I looked to ask Olive who it was, but she was talking to Taylor by the tree. Turning the frame to Denise, I asked, “Who’s this?”

She looked down at the frame and sighed, then glanced across the room at Olive before coming back to me. “That’s Olive when she was probably in third grade.”

I studied the picture closer, thinking there was no way that was Olive. Except, it was her. Only it looked nothing like her save those sweet doe eyes. Her hair was short and brown, her cheeks round and full, and she was more filled out than now. Her contagious smile was brighter than the lights downtown.

“Wait, which one is that?“ Olive peeked over my shoulder and stopped speaking abruptly when she saw the tiny homemade frame in my hands. Her shoulders fell. “Oh yeah. I forgot about that one.”

Olive reached to grab it from my hands, and I lifted it higher. “Oh no. I think I have to take this with me. Sorry, Mrs. Moore.”

Olive jumped up to grab it but with my height advantage, she wasn’t even close to reaching it. Denise laughed while Olive fumed. “You are welcome to it, honey,” she said to me.

“Mom!” Olive shouted and the room filled with laughter. I looked back to the picture in my hands and smiled. “You look cute.” It made me wonder if we would’ve been friends back then. Probably not. I would’ve pushed her down on the playground and tugged her ponytail as a way to flirt with her.

“I look like I ate the whole class,” Olive said jokingly, but I knew there was a deeper meaning behind it. I glanced between her and the picture, realizing she still held that insecurity under her tight and toned body.

Quietly, I said, “Olive, you—”

“All done!” Taylor shouted from across the room, where the tree was now fully decorated and covered in sparkly ornaments and stringed lights. It wasn’t the best-looking tree ever, but it was covered in their childhood mementos, and I could tell that alone made Denise excited.

“Alright, my little Olive. You know the rule,” Denise said as she reached in a different box and pulled out a tree topper in the shape of a huge gold star. The tree was ten feet tall, and Olive couldn’t be more than five-five. For several long moments, she stared at the tree, sizing it up, searching for a way to get the topper on. As fun as it would’ve been to watch Olive attempt to scale the tree, I put a stop to her planning with a hand on her shoulder.

She turned to me, brow furrowed. I knelt, patted my shoulders, and said, “Hop on, Grinchy.”

Olive hesitated but slowly wrapped both of her toned legs around my shoulders, and I lifted her with ease.