Chapter 2 The Return
The Return
The road to Jollytown winds through the forest, creating a painting of pines and white.
The storm hasn’t hit yet, but the sky's the color of steel.
News plays on the radio, endless talk of holidays, miracles, missing persons, record inches of snow—it has me constantly shuffling through the stations.
When I can’t settle on what to listen to, I turn it off. The silence fills the car, the hum of the tires and the soft howl of the wind raging outside keep the rhythm of my thoughts. I haven’t been back since the funeral, and even then, I hid.
I hate the town as much as I hate Christmas—it’s all a lie.
The cheer, the spirit, and the miracles.
All of it has lost its meaning to me—all I see are number signs, and stocks.
In the distance, a billboard looms out of the fog, the light casting a ghostly shade over it.
There was the Hallmark stamp of Christmas town—the home of small vintage stores and majestic white pine trees, and written in red bold letters:
WELCOME TO JOLLYTOWN—HOME OF THE PORTER TOYS.
There’s a family painted on it, a child, a father, and a mother holding hands, everyone smiling beneath the town’s Christmas tree. A grin spreads across my face when I take in the small horns painted on the father.
“Still subtle,” I mutter, feeling my grip tightening around the wheel. “Some things never change.” The small white flurries blur my view. Turning on the wipers, they squeal against the glass as I press harder against the gas.
When the radio cuts on, static hums from the speaker. My gaze shoots down to the screen as it goes haywire, scanning through the stations before landing on the Christmas station.
“He sees you when you’re sleeping,” the voice sings just before the sound is cut off by tolling bells.
DING!
DING!
DONG!
I go to turn it off, taking my eyes off the road for a moment, when suddenly, the shadow of something brown catches in my peripheral vision. The car spins, tires screeching and skating against the snow as I press down on the brake.
“NAUGHTY,” a static voice cuts through the deafening sound of rushing blood in my ears.
“NI—” I turn off the radio, my eyes glued on the buck staring back at me.
My heart ricochets inside my chest as I place the car into park, watching as a car moves around me, the couple flipping me off as they pass by.
When I look again, there’s nothing there.
No buck.
Only the empty white roads….
After arriving at the cabin, a good shower and a warm meal later, I decide to head into town, needing the one thing I truly missed.
I move through the crowded streets of Jollytown, the irony cutting deeper with every flake of snow.
Funny how I ended up back here—the place that taught me to hate the cold, the snow, and Christmas itself.
The town hasn’t changed at all. Carolers already sing in the town's lit-up plaza, red and green garlands wrap tightly around the pine trees, and the cabins still glow like postcards.
People come to feel joy, and well, I came back to remember why I lost mine.
Which leads me back to the place where it all started.
Walking towards the small bakery, I smile at the familiar face of Lola Mendez, owner of the Sweet Fill Cafe.
Stepping inside, I shake off the white dust of snow that clings to me.
Hazel eyes narrow, thin penciled in brows knit together as she pushes back pink strands of hair behind her pierced ears. “Devon Porter.”
“In the flesh,” I reply with a curt nod and smile. “It’s great to see you, Lola.” Her careful grin stretches wide as she places her red pen on the counter, then wipes her hands on her red apron while she steps from behind the counter.
“It’s been awfully long. How have you been?”
“I’ve been okay. I don’t have much to complain about,” I lie, because it’s easier than reciting the long list of reasons I’m not okay.
However, it’s easier to just omit the truth.
Plus, it’s not like anyone in this town would actually care.
I see the newspaper and its loud dislike for my work ethic.
I couldn’t help but enjoy making money as much as I love spending it.
If only others could share my vision, I wouldn’t be called Jollytown’s Scrooge, but instead, an entrepreneur.
My eyes roam through the small, cozy cafe, full of mismatched chairs and tables, before landing on the large poster.
Nothing has changed—everything is just how I left it over three years ago.
A memory crawls through my mind.
“Devon, here,” Neno calls me over as he continues to draw the design of our new project. Hunched over the red circle table, my heart skips a beat when I notice the skin that peeks out when he stretches his arms over his head.
“How long have you been working on this?” I ask, slipping out of my jacket. His luscious lips curl into a devilish smirk before he yawns. My eyes lock on his perfect teeth, and my balls go tight, remembering the way his tongue swirls around my shaft.
The sound of Lola’s voice snaps me out of the memory, still rambling on about her parents, the town, and the cafe, ending her recap with, “So now, I run the cafe all alone, unfortunately.”
“I’m sorry to hear about your parents,” I reply solemnly.
From what I could remember about her elderly parents, they were kind and giving.
My eyes continue to roam the area, landing on a picture of me dressed in a Scrooge costume.
As much as I try to hide my disapproval, I can feel the tension roll in my body.
Lola notices. “Kids these days. Always coming up with the darnest things.” I nod, pretending to laugh, but my chest feels tight. “Guess I must’ve made an impression.”
“You always did,” she replies as she lets out a sigh before returning behind the counter.
“Why are people not happy with working anymore?” I ask, stepping closer to the image, inspecting it. My finger trailing over the devil horns drawn on my forehead, my pearly teeth blacked out to give me a rotten effect.
I actually loved this picture, a feature for Bordes Business Magazine. My brown skin shimmering from the makeup, giving the illusion of being dipped in gold, and dressed down in a beige Henley, tight around my biceps and rolled up to my forearms.
“It’s not the work, Devon,” is all she replies as she busies herself behind the counter.
The smell of her famous cinnamon and nutmeg coffee fills the space, the spurting sound of it brewing is a bitter sweet symphony to my ears.
Finally, I rip my attention away from the image and walk towards the counter, just as she slides what used to be my everyday coffee order across the counter.
“You used to light up the place when you came in. Everyone is so proud of what you’ve done, Devon.”
Another tug at the ice box inside my chest, so why does my success feel so hollow? Why do the people in Jollytown dislike me so much? I was barely an adult when I inherited the Porter Toy Industry, and all I did was dedicate my time.
My heart is in it. To make my parents proud, to make their vision come to life.
Yes, I worked more than the average person, but success only comes to those who grind for it.
I never cared about how others viewed me, I only wanted success.
I wanted out of this shit hole Christmas town, so why did such a sight have me almost turning around and leaving it all behind like I did the first time?
I take the cup into my cold hand, the warmth seeping into my bones but not my heart.
“Yeah, I bet they are.”
This time, Lola doesn’t answer, she just looks down at the hundred-dollar bill I placed on the counter, and I walk away without another word.
Outside, the world is white again, the air smelling like pine and burnt sugar. I inhale it all in, feeling something close to nostalgia as I make my way down the streets. Painful memories beg to resurface to be relieved. But if grief didn’t kill me, nostalgia sure as hell wouldn’t.
Jollytown still looks like a postcard, even when you want to tear it apart.
Dare I say, even more now than before. Crossing the town square, I pass the same wreath-hung lamp post, the same familiar antique store window lined with toy trains from my company.
The conductors’ little plastic faces grin up at me through the glass, catching my reflection beside them—I smile back.
For a second, it feels like the toys are watching me and not the other way around.
A shiver runs down my spine, causing me to look away and continue my walk towards the edge of the town. The church bells start to ring.
DING.
DONG.
DING.
The sound slides down the length of my back like a warning.
Picking up my pace, I turn towards the old college road, the one that winds uphill past the frozen lake.
The air feels harsher, my breath leaving my lips in small clouds of white.
Bringing my coffee cup to my lips, I take a small sip.
The familiar taste of the arabica beans invades my mouth, hints of cinnamon and nutmeg blend with the flavor of the creamer.
The wind whistles around me as I continue my path, causing a poster to flap above the intersection.
My smile quickly fades as I look at the red horns sitting over my head and the halo around the word favorite.
I scoff. Of course, someone has already vandalized it.
This town has seriously gone downhill. I stop in the middle of the street, coffee still steaming in my hand, my pulse quickening from the sight.
It’s just a prank. A bad joke. I remind myself as my nails dig into the cardboard cup.
Maybe coming back here was a mistake, but with the storm coming, it would be impossible to travel back in time to avoid the bad roads.
Plus, Momma didn’t raise a bitch. Maybe a narcissistic prick, but I digress.
Small towns never forget and never forgive.
A gust of snow sweeps through the square, tearing the banner loose, and it tumbles end over end before it catches on a pine branch. The red ink bleeds down the letters and into my face like blood on paper.
“Fucking town,” I mutter to myself as I slowly make my way towards the dumpster and chuck my cup in before resuming my walk. The dead roots crunch through slush. The wind carries the caroller's song after me—faint and broken, a single line repeating over and over until it’s just noise.
He sees you when you’re sleeping… He knows when you're awake.
A Christmas song shouldn’t have my blood turning ice cold and my eyes widening, the words holding me hostage as it echoes off the mountains.
Yet it does.
It takes me a moment before I head back towards my car, but I swear I can still hear the lyrics repeating over and over again.
I think that’s where the discomfort comes into play.
The sound melody, while distorted, continues to flow through the air.
When I get to my car, I open the door, only to notice a flake of paper sitting on the black leather driver's seat.
Quickly, I crane my neck, looking around me, trying to find who put this in there.
My doors were locked, I’m sure of it. I let out a breath, the tip of my nose numb from the cold.
There’s no one out here, nothing but empty cars dusted in white.
I return my focus to the note, the edges soaked and curling into itself—it’s a flyer from the town plaza.
Confusion clouds my mind. Lifting my head, I look over the parking lot once again, but the only footsteps left in the snow are mine.
Focusing back on the paper, I see my face smiling above the words:
Again, for the third time today, I’ve found my face vandalized. This time, someone scrawled across my eyes in red, thick ink.
I’M AWAKE.
What the fuck? What does that even mean?
The bells stop chiming, and the streets go still as the snow continues to fall around me. And for the first time since I came back, I remember why I hate Christmas.