Fourteen
Twiggy
Floyd’s Toy Emporium has been a staple of Lucy Falls for generations. One of the town’s cornerstone businesses, it boasts a coveted corner lot on Main Street, with a cheerful red and white striped awning and a meticulously designed window display that everyone around has come to look forward to during the holidays.
This year’s display is a charming rendition of Santa’s workshop, with dozens of packages wrapped in kraft paper and red ribbon, each one tagged with a different name.
Floyd’s was one of my favorite places to visit as a child. I didn’t play with toys a lot, but they had the absolute best selection of puzzles and brain games for miles. I beeline straight for the aisle where I used to find them, and grin when I see that Floyd Junior still does have the best selection.
“I see some things never change.”
I give Floyd a tight hug. “Place looks great, and no…some things never will change. Love the window.”
He shrugs. “Figured it would be good with having Santa and his elves visiting. Speaking of, your guy’s in the back getting into costume. He did not look happy.”
I laugh, imagining Bran scowling. “That’s just the way he looks.”
“As long as he’s jolly to the kids…”
“He will be perfect. You’ll see. I have faith in him.”
Bran emerges shortly afterward from the back of the store, his belt undone and hanging loose around his waist and his beard around his neck. I issue a snort and go to help him, tugging the silvery beard up to cover his own dark bristle.
“Looking like Santa after a bender,” I tell him, pulling the belt taut and fastening it. He catches me by the arms, holding me still when I finish and would have stepped away.
“I am never, ever going to forgive you for this,” he says, voice gravelly.
I pat his chest and tug the beard into place. “You’ll be doing this for me every Christmas before you know it, big guy.”
“Holy crap, I need a picture. You guys are perfect.” Floyd eyes us. “I think…yeah. Twiggy, can you stand on that present? It’ll highlight the size disparity between you…you really do look like a freaking elf; it’s crazy.”
I climb carefully onto a sturdy “package,” and Bran takes his place beside me. Floyd presses a smaller package into my hands.
“All right, Santa, put your hands on your stomach and say ho, ho, ho.”
“Fuck you, you, you,” Bran says instead.
“Oh, dear.” Floyd shakes his head in exasperation. “Don’t say that to any kids.”
“I’ll try to restrain myself.”
Bran takes his place on the throne, a shining, gold-painted seat Floyd created, and I stand beside him, ready to assist. Floyd goes to open the doors, and Bran runs a finger around the inside of his collar. “This fucking suit itches.”
“Hush. Here they come.”
Kids and community home volunteers and a few foster parents begin approaching, forming a line. I greet each child first, squatting down so I’m on level with them and asking if they’re excited to meet Santa. I remember being in that line as a kid, hopped up on sugar and holiday spirit.
The only thing that’s changed is where I’m standing.
I help the first kid, around four, climb into Bran’s lap. She pushes long ringlets back from her face and stares at Bran curiously, her little fingers reaching as if she wants to touch his beard.
Bran just stares, nonplussed.
“Psst,” I hiss. “Ask her what her name is. What she wants for Christmas…”
Shifting slightly on his throne, Bran clears his throat. “Hi, there. What’s your name?”
She frowns. “You’re supposed to say ho, ho, ho. Is your beard real?”
“Oh…um, yes. It’s real.” Bran shoots a look at me. “Ho, ho, ho.”
“So weak,” I cough the words.
Bran ignores me. “What would you like Santa to bring you this year? A pony? Some pretty jewelry?”
Jewelry. Mentally, I slap my palm to my forehead.
“Santa, little Jamie here is four, not forty.”
The little girl frowns harder, shaking her head. “You’re weird. I like Mall Santa better. And I want a Barbie.”
Somehow, Bran makes it through an agonizing performance, and Barbie girl is exchanged for another child, a little boy who looks to be around seven or eight. He’s a bit warmer to Bran, talking excitedly about all of his favorite things, like Transformers and Spiderman and Minecraft.
By the time Bran finishes with him, he’s several degrees more relaxed and looking he might even make it through the day.
Fifteen kids pass, and I have to pee like the proverbial Russian racehorse. I hitch my chin at Floyd behind Bran. “I’m taking a bathroom break.”
“Sure—” Floyd says.
“No,” Bran says. He has a kid on his lap and doesn’t look away from him to give the dictate.
“I’ll be fine,” I say, walking away. “The bathroom is just back here. I barely have to take ten steps.”
In the rear of the store, a door half-hidden behind a vintage comic book display marks the entrance to the employees-only section. I open it and head through, familiar enough with Floyd’s business to know there’s a bathroom back here.
Boxes and half-opened stock line the narrow hallway, and for once, I’m thankful I’m reasonably small as I navigate the tight space.
In the bathroom, I do my business and wash my hands, and then I simply stand in front of the mirror for a few minutes, glad to be away from all the people. No matter how fun, and regardless that it’s for a good cause, the constant presence and push of so many people has my introvert nerves tensing and rebelling.
I need a breather.
Turning the tap back on, I run the cold water and splash a bit on my face. My reflection stares back at me, an odd combination of stress and happiness delineating my features. My freckles stand out, stark against the pallor of my skin, but my mouth curls at the corners with what can only be contentment. My blue eyes are rimmed with the dark circles of fatigue, but the expression in them is happy all the same. At peace.
That’s Bran’s influence, I know.
He’s infuriating and dictatorial, but he’s also…I search for the right word as I search my reflection, discovering truths there I’m not altogether ready to acknowledge.
… a big ole cinnamon roll. Sweet. Thoughtful. The kind of goodness you want to fall into.
Shiloh makes them every Christmas, a holdover from when her mother did the same, and delivers them to friends and neighbors. I love those cinnamon rolls almost as much as I love Karla’s donuts.
And that line of thinking is dangerous. I don’t want my forever guy right now. I’m too young. The world is too big. Giving a little shake of my head, I unlock the bathroom door and step into the hallway.
I haven’t taken a full step toward the front of the store before a hard arm bands itself around my shoulders and neck, dragging me backward. Another hand clamps over my mouth, cutting off my reflexive scream.
“Look what Santa delivered, a spicy little gift right into my waiting arms…”
I fight. I kick my legs, sending boxes and stock flying, and I sink my teeth into the arm that’s pressed tight against my larynx and threatening every breath.
It’s like a butterfly battling a hurricane, though. I’m no match for his strength and bulk, my efforts inspiring nothing but laughter as he drags me back. He pauses, squeezing me into stillness, and a second later, I feel a prick against my neck.
“Go to sleep,” I hear him murmur, but the words are slurred… or maybe that’s my brain… everything is hazy, suddenly, blurring and shifting before my eyes.
I hear a dim crash of sound and a bellow of rage, and then everything goes black.