“This city is a little bit magic. I bet it’s even better with snow.”
“It’s not. The traffic is terrible, bus routes are canceled, trains are delayed, and it’s a matter of hours before all that sparkling white snow turns to disgusting sludge.”
“You are way too young to be so cynical.”
“You’re not wrong,” he says lightly as his fingers thread through mine again. It’s the best kind of surprise, a shock to my already overloaded system. My heart skips in my chest as I walk down a dark NYC street with a cute stranger who represents possibilities I never dared to dream of.
Several blocks later, we pass the place where the vendor was selling Christmas trees yesterday. He’s gone, but a few trees lean against the side of an alley, looking lonely and sad. “We have to take one home.”
Harrison sighs, heavy and long-suffering.
“C’mon! We have to! Tomorrow is Christmas, and your apartment, no offense, is dark and depressing and hopelessly sad.”
He laughs. “No offense?”
“I’m taking it.” I pick the tree closest to us and reach through the branches to get a good grip on the trunk.
“Isn’t this stealing?”
“No, it’s charity. One less tree to deal with in the morning.”
He grumbles but eventually bends to help me lift the heavy tree; as he does, his dragon book slips unnoticed out of his jacket pocket.
“You dropped this!” I set the tree down and reach for the book. My eyes snag on a familiar-looking symbol. It’s swirly and black and— “Your tattoo! This is on your chest!”
Harrison props the tree trunk against his shoulder and takes the book, sliding it into his pocket. “Yep.”
“What is it? You have to tell me now. I’ll look it up, I’ll figure it out, I’ll—”
“Reaper in the Stars. It’s my favorite book. I’ve reread it every winter since I was fifteen.”
“What’s it about?”
He lifts the tree again. “I’ll tell you as we walk.” He nods to the front of the tree, which I lift eagerly. “It’s about—”
“Speak louder!” I call over my shoulder.
I can feel Harrison roll his eyes, but he raises his voice. “It’s about dragons and warring kingdoms and found family and fighting for what you believe in.”
“And the symbol?”
“Is the seal of the dragon warriors.”
At this, I drop the tree again. I turn to him with a grin. “You tattooed a symbol for a fictional dragon warrior on your chest?”
“Yeah …” He shifts the tree on his shoulder, looking uneasy.
“You’re a closet nerd!” I clap my hands together in excitement. This is the best discovery I’ve made all day.
“There’s nothing closeted about it.” He sets the tree back down and pulls his phone out of his pocket. He unlocks it and scrolls for a couple of seconds before turning the screen to face me. I gasp in happy surprise. Judging by the shorter hair and softer features, it’s an old picture, and Harrison is dressed in full fantasy garb, standing in front of a giant Reaper in the Stars poster.
“You cosplay!”
“Less now, but I used to dress up and go to all the local conventions.”
“Why did you stop?” I ask, eyes returning to the picture of young Harrison. Behind him, a man is standing on the hem of his cloak, and Harrison’s brows are drawn in annoyance. Same old Harrison, even in medieval trappings. I find it a little too endearing.
“Not any specific reason. I grew up. Got a girlfriend. Mom left. Dad got sick. Life got in the way.” He holds his hand out for the phone and I give it back, letting my cold fingers brush against his.
“Then why get that tattoo?”
He hesitates.
“Come on, it’s just you, me, and New York City. Who am I going to tell?”
He takes a deep breath. “I got the tattoo to remind myself of what it’s like to be fifteen. It was an attempt to take myself less seriously, but joke’s on me ’cause every morning I look in the mirror and feel like I’m off to fight my demons.” He juts out his chin, daring me to make fun of him, but I would never. Not for this.
“I’m sorry you have demons” is all I can think to say. I grab his hand, wrapping my freezing fingers around it.
“I’m not the only one who does,” he says. We’re close enough that I can see the small puffs of air as he breathes. He surveys me with dark, unreadable eyes. We stand like that for several seconds, eyes locked, before he clears his throat and shakes off my touch.
“Your hands are freezing. We should go,” he says. We lug the heavy tree the rest of the way to his apartment and up five flights of stairs. Needles drop to the ground, leaving an incriminating trail behind us. By the time we get to his door, my hands are covered in sap, needles are in my hair, and all the muscles in my body are burning.
Tyson and Mom are once again in the kitchen with takeout, and as starved as I am, we have to deal with the tree first. “I think I have a stand somewhere,” Tyson says. Ten minutes later he emerges from his closet with a small, rusty tree stand, a box of tangled lights, and a handful of mismatched ornaments. Harrison twists large bolts into the trunk while I hold the tree upright and Mom directs me which way to push it so that it’s standing straight.
“The Christmas tree was always Jenna’s doing,” Tyson says quietly to Mom as they untangle an old strand of lights. She lays her hand gently on his arm. I follow Harrison to the kitchen for bowls of Thai food. His hair is a dark curtain over his face as he dishes himself a plate of yellow curry.
“You’ve got needles in your hair,” I say. He brushes them away, then thinks better of it and ties his hair up in a high bun. “Do you want to talk about your mom?”
Harrison rears his head back. “No.”
“Okay. We can if you want to, though. I heard your dad say that she used to be in charge of all this Christmas stuff, so I understand if you’re feeling weird about it or whatever.”
“She’s not dead. She lives in Vermont with her boyfriend. I’ll see her next week.”
My cheeks burn in embarrassment. “Oh—okay,” I stammer. “Sorry I brought it up.”
“And before you get any other ideas, I don’t want to talk about my dad and his MS or my ex either.”
“Understood,” I lie.
The silence is tense between us as we eat. I keep my eyes on my plate, blinking away tears. When he mentioned his demons, I thought he might want to talk to me. I thought I might want to talk to him. To be shut down so completely is humiliating. And to be humiliated makes me feel panicky, wishing I could retrace my steps until I find a spot where I didn’t feel this way.
When Harrison leaves the kitchen, I call Fitz. More than anything, I need to hear his reassuring voice, telling me that everything will be okay. That my demons aren’t so big. The phone rings and rings and rings, eventually sending me to the dreaded voicemail. I hang up without leaving a message.
I join the festivities in the living room and watch Mom and Tyson laugh and dance and decorate the tree. When they say good night, I’m not tired, so I sit in the glow of the twinkle lights with my arms wrapped around my knees.