“Yeah, well, your pine friend Billy Bob is making my hands bleed. Surely, he can take a little ribbing.”
“I think you need to apologize to the tree, Luke. It’s not his fault you didn’t bring gloves.”
“I think you need to move your little ass up the stairs,” he retorts.
When I still don’t move, Luke jumps right into action, readjusting his position so he can lift the top of the tree from my hands and toss the whole damn thing over his shoulder.
“Christ,” he mutters and moves up the stairs with ease.
I fight the urge to giggle and follow his lead.
And, because I can’t help myself, I shout “Pivot!” every time he has to round a corner and start a new flight of stairs.
By the time we make it into my apartment, Luke is beyond annoyed with me.
On a huff, he sets the tree against the wall beside the large windows of my living room and strides right toward me, lifting my whole body up and over his shoulder.
I squeal.
With me in a firefighter’s carry, he stomps around my apartment, exclaiming, “Pivot, Ace! Pivot!”
“Oh my God, Luke!” I shout. “Put me down!”
“Put you where?” he questions and spins to the right, then to the left.
“Down! Put me down, you crazy person!”
“Over here?” He moves toward the couch.
“Yes!”
“Right here? On the couch?”
“Oh my God! Yes!”
“Oh, okay,” he says and unceremoniously drops me onto my sectional sofa, and my purse flies off my shoulder as my body bounces up and down on the cushions.
“You’re a lunatic,” I mutter through a few giggles, brushing my blond hair out of my face.
Luke just grins down at me, his hands resting firmly on his hips. “I just carried your tree fifteen blocks, and you’re calling me names.”
“Yes, lunatic. But thank you. I very much appreciate that.” I wink and stand up from the couch to unwrap the burlap and rope from my tree.
Once Billy Bob—whom I named after the Billy Bob Thornton from Bad Santa—is completely unwrapped and all set up in front of the windows, I stand back and take in the view.
“He’s glorious.”
Luke wraps his arm around my shoulders and scoffs. “I hate to break it to ya, Ace, but he makes Charlie Brown’s Christmas tree look good.”
I slap him in the stomach, but by the way he laughs, I’d say my playful efforts have all the intensity of a gnat.
“So, now what do we do?”
“We decorate him, silly,” I reply and nudge his hip with mine.
“I know that’s what we’d do with a traditional tree. But Billy Bob?” He shakes his head. “He’ll hold what…two, maybe three ornaments, tops?”
“You’re such a grinch,” I mutter. Conveniently, I brought up the box of ornaments and tinsel and garland and lights from basement storage earlier this morning—read: I made Luke bring it up this morning—so I head right for it and get to work.
“I might be a grinch, but you and ole Billy would just be two passing ships without me. And…I guess…I’ll still help you decorate your tree.”
“Yeah?” I ask, and he nods.
“Of course. Give it water too. I didn’t put in all this work just to let him die.”
At his words, my heart does a weird flip-floppy thing inside my chest—Luke and I have been through so much together, and he always looks out for me. I open my mouth to say something—thank him, maybe—but my phone starts ringing from my purse that’s sitting between two couch cushions, obnoxiously shaking the bag with its vibration and pulling me out of the sentimental moment. I run over to my bag and pull out the phone to see Incoming Call Dad flashing on the screen.
Good ole Guy Lucie.
I just get it answered before my ringtone comes to an end.
“Ava, it’s your dad.”
I snort. Somehow, he still hasn’t figured out the consequences of the information age and instant caller ID. “I know, Dad. What’s up?”
“Did you get my email?”
“What email?”
“The one I just sent a few minutes ago.”
“Uh…no, sorry. I’ve been busy putting up my Christmas tree. Haven’t checked my inbox,” I respond, multitasking by organizing my ornaments, rearranging them one by one on my coffee table. In true Ava Lucie fashion, they are a tangled mess from last year’s lackluster effort at putting them away.
“What the hell are you putting up a Christmas tree for? You’re going to be in Vermont for Christmas.”
“Because I love Christmas,” I retort. “Pretty sure I learned that from you, big Guy. In fact, given the timing, I