My mind spins with excitement and nervousness. Yes. No. What?

“Sure,” I answer, rising to my feet with him.

I follow him inside the large garage, where he walks to a corner with some workout equipment and weights and returns with a large plastic storage box. Lifting the lid, he reveals what’s inside. Christmas ornaments…garland…and wrapped presents with big bows.

Excitement bubbles up inside me. “We’re going to decorate a tree?” I ask, almost hopping up and down with happiness. His lips turn up into a handsome yet slightly snarky grin. “Yeah. This one is late.” I wonder what that means as he pulls a Santa hat out of the box and puts it on his head. “No laughing,” he warns. “I have to wear it.” I can’t help smiling, but I don’t laugh. There must be a story here, with the trees and the hat, and I’m not about to do anything to make him not want to tell me all about it someday.

Poppy and Boomer accompany us as we walk up into the woods, farther than I’ve walked before.

“You pick,” he says.

I glance up at him. “I get to pick the tree?”

When he nods, I start to scope out all the trees in the area, trying to find the perfect shape and fullness, but it’s an imperfect tree that catches my eye, set apart from the others, almost like it’s the outcast. It’s short, its branches aren’t as full, and it has a few dead spots, but once the decorations are on, it’ll be beautiful.

“This one,” I announce.

Tyler sets the box down on the ground and silently starts to decorate it. I watch him for a few minutes, admiring how meticulous and thoughtful he is about placing the decorations, and then I help him. When the last red globe has been hung, he places six wrapped boxes under the tree, just like in my photographs and the tree I saw in the woods the day I saw him and Poppy.

“This is the last tree,” he says. “Until next year.”

“How many do you decorate?” I ask.

“Six.”

Six. I wonder if it’s a coincidence that there are also six wrapped presents.

“I’d love to hear how you started doing this,” I say. “The girl in the store where I bought the photos said it’s like a legend out here. She said the little kids love to hear about it, and people hunt for the trees.”

He nods, the white pouf on the hat bouncing, the small bell jingling. “My father started it. When I was little, he brought me up here to look for a tree to cut to bring home.” He pauses and clears his throat. “I was like, why can’t we just decorate it here? For the animals? Why cut it and drag it out of its home?” He smiles at the memory, and I smile too, picturing a young Tyler in my mind, same shaggy blond hair and blue eyes. “The next day we came back. We both wore the hats. We sang. We decorated the tree. I was all excited.” He takes a deep breath. “Dad said, ‘We’re going to do this every year and make it our own tradition, just me and you.’ Christmas day was my dad’s birthday. He wanted to do something special with me. I’m one of six kids, and he tried to make each one of us feel special. This was our thing.”

“Ty…you should have told me it was your father’s birthday too,” I say, but he shakes his head.

“We don’t celebrate it anymore. Other than doing this.” He stares off to a faraway place I can’t see, his face shadowed.

“Why six trees?” I ask softly, hoping to bring him back.

He takes out his pack of cigarettes, pulls one out with this mouth, and lights it.

“One for me and one for each of my brothers and sister. It was my idea, when I was little, to decorate one for each of them even though they never actually saw the trees.”

Poppy and Boomer frolic around the tree, the fox especially interested in the present boxes, sniffing them and nudging them with his rust-colored nose.

“It means a lot to me you told me. I’ve been fascinated with the story since I heard about it, and it’s even more special to me now.”

He moves a few ornaments to different branches as I talk, not meeting my eyes.

“Your Dad sounds like a really nice man.”

“Yeah. He was.”

Was. Past tense. Meaning he’s gone. He must be heartbroken missing him, and that must be where his sadness is stemming from.

“Thank you for letting me share this with you,” I say. “I’m not part of any of my family’s traditions. I’m not even sure if they have any or ever did. To be honest, they barely even talk to me. You’re lucky.”

He kneels and puts the lid back on the box. “I was lucky, Holly. Now I’m just a mess.”