Page 21 of The Holiday Exchange

It’s late morning by the time we’re set up, and the fair will last all afternoon. Dad will stop by on one of his breaks, but this event has always been Mom’s forte. She loves crafting the wreaths, table runners, and ordering unique holiday trinkets we sell at the farm store and at the fair.

“How about a quick walk through before it gets busy?” I ask Dawson because he seems very interested in what the other booths are selling.

“You two go ahead. Connie and I will hold down the fort,” Mom says, shooing us away.

We head to the center of the street so we can check out the displays on either side of us. We wave to Grace with her ornaments and Hattie with her pie stand and then stop at a booth with framed watercolors. I smile at the guy I went to high school with who won too many local drawing contests to count. The scenes depicted are mostly of nature, but I recognize key points of interest of our small town as well.

“You’re very talented,” Dawson tells Craig, who murmurs a thank-you. Dawson zeroes in on the smaller framed paintings of Bright’s Hollow—one of the town’s Christmas tree and another of the mountains—while I spend time checking out Craig’s dreamy portrayal of various birds.

When a foursome of women steps inside the tent, it feels crowded, and I realize that the fair has already started. “Time to go.”

We head back through the throng, and as Dawson steps around a family, he grabs my hand to pull me along, then…doesn’t let go. And neither do I, even when a path clears for us to walk with more breathing room. I like how his hand feels in mine, how strong his grip is, and I don’t want to let go. It feels wholly confusing, and after several sidelong glances his way, I’m hoping to get some clarity. “What are we doing?” I blurt.

His eyebrows pull together before he glances at our hands. “You mean this? Showing the town you’re taken.”

I stop abruptly and twist to face him. “After hearing all the same comments in the diner, and you coming to my defense, I realized I don’t need to prove anything to these people.”

“You’re right, you don’t.” He lets go of my hand. “I was just trying to stick to what we agreed.”

I sigh. “I know, and the truth is, I like holding hands and the idea of having a boyfriend. I’d hoped to curb the gossip by bringing you, but instead, I think we created more.”

“Spot on.” He chuckles, relief crossing his features. “And it’s nice to have someone in your corner, someone to do things with. It’s been a long time for me.”

“Besides what you already told me, is there any other reason?”

He shrugs. “Like I said, it’s just never been right.”

“Oh, I know all about that, don’t I?”

“Unfortunately, you do.” He winces. “Don’t worry, I’ll tone it down.”

“No, you don’t have to.” I grab his hand, hoping he doesn’t stop touching me. I enjoy it too much. “I was only checking in with you.”

He squeezes my fingers. “I’m glad you did.”

I’m not sure we’re on the same page, but maybe I’m not the only one confused about what we’re doing here. Most of it is for show, but it’s starting to feel…real.

We continue through the festival, lingering at interesting booths, talking to folks, sometimes with our hands clasped, sometimes not, and even that feels as natural as breathing. Everything with Dawson does.

By the time we get back to our tent, it’s bustling. We get to work assisting customers, wrapping gifts and ringing them out, and before we know it, the afternoon has flown by and the fair is finished. Dad stops by again to ask if we need help packing up.

“We’ve got it,” I tell him.

“Okay, good, because we’re busy at the farm.”

Once everything’s loaded in the truck, we’re on our way back to the farm, where indeed it’s hectic, crowded with last-minute shoppers. We help wherever we’re needed before Mom says she needs to get dinner started.

“How about we pick something up instead?” Dawson suggests, throwing me a look.

“Good idea,” I chime in. “Pizza?”

Relief softens her features, making her weary eyes brighten after such a busy day. “Are you sure?”

“Of course.” I pull out my phone to order. “We’ll meet you back at the house.”

We pile in the truck and head to a little place just outside of town in comfortable silence. It’s the first time I can process the flurry of the day. It’s always been like this, but maybe I need to pay better attention to how ragged my parents seem in the evenings. Not that they’ll stop working so hard, but Dawson noticing—which is not surprising—just makes it more obvious.

“Better watch out, my mom might want to keep you around.”