“That’s Jonas?” Oliver says, but then his eyes alight as he seems to catch what else I just said. Despite the growing war behind him, he pulls me in without a second’s hesitation. I feel the press of his glove against the back of my head, and our cold lips mingle, offering each other warmth. Flurries land on my cheeks and closed lashes and fall softly on my hair. The horse gives a soft neigh and shakes its mane.
And suddenly it’s just us, on the hilltop, ice-crystallinebranches leaning forward in anticipation, stars twinkling as they hold their breath above.
Our very own snow-globe moment in time.
And with that kiss, the surety that everything in my life just officially changed.
All because, despite my own fears and disappointments, I said yes in those coffee-stained, jingling slippers to whatever unknown adventures lay ahead, and took a step onto The Christmas Express.
Epilogue
Christmas Day, the Following Year
“Vous appelez ça un biscotti? J’ai fait de meilleurs biscottis dans mon sommeil.”
I jab Elodie in the ribs as she mutters, no doubt related to the fact she’s just whacked the biscotti against her cup and no doubt something about making better biscotti in her sleep. Mrs.Byrd shoots daggers with her eyes at us from the other side of the expansive table, and I press on Elodie’s foot under the table with my heel until she takes a bite, rubs her belly, and murmurs an unconvincing, “Mmmm.”
Mrs.Byrd resumes slapping mashed potatoes on Clarence’s plate.
Clarence stands a few minutes later, and I pause in pressing the napkin over my lap for the blessing. It’s Christmas morning. The passengers of our twelfth tour of the year have departed after many hugs and exchanging of contactinformation an hour earlier. We had several repeaters from the year prior, it was nice to see, but what was even more special were the several first timers. Elodie. My mother. And even one extra-special attendee we all have come to love: Seraphina, the girl Ian met in a computer game six months ago and hasn’t shut up about since. She truly is his soul mate. We know this because she spends half her salary on cosplay costumes for Comic Cons, of which they attend many.
“Lord, we are thankful,” Clarence begins, and I take a moment to peek around the table of the Mistletoe Room.
Mrs.Byrd squeezes Clarence’s hand, in what I have come to recognize as a quiet love that started with help in grieving his wife’s death and turned into a companionable comfort, different, but nonetheless as strong as anyone else’s, including Oliver’s and mine.
The seats are full of the people I’ve come to cherish as much as family over the last year—staff and employees who have turned out to be some of the best friends both day and night. Not that I am without my monthly fill of Elodie, who meets me every few weeks on the platform of Moynihan Train Hall station, making winding motions while glaring at the conductor to wrap it up so she can pull me off and get me up to date on all the things.
The past year has been the best of my life yet. I have so many things to be grateful for. And so much because I embarked, regardless of the fear that had me trembling, on that very first adventure.
I feel a squeeze of my hand and the warmth of a kiss onmy cheek. Opening my eyes, I realize the blessing has ended, and Oliver is gazing at me, his baby-blue eyes warm. Only, he’s no longer sitting beside me, but in the silence had dropped to one knee.
For a long moment he seems to work to find his voice.
When he does at last, a slightly shaky speech unfolds from his lips, about how his life was changed the day I stepped on the train a year ago, about how he can’t imagine one more day without me. I squeeze his hands as he speaks, my own throat burning as he ends with, “Merry Christmas, Willow. And I hope, if you’ll have me, to many, many more.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the faces of loved ones around the room, the gaping mouths as they open their eyes to discover the scene that’s unfolding before them. Mom has her hands clutched to her chest. Elodie is openly weeping.
From another corner of my periphery, I register the twinkling ring propped up inside the open box in one of Oliver’s hands.
But I’m not looking at either of those things. All I can see is Oliver’s earnest face, the man who has traveled thousands of miles with me over the past 365days, and who still wants to spend hundreds of thousands more.
And I want that too.
Of course I want that too.
My reply comes in my kiss, and as I feel his lips press against mine in return, and his arms eventually clasp around me and raise me up off my chair, toes dancing above the floor, I hear the round of claps and whoops and cheers and thetinkling of a dozen spoons and knives being clinked against glasses.
“Merry Christmas,” I repeat, kissing Oliver on the stubble of his cheek and whispering in his ear. “And to many, many more.”
