Total pages in book: 34
Estimated words: 33474 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 167(@200wpm)___ 134(@250wpm)___ 112(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33474 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 167(@200wpm)___ 134(@250wpm)___ 112(@300wpm)
“He’s doing fine. Scott loves him. Don’t be surprised if he starts begging you to buy him from me. He asked, but I said no.” Robin glances at me as we head to his living room. “I don’t like giving or selling animals to kids. Nothing against your kid brother or anything”—his eyes cloud—“but a lot of kids don’t live up to the responsibility of looking after a pet. I don’t do it on principle.”
“I get it,” I say, gaze narrowing across the room. Light filters through the windows and catches on tinsel, making it glitter. There’s a silver Christmas tree standing in the corner, one of those collapsible ones. “Isn’t it a bit late to have your tree still up?”
Robin dives onto his couch and hooks his arms behind his head. A black and white cat with a truncated tail jumps up to curl into his side.
Robin pats him absently. “I’ve been lazy. I dragged the box up to repack it, I just didn’t quite get that far.”
I see the white packaging and Styrofoam against the wall.
“I’ll do it later; I have to take another shot of it, the ones I took at Christmas had bad lighting.” He points to a photo album on the coffee table, next to an old camera, the kind that has real film in it.
I take the album to the other end of the couch, nudging his feet to move. When he shifts, I sit, and Robin stretches his legs out again, wiggling his toes into my side. “Better.”
I suck in a breath. Well, this is new.
I glance at him, trying to read his expression. Nothing. Like he slides his bare toes under the hem of my singlet every day.
Maybe it was an accident.
I open the album. On the first page is a photo of a cartoon-themed Christmas tree. It’s dated 1998. The next page, 1999, is a tree made of streamers.
“What is this?” I ask, leafing through the next variations of Christmas trees. The last one has a blurry guy that isn’t Robin in it, trying to balance a golden star on a tree made of books. From what I can tell, he doesn’t look like a relative, and the way his shirt hitches mid-way up his side suggests an ease Robin and I definitely don’t have. The warmth of his feet against my thigh right now aside.
“Tradition,” Robin says. “My older sister started it for me the year I was born. Ever since, every year, I have a different kind of tree.” He glances at the page I’m on. “That’s Lyle. He lives around the corner. I’ll introduce you sometime.”
I swallow in an effort not to shake my head. Rather not. He looks a little too comfortable there in that picture. The cheeky tongue-poke he’s aiming over his shoulder suggests he’s used to Robin capturing him on camera.
I squint. There’s something familiar about this guy . . . “He looks like . . . a good friend.”
“Oh yeah, the best.”
Robin shifts, lifting himself onto his elbows, and the cat kneads his stomach. Gently, Robin pries its claws from his top.
“The Christmas tree thing, it’s neat.”
“Yeah, but it’s getting harder and harder to come up with ideas. This Christmas it was just me, and I didn’t put much effort in. It’s more fun when you have someone to share it with, you know?” He shrugs, and I wish I’d met him before Christmas last year. And been single then.
“Maybe next Christmas you’ll be around family.”
“Yeah, probably not. They’re staying in Europe with my sister. She just had a kid.”
I point towards blurry Lyle in the picture. “Your friend wasn’t around last year?”
“He was with his family.”
I glance away, towards Robin’s camera. I shut the photo album and tap his feet with the spine until he shifts them back. “Let’s get a shot of last year’s tree, shall we?”
Picking up the camera and uncapping the lens, I ask, “What was your favourite tree?”
Robin’s gaze on me makes my side tingle. “They’re all great. Don’t have a favourite.”
“How far in advance do you start planning the next one?”
He chuckles. I turn the camera on him; his eyes are closed, crinkling slightly at the corners as he smiles, hair mussed with one part pressed against his temple. I take the shot. “I’m already thinking of the next one,” he says. “What I really want is a traditional fir. I’d love it if I could grow one in my own yard.”
“So do it,” I say, unable to stop myself from taking a few more pictures.
“Too much work.” He gives his cat an extra rub around the ears. “I already have so much to take care of. Besides, a Douglas fir takes years to get to Christmas tree size.”
“Five to six, actually, in the right conditions,” I say, lowering the camera as the pounding of feet comes down the hall. “Not to be pedantic.” I give a meek grin. “Gardener.”