I pull the car to a stop at the roadside overlook midway between the town of Romeo and our cabin.
The narrow country road that leads to our cabin winds through the quiet northern woods, tracking along the mountain.
In the summer the woods are a cool, jewel-green haven full of chirping wood thrush, tittering squirrels, and the occasional black bear snuffling the wild raspberry bushes that thrive at the woodland’s edge.
But in winter these woods are still, the evergreens hold the thick snow in their arms, like a mother cradling a child, hushing the forest into a quiet winter sleep. I love the woods in winter.
“There’s an overlook just through there,” I tell Gabe, parking in the crescent drive looping off the road.
It’s a small scenic pull-off, there’s a twenty-foot trail—now blanketed with deep, undisturbed snow—that leads under fanning tree branches to a view of the mountain dipping lazily down toward Romeo.
The mountains here in Upstate are not the towering sharply pointed behemoths of the west, nor are they the majestic blue and purple-tinged rolling mountains of the south, no, the mountains here are gentle, timeworn—they look like a fluffy down comforter thrown over a bed and not smoothed out. The low waves and ripples are our mountains. I prefer them above all others.
“This is a new Christmas tradition?” Gabe asks, his presence warming the car faster than any heater could.
“I hope so.” I turn off the car, the engine cutting out and leaving only the winter silence of outside and the puff of our breath still hanging in the cold air. “Come on.”
I hop out of the car, the winter biting at my cheeks and filling my lungs. It’s late afternoon, and the sun is falling, sliding down the mountain. It gets dark early in winter this far north, the sky is already deep gray blue fading toward purple.
The snow sinks beneath my feet and when I shut my door it echoes over the woods.
While Gabe climbs out of his side I walk to the back of the car and open the trunk. It creaks, the canary yellow paint flashing against the snowy woods like the feathers of a flying wood thrush. The scent of gasoline drifts up from the darkness.
“I was hoping this wouldn’t be a tradition…” Gabe says, walking around the car, brushing his fingers over my cheek, playing with the hair coming out from under my winter hat.
I scoff and then lean toward him, his warmth pulling me in.
The road is deserted, the mountainside quiet. The winter wind and the smell of snow are our only companions. With my family at the cabin, I won’t find a quieter place to do this.
Plus Miss Erma said I knew what to do.
Which means, well, it means what I knew and should’ve acknowledged the second I laid eyes on Gabe stalking toward me in his office in New York.
I didn’t realize though that I’d be so scared of this moment. I always thought that when I found the man I believed was my soul mate that I’d give him this gift at the first opportunity. I always imagined that it’d be like my parents—both Christmas lovers—and I’d know without a doubt that this was the right thing to do.
It’s funny how I never thought to give this gift to Jason, which means that I knew, even if I wasn’t ready to admit it, that he wasn’t the one.
And now, here I am, after only two days of knowing Gabe, ready to give him my heart.
I reach into the depths of the dark trunk, the black carpet swallowing the fading light. The space is empty except for one thing—my present.
I grip it and pull it out. The present is a little larger than a book, but lighter. The paper is metallic red, crisply folded, and wrapped with a large gold bow. The wrapping paper has a few scuff marks, it’s years old after all, and the bow is creased and flattened from bumping around the trunk.
As I squeeze the cold present in my hands, the icy air catches in my lungs. I’ve been carrying this present around with me for so many years it’s frightening to finally let it go.
“Do you want to see the overlook?” I ask, shutting the trunk carefully.
“Alright,” Gabe says, pulling his warm fingers from the back of my neck where he’d been playing with my hair.
We’re bundled in all the winter gear the cabin had to offer—hats, down-filled jackets, knitted scarves—but it’s still nose-nippingly cold.
Gabe leads the way, and I follow behind, stepping in his deep footprints, hanging on to his hand, holding the present in my other.
The trees arch overhead, shading the light and creating a snow tunnel that leads to the vista’s edge. The trees part at the end of the trail, breaking open at a rustic wooden fence piled high with snow.
From the wooden fence, the mountain slopes gently down, rolling over snow-bathed stones and evergreens, until miles beyond, there’s Romeo, cradled in the valley, next to the river, lit up like a watercolor village on a Christmas card.
With dusk arriving, the Christmas lights of Romeo glow brightly and if they made sound, they’d sound like chiming bells and choral voices.
“Isn’t it magical?” I ask, staring out over the valley.
When Gabe doesn’t answer, I glance at him, only to find that he isn’t looking at Romeo, he’s watching me with a small smile.
Warmth flows over me like I just took a long sip of steaming hot cocoa and I feel my cheeks flushing. When Gabe sees this, his smile grows wider.
I hold the present out to him, the golden setting sun catching the metallic red of the paper. The cold wind strums the bow, thrumming it quietly.
“What is it?” Gabe asks, his brow lowering. He looks from the present back to me, frowning. “It was in the trunk with me.”
I nod, my hands shaking. “It’s a Christmas present. For you.”
Gabe closes his hands over mine. His are warm, strong, and when he wraps my hands in his I stop shaking.
“Why are you nervous?” He studies me in the quickly fading light.
“I’m not,” I say hurriedly, and Gabe smiles at me, lifting an eyebrow. Apparently he can read my prevarication as well as I can read his.
He takes the present then, holding the careworn package in his hands.
“I haven’t opened a Christmas present in nearly twenty years,” he says, then he looks back to me quickly, as if he didn’t realize he’d said that out loud and he’s afraid he’s said too much.
My chest tightens. Nearly twenty years means that he was just a boy when he stopped receiving gifts.
By the look on his face he doesn’t want my pity, so I merely say, “Well, that means now is an especially good time to open one.”
He shakes it, almost like a little kid trying to figure out what’s inside.
“You had this before you met me though,” he says, studying the package, his fingers running over the smooth paper.
In the valley below, more lights wink on, brightening the falling darkness. I nod and step closer to Gabe, wanting to bury myself against him to soak in all his warmth and the delicious winter smell of him.
“I wrapped it years ago, after I talked to Miss Erma about my soul mate.”
He stills then and searches my expression. “She told you to give your soul mate this gift?”
I nod, my heart thundering in my ears.
“You think I’m your soul mate?”
There’s a yearning in his eyes, a longing. I nod again.
“Why? I don’t love Christmas. Wasn’t that a requirement?” The look on his face begs me to contradict him.
I shake my head, the wool yarn of the scarf tickling my chin. “She said that when I met my soul mate I’d know. And then, when I knew, I was supposed to give him this gift. That he’d know what it meant.”
The way he looks at the gift is part fear, part fervent hope. “What if I don’t know what it means? What if it’s not for me?”
“It is,” I say, scared but certain.
“How do you know?”
“Because I love you,” I whisper, reaching out, putting my hand on top of his, “Because every day with you feels like Christmas. If it’s not for you, I don’t care. I want every day with you.”
Gabe studies me for a quiet moment. All the world around us silent.
“Can I put this down?” he finally asks, gesturing at the present.
My lips wobble and I press them flat.
He doesn’t want it?
I nod sharply, my throat closing. Gabe bends down, sets it gently in the snow drift. It glistens red against the white. I stare at it forlornly. He doesn’t want it. He doesn’t want my love.
But when he looks back to me, his eyes are lit with need. I pull in a sharp breath.
“Say that part again,” he growls, taking a step forward through the deep snow.
“Every day feels like Christmas with you?” I bite my bottom lip at the heated look in his eyes.
“Not that part.” He takes another step forward and my heart quickens.
“I want every day with you?”
He takes another step forward, lines his body against mine, looks down at me. “Not that part.”
I reach up and grip the warmth of his jacket. He tugs me close, pressing the length of him against me. I tilt my face up, my lips part, and I can already taste him on me.
“You mean, when I said I love you?” I ask, my veins full of toasty, fiery warmth.
He smiles then. A beautiful, winter’s eve, stockings-over-the-fireplace, joyful smile. “I love you too.”
Then there isn’t any more talking, because he captures my mouth with his and presses me down into the soft, waiting snowbank.