Chapter 4
Gage
Every Who down in Whoville, the tall and the small, was singing!
~ Dr. Seuss, How the Grinch Stole Christmas!
“How do I keep letting you guys wrangle me into things like this?” I ask Mitch.
I glance around the town square at the families with young children. Some of our seniors are out here in lawn chairs or standing surrounded by their loved ones.
A group of teens is huddled together, all of them now at that stage where it’s no longer popular to stand with your family at town events, but they aren’t so cool that they want to dodge the tradition entirely.
And then there are all the volunteers dressed like the Whos in Whoville or Santa’s elves.
“Wrangle?” Mitch asks. “The bigger question is when it started to feel like it’s wrangling.
We never used to have to coax you out like some feral cat hiding in the bushes.
And before you say anything, I know what you went through.
It was brutal. All Darla’s eyelashes should fall out.
Or she should get some lifelong version of a skin-eating bacteria.
I’m not saying you weren’t burned badly.
But when is the expiration date on letting her ruin your personality? ”
I wince. Mitch isn’t wrong. But he’s also not the one who had to peel himself off the floor after his almost-fiancée dumped him.
I stare at my best friend. “How do you really feel?”
He smiles good naturedly. “You want to be the Grinchy Scrooge of Waterford? Go for it. I’ll get you a bald dog and we can tie an antler to his head. You can even steal the roast beast. No skin off my teeth. I’m just saying I miss you.”
“Hmph.”
I don’t say anything for a beat. Instead, my eyes travel around the square, taking in the scene that could be the backdrop for every cheesy Hallmark Christmas movie ever written. All we need is a tree lot and a character from a big city.
“I never loved Christmas,” I finally defend.
“You never hated it,” Mitch counters.
He’s not wrong. But I’m not telling him that. Not here. Not now. I already feel out of place in my own hometown. This conversation is only fueling my unease.
Tree lighting.
I hear the words bah humbug filter through my mind, and I nearly say them out loud.
Usually, I’m fine standing on the sidelines. But tonight, watching guys my age wrap arms around their wives and hoist kids onto their shoulders, something tightens in my chest. I don’t necessarily want what they have. I just … don’t want to feel this hollow.
A laugh I’d recognize anywhere filters over from the sidewalk and my head turns before I even have time to think about it. Tori’s walking up with all her friends. She’s wearing the world’s ugliest Christmas sweater.
“What is she wearing?” I mutter.
Mitch turns and laughs a booming laugh. “Tori! That’s classic. Is that actual tinsel?”
She stops in her tracks and poses as if she’s on a runway. Then she moves her hands in a demonstration style in front of the design on the sweater as if she’s some TikTok influencer unveiling a new product drop.
“It is indeed tinsel.” Tori drags her fingertips along the boa of red shimmery fluff attached to the neckline and then continues to run her hands over the tinsel zig-zagging in a nonsensical pattern down the front of the sweater.
“Wait!” Mitch shouts. “Is that Grandma? As in Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer?”
Tori makes this elated sound that’s somewhere between a squeal and a shout of glee.
“Yesss! Look! Here’s Grandma.” She points to a figure of an elderly woman made of felt stitched onto the sweater.
The woman’s flat on her back and her eyes are crossed out with Xs.
“And here’s the reindeer!” She points to a brown felt animal with a pom-pom nose standing proudly across from the granny.
“And look!” She points to nearly a paragraph of lettering, also all in fabric.
It says, Grandma Just Got Run Over by a Reindeer.
“Epic!” Mitch says. “That has to be the best holiday sweater I’ve ever seen.”
Tori beams.
“That thing is awful,” I say.
Both Mitch and Tori’s heads spin and they stare at me.
“What?”
“Didn’t your mom teach you not to say anything if you didn’t have something nice to say?” Mitch asks.
“My mom, who you know well, and who will also be here in a little while with her famous reindeer peanut butter cookies, taught me to tell the truth. And that sweater is ugly.”
“Yes!” Tori beams. “It’s the ugliest, right?”
“Uh. Yes.” I’m baffled why this awareness makes her ridiculously happy.
“I know!” she shouts. “I just had to have it. When I saw it online, I was like, that is so ugly it’s actually cute. Like those cats that have faces that look like they ran into a wall. So ugly, they’re cute.”
I’m missing the cute part, but I keep that to myself. See, Mitch. I have restraint.
Mayor Briggs steps up to the microphone on the gazebo. “Excuse me.” He waits for the chatter to die down. “Welcome! Welcome, people of Waterford, to our annual tree-lighting ceremony!”
The crowd cheers and whoops.
I stuff my gloved hands in my coat pockets. It’s colder out tonight than it has been. Still not cold enough to snow, but there’s a chill in the air.
“We’re going to light the tree now, and then the firemen of Station Number One will place the star on top! This year, our rookie at the station, Dustin, will be doing the honors.”
Cheers erupt again from the overzealous crowd as if sitting in a hook and ladder truck and placing a star on a tree is an act of bravery.
“After the star is placed, all of you are welcome to grab ornaments from the boxes on the tables over here and place them on the tree. Please stick around for refreshments, and be sure to grab your secret Santa names if you signed up to participate this year.”
He’s quiet for a moment and then he says, “Without further ado, let’s light this tree!”
The lights start from the bottom and row by row, the tree is illuminated, casting a yellow-white glow over the townspeople standing around the square.
The fire truck pulls up onto the sidewalk.
One of the firemen, a guy named Patrick, who I’ve known since elementary school, clears the crowd while the truck rolls closer to the tree.
Then Dustin reaches out of the cherry picker and places the star.
When it lights along with the strands below, the crowd goes wild.
Someone starts spontaneously singing Silent Night, and by the second line nearly everyone is singing along.
Tori’s standing between Mitch and me. I’m not singing, but she is. Her voice is sweet—more melodic than I’d expect. If I were into holidays, I’d probably say she’s one of the better carolers I’ve heard. She sings the words as if she means them, not only in tune, but with her heart.
I have to wonder why a woman like Tori is single.
She’s beautiful in a girl-next-door sort of way, which is the opposite of Darla.
Some women show they are high-maintenance from the minute you meet them.
The nails. The hair. The clothes. That was Darla.
She loved the fact that I was a pilot. That meant I could fly her around.
In her mind, it meant I had money to spend—on her.
I was so blinded by her interest in me. The compliments, the texts, the way she made me feel.
And it wasn’t all superficial. We had long talks into the night by phone.
I shared things with her I haven’t even told Mitch or Liam. Foolish man. Well, fool me once.
I shake my head. Why am I thinking about Darla?
The carol ends on the word “peace,” and everyone starts moving toward the tables to grab ornaments. It’s mayhem. I stand back. Tori’s still next to me. Mitch already darted away.
Tori shivers.
“That sweater’s thinner than you thought?” I ask.
“It’s not exactly built for warmth. It’s more of a statement piece.”
I nod. She rubs her hands together.
“No gloves?”
She shrugs.
“Here.” I start to pull at the tips of my gloves.
“No! Gage. No. That’s fine. I’ll be fine. It’s my fault for wanting to show off the sweater. I should have worn a hat and gloves at least.”
“I’m good. I already warmed up. Besides, I need my hands for hanging ornaments.”
She looks at me sideways.
“Okay. Fine. I’m not a big deck-the-halls kind of guy. Just take the gloves.”
She giggles. It’s not merely a laugh, she’s laughing at me. And I never like being the brunt of a joke. Teasing with my friends is one thing. But, for some reason, I don’t mind Tori giggling at my expense.
I pull the gloves off and hand them to her.
She slips them on and sighs. “Pre-warmed. I feel spoiled.”
“Doesn’t take much to make you happy, does it?”
I don’t mean it as a criticism, even though my voice probably sounds gruff.
“I don’t see what good there is in being miserable,” Tori says matter-of-factly. “Life is full of surprises and gifts everywhere you turn. You barely have to look around yourself and you’ll find them. Like these.” She holds her hands up in the air and smiles.
“They’re just gloves.”
“It’s the kindness behind them that makes them special.”
She drops that bomb and smiles. And then she turns on her heels and walks over to the tables where our friends are digging through boxes that stay packed up in City Hall all year, year after year. I probably hung some of those same ornaments when I was a boy.
“She’s always been such a ray of sunshine.” My mom steps up next to me and wraps her arm around my shoulder.
“Who?”
“Tori Pritchett.”
“How do you know Tori?”
I’m a few years older than Tori and we didn’t run in the same circles growing up. Even though Waterford is small, you still don’t exactly socialize with everyone even if you’re aware of who they are.