We watchIt’s a Wonderful Life, everyone all comfy in chairs and couches, Carwyn and I sharing the big overstuffed chair. Itisa wonderful life, and as we watch it, I can’t help thinking how much Carwyn is like George Bailey. He’s such a big part of this community, and so good to his parents. Would he ever want to leave it all behind and live in New York with me?
I push the thought away when Carwyn kisses me good night. It’s a forever kind of kiss, for sure. I’m so inspired, I must write!
And write I do, sitting up in bed and tapping away at my keyboard into the wee hours of the morning. I’m on a roll. I can’t quit. And I don’t until all I have left is the ending scene, where my heroine and her hero embark on their happily-ever-after. Success! It’s the perfect way to end a perfect day.
I text Ramona early the next morning before breakfast.
Hailey:The book is almost done!
Ramona:Yay! Where did you find your inspiration?
Hailey:I kissed Carwyn under the mistletoe. It was amazing.
Ramona:Ho ho ho! I know this one’s going to work out.
Yes, it is. I wish her Merry Christmas, give her a pep talk to help her get through Christmas Day with her dysfunctional family, and then sign off.
The grandparents arrive by midmorning the next day, and we settle in around the tree with our coffee and pastries and begin toopen presents. Mom hands me the one from Carwyn. I open it to find a collection of hand-blown ornaments.Think of me when you hang them, says the note he’s included.
I’m already thinking of him. All the time.
***
Carwyn and I spend every day together between Christmas and New Year’s Eve. It’s all so perfect. Walks in the snow, a Wii bowling tournament with Sam, an evening with Carwyn’s parents, and dinner for two in a quiet corner at Cascade House, the fanciest restaurant in town.
The menu isn’t much by New York standards, but they do have linen tablecloths on the table. And candlelight. Dining by candlelight—it feeds my romance writer’s soul. I still haven’t written the end of my book, but I’m not worried. I’ll write it on the flight home.
On New Year’s Eve he invites me to his house for dinner—steaks on the grill and French bread. I insist on at least bringing the salad. He’s ordered cheesecake from Cascade Bakery and put champagne on ice. “You have to have champagne on New Year’s Eve,” he says.
After dinner we settle on his looks-like-leather-but-isn’t couch and gaze at the flames in the fireplace. It’s all so romantic. It’s like he knows instinctively what feeds my soul, and I tell him so.
“I want to make you happy,” he says.
“You are,” I tell him. “I’ve never been happier.”
When it’s almost midnight he pours the champagne and raises his glass. “To us,” he says.
“To us,” I repeat, and we touch glasses and drink.
“This last week has been epic for me,” he says.
“Me too,” I say.
“Is it too soon to ask if you want to keep this going?”
“Oh, Carwyn.” I’m so thrilled I can barely breathe, let alone get out the words. “I’m all for that. I can hardly wait to show you New York,” I add.
“I can hardly wait to see it. And I can hardly wait to get you back to Cascade. I bet your parents will love having you back.”
“For visits,” I clarify.
He nods thoughtfully. “So, long-distance relationship?”
“Well, I do live in New York.”
New York is where my life is. Even though it’s where my mistletoe mistakes haunt me like Scrooge’s ghosts, it’s where I’ve formed friendships, where I’ve found myself, and where I feel comfortable. I’m not sure why, but I assumed if we reached the point of talking about rings and weddings, our story would end with us in New York. I’d be back in my world, with my kind—writerly types—and with my perfect man.
But my perfect man isn’t saying anything, and there’s theuh-ohagain.
