Snowflakes at the Little Christmas Tree Farm

‘What are you doing out here?’ His voice has that same half-amused half-sarcastic tone that he had earlier. He rests his arm along the open window and his head appears in the gap, but he suddenly looks taken aback and his voice turns serious. ‘Are you crying?’

Well, one point for observation, I suppose.

‘No.’ I don’t know why I’m bothering to deny it; if the tears streaming down my face don’t give it away then the snot definitely will.

‘What’s wrong?’

I should turn around and snap something at him, but his voice is soft and those two simple words sound so caring and genuine. No one has asked me that in months. I struggle to keep my emotions hidden in public, and when I hang out with Chels, if I slip up and look upset for a moment, she gives me a hug but she doesn’t ask me what’s wrong because it’s obvious.

I go to say ‘nothing’, but it comes out as noth-urrth as another sob gurgles out of my throat and more tears fill my eyes and spill over. God, why am I like this? Why can’t I even hold it together in front of this rude man? He’s going to love this, isn’t he? He already thinks I’m stupid, and now he finds me crying in the car. He’ll have a field day with this. He’ll probably go and tell all his mates about this silly girl who thought she could run a Christmas tree farm and make sure the whole town has a good laugh about it.

I turn away again and bury my face in the blanket. I can’t even pretend not to be crying now. Maybe allergies?

My nose is running and I know there’s a pack of tissues in the glovebox, but the passenger seat is so jam-packed that I can’t open it fully. As I’m trying to snake my hand in the inch-wide gap and feel around for them, a packet appears in front of my face.

I take them from his hand and wrestle the packet open with wet fingers. They’re soft and thick and large, and I pluck one out and hide my whole face in it. If I can’t see him then he can’t see me either, so maybe he’ll go away? That’s bound to work, right?

I breathe into the tissue for a few minutes but he doesn’t go away.

I can feel the warmth of his presence beside the car, hear his breathing and the crunch of frozen gravel under his boots with every movement. Even the scent of juniper and dark cinnamon aftershave has wafted into the car and it’s unfair that someone who is this much of a twat can smell so good.

I wipe my face on the tissue and blow my nose, managing to make the most undignified sound someone has ever made in front of a fellow human before. I take a deep breath, and force a smile onto my red, puffy, tear-stained face, and … well, I intend to turn to face him, but I lose my nerve at the last second and end up staring intently at the steering wheel instead.

‘Are you okay?’ He speaks before I have a chance to say anything. His Scottish accent sounds warm and gentle. It makes tears well up again because it’s another question that people usually ask me when they know full well that the answer will always be a cheerful ‘yep, thanks’ no matter how I really am, but he says it so earnestly that I feel like I could tell him.

Not that I’m going to, obviously. Finding me like this has probably made his day, there’s no need to make his month too.

‘Fine, thanks.’ My voice is thick and it shakes on both words. I swallow hard and try again. ‘What was it you wanted?’

‘I came to see if you were okay.’ He’s quiet for a moment, which gives my eyes plenty of time to start watering again because he’s got a caring tone that he has no right to have. ‘Which you’re clearly not.’

‘Well, there you go then,’ I snap, betrayed by the sob that comes out instead. ‘You’ve found out what you wanted to know. Goodbye.’ I have to feel around for the window button, intending to roll it up, but I press the wrong direction and it makes a clunking noise because it can’t go any further down.

‘I’m not going anywhere until I know you’re okay, Leah. I can’t walk away and leave you sitting out here in the cold. What’s wrong?’

Even if I wanted to, I can’t answer him because I’m crying too hard. Snot is dripping from my nose again and tears are streaming down my face, dropping onto the blanket, and I wrestle another tissue from the packet on my lap and try to restore some semblance of dignity.

‘Is this because of me?’ He asks gently. ‘Because of what I said earlier?’

‘Hah. Don’t flatter yourself.’ I snort and a snot bubble escapes. I’m doing an amazing job of the dignity thing so far.

‘I didn’t mean it in an egotistical way. One of the reasons I came over was to apologise. I was too harsh earlier and I overstepped the line, and I am sorry, really.’

I hate him because he sounds so genuine. Maybe it’s the accent. He has a way of sounding sincere that leaves me unable to tell if he is or isn’t.

I blow my nose again and scrub my hands over my face, telling myself that I need to tell him it’s fine and say goodbye, but a really really microscopically tiny part of me doesn’t want him to go yet. Before I’ve figured out how to say anything, he moves out of the window and the car door is pulled open from the outside, and he crouches down beside me.

The movement surprises me and I look at him without thinking. He looks even better tonight than he did earlier. He’s got the same well-fitting jeans on, black welly-boots halfway up his calves, a long waterproof coat with wooden toggles closing it diagonally across his chest, and his dark hair is sticking out from under an oversized bobble hat, looking windswept and touchable.

He nods towards the radio, where ‘Fairytale of New York is coming out of the dashboard. ‘I’ve never been a fan of this song but is it really that bad?’

I reach over and switch it off.

‘You can leave it on. It’s never too early for Christmas music.’

‘Finally, someone who understands,’ I say, so surprised by someone who agrees with my stance on festive music in October that I forget about crying for a moment. ‘I told my friend I’d dusted off the Christmas playlist for driving up here and she nearly disowned me because it’s too early.’

‘It’s nearly the middle of the month. That makes it practically Christmas. If mince pies are in the shops, it’s fine to play Christmas music.’

I can’t take my eyes off that lip piercing again as he grins.

‘So,’ he starts, pressing one hand against the doorframe to balance himself, ‘my mum came in earlier, rubbed my ears and said “that was from Leah.” Would you happen to know anything about that?’

An unexpected laugh bursts out at the crystal-clear mental image. ‘Oh, for god’s sake, I said Gizmo, not you.’

‘Yeah, he probably would’ve appreciated an ear rub more than I did.’

‘Has she got problems with her hearing?’

‘Aye, but it’s undiagnosed because doctors can’t do much about “selective” hearing.’

‘I think all parents have that. My mum was the same …’ I trail off and swallow past the lump in my throat. I’ve just about got the tears under control, I can’t start crying again.

There’s a charged silence. I know he’s picked up the ‘was’ in that sentence, and I can almost hear him deciding on the best thing to say.

‘At least you didn’t tell her to give me a Bonio.’

That makes me laugh again but I can feel his eyes boring into the side of my head.

‘Go on then,’ he says eventually. ‘Apart from having no water, no electricity, no heat, and no food, why are you outside crying in the car?’

It sounds as pathetic as it must look, but he doesn’t seem as harsh and judgemental as he did earlier.

I take a few deep breaths and lean my head back and close my eyes. ‘It’s not because of what you said, it’s because you were right. This place is a disaster and I have no idea what I’m doing. The house is cold and damp and broken, my phone ran out of battery because I had to use it as a torch, and my best friend has been texting all afternoon asking how wonderful it is, and I haven’t replied because I don’t know how to tell her the truth about what a stupid mistake I’ve made.’

His coat rustles as he shrugs. ‘Tell her it needs work but you wanted a challenge. Here, give it to me, I’ll write it for you.’

I don’t know why, but I take the phone off the dashboard and put it in his open hand. I never trust anyone with my phone, but I don’t think twice about handing it to him.

I’m almost hypnotised by his fingers as they fly across my screen. I watch him with a strange mix of gratitude and amusement, until he turns the phone around and shows me what he’s written.

It’s a great area and the neighbours are the most wonderful people I’ve ever met. Farm needs a bit of work but I wanted a challenge.

I laugh at the remark about the neighbours and give him the nod to press send.

It beeps with a reply before he’s even had a chance to hand it back to me, and he laughs when he looks down at the screen.

Have you found a gorgeous, sexy farmer in a kilt yet?