We get through three chapters of the Boxcar Children before we fall asleep, Lucy and Milo tucked beside me in my bed, for a long afternoon nap. Apparently I wasn’t the only one who stayed up past her bedtime. They stayed up pretty late at Auntie and Uncle’s last night too.

We all seem to wake around the same time, and I pull my babies close, kissing the tops of their heads. “Did you have a fun day with Uncle Clive?” I ask. With a teasing tone I add, “Any presents I should know about?”

“They’re secrets Mommy,” Milo squeals. “They’re hiding at Uncle’s house.”

“Don’t tell her where we hid them,” Lucy admonishes.

“Hey, sweetie,” I tell her. “Easy now.” She’s been giving Milo such a hard time lately, and the older sister claws are definitely coming out. I try not to worry too much about it myself, remembering all too well what a bossy older sister I used to be.

“Surprises are fun at Christmas, is all,” she says.

“So are daddies,” Milo says softly.

“What’s that mean?” I ask, my chest aching for what my kids have lost. Milo never talks like this though. He was so little when Luke died.

“He means,” Lucy explains. “That daddies do things at Christmas like chop down trees and put lights outside around the house.”

“Mommies can do those things too,” I say, trying not to be offended at my children’s division of household responsibilities. “We always get a tree.”

“A little one. From a store. I want a big one this year. Big enough to touch the ceiling.”

“Okay,” I say. “Well, then let’s get a big one. The hardware store sells lots of sizes.”

“I don’t want one from a store. I want one from the woods. The kids in class chop ‘em down with their daddies.”

“Um. Well,” I say trying to keep my voice even. “Sure, we can ask Uncle Clive or Uncle Charlie to help us cut one down. It will be an adventure.” I say this even though this is a terrifying idea. One I don’t know if I’m ready to face.

That mountain is where I lost Luke ... and returning to it ... terrifies me.

“Mommy hates the mountain, Milo.”

For once Milo doesn’t argue with his big sister’s correction. Instead he nods sadly, pressing his tiny hand to my cheek. “I don’t want to scare you, Mommy. We don’t have to go.”

Lucy’s eyes meet mine. She remembers a little bit about what it was like when her dad was alive. They’ve both watched the videos a thousand times, videos of their births, first steps, first food--all footage that includes Luke. But there are so many more firsts neither of the kids will have with Luke.

“Hey,” I say, squeezing them close. “We will chop down a tree this year. We can invite the whole family, okay? It’ll be fun, I promise.”

Milo and Lucy look up at me, eyes twinkling, full of love that is so pure and true it makes me well up with emotion.

“Don’t cry Mom,” Lucy says. “It’s just a tree.”

Laughing, I think they’re right. It is just a tree. A tree on a massive hill. Going back to the mountain doesn’t need to be bad--it can be a brave and simple thing.

“This can be the start of a new tradition,” I tell them.

Their faces filled with joy tells me it’s the right call--even if it’s scary.

By the time Ansel knocks on the door I’ve changed my clothes four times. When Maggie came to pick up the kids a half hour ago she told me to chill the fuck out--which is easier said then done. Then she handed me a glass of Chardonnay, which helped with my nerves.

Last night’s fling was one thing--this is an actual date.

She convinced me that a simple black sweater with dark denim skinny jeans paired with my tall leather boots were a simple, sophisticated, and yet “me” ensemble. She said I was golden so long as I didn’t wear my clogs.

“You look beautiful,” Ansel says, walking in from the cold handing me a bouquet of flowers.

“You don’t look half bad yourself,” I say, letting him pull me in for a kiss. It’s so unexpected, to be kissed like this ... without reservation. But I give into it--into him. His kiss is offered without expectation and maybe that’s why it’s so appealing--why he is so appealing.

When we pull apart, I press a hand to my chest, feeling flustered and overwhelmed--in a good way.

“That was one hell of a hello, Greta,” he says, holding my gaze and cupping my face in his hand. I close my eyes, sinking into him, realizing how badly I want to be held. Held by him.

But then I remember myself--the million reasons why I’m acting on impulse and not with my brain. I shake my head, trying to brush the moment away, but Ansel doesn’t let me.

“Greta, do you want me to go?” he asks softly. “I know I kind of forced this date on you this morning, and I don’t want--”

I cut him off. “No, I’m glad you’re here. I want you.” Blushing, I add, “Want you here, I mean.”

“Last night you said you hadn’t been with anyone in ages--am I the first guy you’ve been with since your ex?”

I frown. “Ex?”

“Ex husband, or the father of your--”

I press a finger to his mouth. “There is no ex.” I bite my bottom lip. Why is it that when I’m with Ansel things are on hyper-speed? We haven’t even stepped from my foyer into my messy living room and we’re already discussing the fact that I’m a widow. I thought this conversation could be drawn out over the night ... or over a few days. Not a few minutes.

But that’s what Ansel does to me. Makes me forget all about restraint. Just like last night, when he pulled me to his bed, I wanted to go all in.

“I’m a widow, Ansel. My husband, Luke, died a few years ago. In an accident on the mountain.”

This is the moment that’s always scared me. I don’t want pity or apologies--because I don’t need them. I know what I had with Luke and I’ve mourned what we lost.

But Ansel doesn’t do any of that. Instead, he leans back, his head falling against the front door, and exhales. As if understanding that there are no words for the kind of loss I experienced.

Then he takes my hands and pulls me into his arms. Wrapping them around me so damn tight I think I might not be able to breathe. Still, he holds me tighter.

It’s the one thing I’ve been missing most for two long years, a man to hold me, to steady me. To be my anchor.

“Oh, Greta,” he whispers, pushing my hair from my ear. “You’re so strong.”

And then ... the tears come. I don’t feel strong at all. I couldn’t stop the tears if I tried.

I don’t know why I’m crying in the arms of a man I barely know. He’s holding me tenderly, as if he understands parts of my story that I still haven’t made sense of.

I don’t know why this is the most comforted I’ve felt since Luke died--but it is. And it makes me want to give Ansel everything I have left. All the love a woman could offer a man.

I look up and he uses his thumbs to wipe away my tears and his eyes hold mine so intently that my skin prickles, my core stirs, my heart pounds.

“Fuck, Greta, I want you so bad. And it feels like the most inappropriate thing to think at the moment, but I can’t help how I feel.”

My jaw drops. Over the last few years I’ve encountered all sorts of responses to my loss, but Ansel is the first person who has made me smile after hearing about Luke.

“Who are you?” I ask, laughing through tears. “And why do I feel like I’ve known you forever?”

Ansel holds my cheeks with both hands, then kisses my nose, my forehead, before looking deep into my eyes, a smile spreading across his handsome face.

“So you’re telling me you’re horny, too?”

It’s then that I know I’m in all sorts of life-altering trouble. Because with Ansel it’s no longer just about sex. Suddenly it feels like a whole lot more.

Suddenly, it feels like everything.