wrote wishes on paper stars. Not gift wishes. Real ones.”

“What’d you wish for?”

Her hands stopped.

Damn. I’d pushed. I went back to pulling more branches out of the box, hoping she’d ignore the question.

“The year my dad got laid off, I wished my parents would stop fighting about money,” she said. “I was nine. I knew every conversation changed when I walked into the room. That was worse than hearing them argue, because then I knew they were trying to protect me from something.” Her lips curled up in a small smile. “My dad found another job. I also wished for a pony that year, so I was covering all my bases.”

“That sounds about right.”

“For a nine-year-old?”

“For you.”

She bumped my shoulder. “Rude.” Then she looked at the wood again. “I want to save the wishes every year. Maybe display some the next Christmas, if people say it’s okay. If I’m asking people to care about the shop, I want the shop to care about them too.”

That told me more about her than anything she’d said since she got here. Emmy joked when things got too personal and filled quiet spaces because silence made her uncomfortable. But under all of it, she paid attention. To people. To whatever might make them feel like somebody had noticed.

“You were right to come get it,” I said.

Her head turned. “You spent yesterday telling me I was an idiot.”

“I never called you an idiot. I said trying to drive back to town in the ice would be a bad idea.”

“Same difference.”

“Not even close.” I shrugged. “But I get why you didn’t want to leave it until after Christmas.”

Her expression softened. “Thank you.”

“You still should’ve checked the weather.”

She rolled her eyes and unwrapped the next set of branches. By the time everything was spread across my living-room floor, my house looked like it had been turned into Santa’s workshop.

“Are there instructions?” I asked.