“I hope it’s getting a tree!”

“Forget cute. You’re the cutest. Yes, we’re getting a tree.”

She squealed and threw her arms around him again. “Can we go to the Helms Tree Farm? I went there on a field trip in elementary school. They have hot cider and horse-drawn wagons!” She bounced on her toes and said, “Please? I’ve never picked out a tree before. Gram always used an artificial one.”

He laughed. “We’ll go anywhere you want, if it gets me that gorgeous smile.”

“Yay!” She hugged him again. “Thank you!”

“You’ve got it, babe. I’ve never picked out a tree, either. It’s kind of fitting, isn’t it? Our first Christmas together, and the first time we’ve picked out trees.”

“Yes, and I’ll take lots of pictures. We’re going to have so much fun!” She toned her excitement down a notch and took the opportunity to ask, “Did you celebrate Christmas when you were young?”

“Not with my mom, if that’s what you want to know. Tru and I would sit outside on Christmas Eve, and he’d point to the stars or the clouds and make up stories that were nothing like our lives. He’d tell me that one day we’d make our own happy stories in real life.”

“Fairy tales just for you. He was always a storyteller.”

“Yeah, he was. Every year he’d draw me a picture and leave it next to my bed Christmas morning.” His face turned serious, and he said, “Christmas ended for me after he went to prison, and then last year I celebrated with Tru’s family and all of our friends. It was great, but this year will be even better.” He pressed his lips to hers.

“Do you still have Tru’s pictures? I’d love to see them.”

“No. When I got tied up in drugs, I lost everything. Losing them is one of my biggest regrets. But I had the ones I could remember tattooed on me so I’d never forget them.”

“Would you mind telling me what some of them mean?”

He held out his hand, showing her the rose on the back of it, and said, “Before Tru moved out, and for as long as I can remember, every time things got hairy around the house, he’d take me to a church a few blocks away from where we lived. They had beautiful rose gardens. He’d make up stories about us living in some faraway place filled with roses, allowing me to escape the nightmare of our lives and live in those fantasies for a while. I loved those damn stories. After he moved out, he came up with a way to speak in code around our mother so she wouldn’t know what we were talking about. He’d ask if I went to see the roses, but what he was really asking was how things had been in the days between our visits. If things had been bad, I’d say I got pricked by the thorns. But if things hadn’t been that bad, I’d say the roses were in full bloom. The funny thing is, we used the same language whether it was summer or winter, and she never caught on.”