Chapter Text
This, without a doubt, is the strangest reason Amy’s ever wished winter were longer.
It’s been a month since she began walking past the christmas tree farm on her way to work. At first, it was practical. She doesn’t get a lot of exercise giving office hours at NYU, and she likes the scent of the pine needles, crisp against the city smog. And then the Christmas tree salesman held a door for her at Medici’s, the bakery nearby, and she might have gone overboard getting a table for both of them.
That was a month ago.
"What do you mean, you don’t like Die Hard? It’s the best holiday movie ever!”
“Hardly. They’re in the building, like, the whole time! You could set it on any other day of the year and it wouldn’t really impact the plot. Ergo, not a Christmas movie.” Amy laughs, then takes another sip of her maple latte.
She’s actively trying not to like Jake 一 he’s actually given her his name, so she can stop calling him ‘cute Christmas tree seller’ in her head 一 because she’s had her fair share of dreamy crushes. They always fizzle out because she cares too much, memorizes birthdays and siblings’ names when she shouldn’t. But it’s not working. Not when Jake grins like that, not when he hangs up on a friend because he’s “with someone at the moment.”
(She’s someone!!!!)
“Die Hard is absolutely a Christmas film,” he says, impossible energy in his tone. “Number one, it’s Nakatomi Plaza, not ‘the building.’ Have some respect. Number two, Christmas is … tag-netically related to the plot. You know, when they go to Holly’s house to film for the news, you see the Christmas tree! With the gifts! There we have it, argument over.”
Jake shifts back confidently, pumping his fist before nearly toppling over in his chair.
He gives a scared gasp before catching his breath, still laughing.
Amy laughs, face crumpling into the picture of joy. “And, from that last sentence, did you mean tangentially?”
“Don’t kick a man while he’s down!”
She hasn’t spoken a word to him since. He’s a Christmas tree salesman! These are his busy months, she thinks, and she really hopes he isn’t ignoring her.
So, yes, Amy’s now emotionally obligated to walk past the tree farm every day, hoping to catch a glimpse of Jake. She usually sees him talking to customers or tying up trees, but he occasionally waves, at least.
Because the universe hates her, of course, Jake only notices her when she’s wearing something really ratty, like sweatpants. Or, two weeks ago, the orange hand-me-down sweater from cousin Luisa, who just knows that Amy can’t pull off burnt orange. Thanks a lot, Luisa.
Amy winces at the memory; she usually takes what she can get. No two people just have a great conversation and part ways forever, right? He seemed to like her.
He might have liked her.
Oh, she’s really hoping he liked her.
Amy was planning on asking for his number, she swears, but he’d blurted ‘ugh, my phone died again’ and it’d felt like too much to ask. They’d separated at 81st and 1st. Besides, isn’t asking for a guy’s contact information a little forward? It hadn’t really been a date. It was a chance encounter, nothing more.
She still wears her Coca Cola sweater, though, as she walks by. It’s what she’d worn that perfect, golden day at Medici’s.
Jake waves, Amy waves, and she thanks the heavens that she’s finally in something nicer than laundry-day clothing. She feels confident, even, with her boots clicking against the salt-covered sidewalk. These are her I don’t need a job, I don’t need a man, I’ve got new boots boots!
Someone behind her calls her name.
Amy nearly gets whiplash turning around (so much for playing it cool, huh?), but it isn’t Jake who’s calling her.