Chapter 9
NINE
Rowan
Securing the last piece of tape onto the snowman-covered box, I look at the oven clock. It’s after one in the morning, and Santa still has to eat his cookies and drop off presents.
It takes a few trips, but I stack the gifts under the tree, a few with different paper to signify that they’re from me and not from Santa, then I grab a pair of Dad’s old work boots and slap some fake snow onto them.
I slide my feet into them and quietly stomp around the living room, leaving a trail of large boot prints along the carpet.
When I’m done, I slip the boots off and put them back into the secret Christmas box that we keep in the garage, taking a step back to look at my handiwork.
This is something Dad should be doing for her. These are his boots, this is his tradition. He should be down here setting up the magic of fucking Christmas for his daughter, not me.
It’s okay, I tell myself. Mom would be proud. Mom would smile.
I heft the box in my arms and walk it back to the garage, sliding it back up on a high shelf, then I move back to the living room.
I sit on the couch and shove the cookies into my mouth, taking as many bites as I can tolerate from them and the various veggies that we set out, before pulling out a sheet of paper and pen.
Gripping the pen in my left hand, I scribble a note from Santa – letting him tell Macie all of the things I can’t say to her face without crying.
I roll the note into a tube, wrapped in a red ribbon bow, and stick it into the tree, then make my way upstairs. I only have a few hours before she wakes up. I should at least try to get a nap in.
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“ROWAN!”
A scream rings out from downstairs, waking me from my half-doze, and I check the time on my phone.
Five thirty on the dot. I smile and slide my feet into my slippers then slowly work my way downstairs, where I find Macie jumping up and down in the living room, surrounded by presents she’s already started sorting.
They’re all for her, but I’m not about to tell her that and spoil her fun.
“Wow!” I shout, my voice thick with exhaustion. “Santa came!”
“He wrote me a letter back!”
“He did?” I gasp, taking the letter from her hand and pretending to read it. “Wow, kiddo, this is awesome!” I wrap my arms around her in a tight squeeze and plant a kiss to the crown of her head. “Merry Christmas.”
“Can I open them?”
“Knock yourself out, girlfriend,” I say, and I lower myself onto the couch to watch.
My heart swells as I watch her tear into the paper, her face lighting up more and more with each gift she opens.
I lean forward with my elbows on my knees and rest my chin on my hands as she tears through all of her gifts, trying to keep up with trash collection so her toys don’t get lost in the mess.
A half hour goes by while she screams, giggles, and hollers about all of her new things and tells me that Santa brought her everything she asked for.
She doesn’t need to know that Santa saved up since August to make sure that was possible.
I grab a trash bag and start stuffing the torn paper and loose ribbons into it, tie it off and take it outside to the big garbage bin next to the garage.
On the way back into the house, my gaze drops, landing on something I hadn’t noticed when I came out: two stockings – one pink, one printed with characters from Frozen – each filled to the brim, sitting next to the front door.
“Oh, Dad…”
I lean down to grab them, turning over one of the tags in my hand.
For Rowan
From Santa Claus
I’ve spent almost four months looking at that handwriting.
These aren’t from dad, they’re from Colt.
Tears spring to my eyes and I’m honestly not sure which feeling is more prevalent – the pain of the realization that Dad is fully not present for Christmas, or the happiness at the realization that Colt really cares.
Not just about me, but about my sister, too.
I lift the stockings, one in each arm, and carry them into the living room.
“Santa’s bag must have been too heavy,” I tell her, “he had to leave these outside!”
“Stockings!” She screams, running over to grab the one labeled with her name.
She sits on the floor again and tears into it, pulling out candy, a makeup set, a slime kit, hair accessories, the list goes on.
My hand clutches over my chest as I watch her.
It’s so obvious that he searched ‘stocking stuffers for little girls,’ but he fully committed, and if I didn’t already have a crush on him, there’s zero doubt in my mind about it, now.
I pull a few things out of mine – dark chocolates - bitter like his coffee, colorful pens, a candle.
When I reach the bottom, I feel something huge, for a stocking.
I pull it out, revealing a large water bottle with the times of the day on one side, the other printed with ‘I am optimistic because today is a new day.’ Sitting just beneath it is a small notebook, titled The Little Book of Manifesting.
My face nearly splits in two from the smile that breaks out across it and I have to fight back a full-body giggle. He’s been listening to me. He’s actually been paying attention.