Chapter 7
“You look… festive,” Teddy grunts from the backseat, leaning forward as far as the human-sized dog on his lap will allow to inspect my costume.
“You look great, Mel,” Ally says, reaching back to give her dog scritches as he slowly suffocates her fiancé.
Once again, I’ve conscripted my best friend into flea-market duty. What is the point of a best friend if she can’t be your plus-one to every event that wigs you out?
Only this morning, it’s plus two and a half. Teddy decided to come too, and color me surprised when he piled into my Civic with that hulk of a dog. Tidbit occupies the entire backseat; Teddy rolls the window down so that Tids can drool outside the car, not in it.
“Thanks,” I say. “I’ve been wearing it so much I’m worried it’ll become glued to my skin.”
“I’m sure Eben won’t mind—”
Ally reaches back and swats Teddy on the leg.
“I was just thinking,” I say, my shoes jingling as I brake at a stop sign, “he probably has a girlfriend.”
“Are those…jingle bell shoes?” Teddy asks.
“He does not have a girlfriend,” Ally says. “What happened to the North Pole-dancer heels from yesterday?”
I met Ally at our favorite brunch spot after my Mrs. Claus shift. One look at my “Mrs. Ho-ho-ho” shoes (her nickname) and she spent the rest of the meal sneaking R-rated holiday puns into the conversation. Highlights include jingle balls and Miracle on 69th Street.
“After an old geezer pretended to fall just so to look up my skirt, I decided to retire Santa’s stripper shoes.”
“Aww, let the old man live a little,” Teddy says.
“Shut up, Ted,” Ally says. “Wait, does Mrs. Claus even have a name?”
“It’s disputed,” I say, wistfully. “In the 1970s stop-motion animation, Mrs. Claus’s name is Jessica, which is… interesting. I’ve also read Gertrude, Mary, and Carol.”
“What about Crystal?” Teddy asks.
Silence from us girls in the front seat.
“Crystal Claus,” he tests. “Has a nice ring.”
Ally ignores him. “The point is, it sucks that she’s this Santa sidekick with no name or identity other than ‘wife.’” She’s about to launch into a feminist tirade, and honestly, it’s too early on a Sunday for that.
I need two more gallons of coffee before I can join her in dismantling the Santa Claus myth.
“I’m fine with Mrs. Claus,” I say, trying not to sound dismissive. “But since today is for the children, Crystal Claus needs to sit this one out.”
“Heh,” Teddy chuckles, beaming that I used his nickname.
“Fair enough,” Ally says, throwing her hands up in surrender.
My phone rings—loud. I forgot to put it on silent. My ringtone through January 5—same as always— is Trans-Siberian Orchestra’s “Carol of the Bells.” Instant nervous-system shakedown.
“Who’s that?” Allison’s nosy as ever.
I kill the ringtone and just stare at Ally. “Guess.”
She opens her mouth, but then takes one look at my face and zips it. I’m in no mood to talk about my family right now.
It takes four million years to find parking, but once we do, Teddy helps me haul our hastily thrown-together setup to our assigned booth while Ally takes the dog for a pee break—mainly to keep him from christening random objects.
We dress the table: a red cloth, a white faux-fur runner.
Donation box out. A clipboard with a signup sheet.
Allison returns, hands Tidbit to Teddy, then helps me hang the backdrop.
She somehow finagled a fireplace scene from her office—decorated trees on either side, stockings hung by the chimney with care, a window with Santa’s sleigh sailing across the night sky (meaning two Santas per pic, but we’re not here for logic).
The kids will love it, and the parents will love skipping the mall line, paying what they can instead of mall-Santa prices—for a bad actor who probably smells like cigarettes anyway.
Eben eventually rolls up, looking every bit the tall drink of Santa he is.
“Sorry I’m late,” he says, straightening his beard.
Teddy spins around from wrestling Tidbit away from the trash. His jaw drops.
“Wow,” Teddy says, giving Mr. Eben Claus an unabashed once-over.
“Hello,” Eben says, shifting from one foot to the other, uncomfortable.
“Uh, Eben, this is Teddy,” I say. “Ally’s fiancé. You’ll have to excuse him—he’s a, um, big fan of Santa Claus.”
Ally elbows Teddy. “Dial it back, Rudolph.”
Teddy steps forward with his free hand. Eben shakes it, confused.
“Nice to meet you, Bad Santa,” Teddy says—his lack of filter backfiring instantly.
Eben blinks. I dip my head into my palm.
“Okay, that’s enough,” Ally says, corralling both Teddy and her dog (who is now trying to knock over the trash). “We’re grabbing coffees—what can I get for you two?”
“Peppermint mocha,” I say, not missing a beat. My eyes slide to Eben; he looks amused.
“Black for me, thanks,” he says.
“That’s the psycho coffee order, right?” Teddy stage-whispers, and Ally pushes him toward the coffee bar.
“They’re cute,” Eben says. “How long have they been together?”
“A little over a decade,” I say. “They’re tail-end-high-school-sweethearts.”
“What does that mean?” he asks, tilting his head.
“They got together right at the very end of senior year and have been inseparable ever since,” I say dreamily.
I’ve never been envious of their relationship, but I’ve always loved their love story—straight out of a romance novel, minus the will-they-won’t-they.
It was obvious from day one they’d be together. Always.
“Isn’t that just high school sweethearts?” Eben asks, slipping on his fake beard.
“I don’t know, I think of high school sweethearts as people together all through high school who get married at nineteen,” I say, tossing a few dollars into the donation box.
“They’re not married?” he asks, fixing his hat.
“I mean, basically, but no.” I turn to him and notice the beard is crooked. Without thinking, I reach up to adjust it. “They bought the house, got the dog, have the rings… just need to say the words.”
“What about you?” he asks. The question vibrates beneath my fingers, and a chill sweeps my spine.
I freeze. “What about me?”
He clears his throat. “Are you… sweethearts with anyone?”
“Not unless you count my vibrator,” I mutter. Eben’s eyes widen behind the spectacles. I drop my hands from his still-crooked beard and slap a hand over my mouth. Did I really just say that?
It’s a wild thing to grow up without a Santa Claus and then confess to a man in a Santa suit that your boyfriend is a sex toy.
“Oh God,” I groan, “I’m so sor—are you laughing at me?”
His “bowl full of jelly” (a pillow belted under the suit) jiggles along with his shoulders. He doubles over. His real laugh is higher-pitched than the Santa boom—a bright, boyish tenor. It’s lovely. I savor it, even as my cheeks turn beet red.
“I’m sorry,” he says, hands on his knees, wiping away tears. “I was not expecting that.”
“Expect the unexpected,” I say, blowing out a breath. I press my lips together, willing them not to smile. “Glad you think my pathetic, desert-dry love life is hilar–”
“Hey, wait,” he says, sobering. “I didn’t say that. I’m not laughing at that.”
He steps closer and twirls a snow-white tendril of my Mrs. Claus wig around his finger. “You’re just surprising, that’s all,” he says softly.
“Santa?”
Think of the most childlike voice imaginable saying “Santa,” and that’s the one that startles us out of our… whatever this is. Eben backs away so fast he nearly topples into the child staring up at us.
“Uh, hello…” He drops into the Santa voice and looks for a parent. He spots the boy’s mom by the donation box, a dollar in hand.
“Peyton,” she mouths, picking up the pen to sign in.
“Peyton!” Santa crows, tapping his temple. “See, I knew that.”
“Wow,” the kid breathes, eyes wide and sparkly.
“Santa, would you like to have a seat so Peyton can tell you what he wants for Christmas?” I ask. A Southern drawl slips out, deviating from yesterday’s Mid-Atlantic—oops.
Eben shoots me an amused, bewildered look, one eyebrow dipping. I shrug.
They asked me if I could play Mrs. Claus, not if I could act.
“Of course! Good idea, Mrs. Claus,” he booms. He’s got that deep Santa voice down to a science. It’s kind of sexy, not gonna lie.
Shut up, brain.
I guide Santa and Peyton toward the oversized chair draped in rich green velvet. Big, red poinsettias frame the scene, with all their glossy petals and glittery leaves. Santa settles in, waiting for Peyton’s tiny nod before reaching out to pull him onto his lap.
“How old are you, Peyton?” Santa asks. Peyton counts on his fingers, then holds up the middle three.
“Wow, three! You’ve gotten so big!” Santa says. Peyton smiles shyly, humbled to be talking to Big Red himself.
“What do you want for Christmas?” Santa asks, eyes crinkling behind the beard.
Peyton lights up like a damn Christmas tree.
“Um, um, um…” He scrunches up his face, loading up his mental spreadsheet. “Pokémon, trampoline, dinosaurs, basketball…”
The kid goes on for a while. I grab Ally’s Canon and snap a photo. I’m no photographer, but neither are the mall elves. I’m sure this one-dollar Santa visit will meet expectations.
Peyton’s mom watches, proud. I tell her we’ll email photos later today. She thanks me and coaxes Peyton away from Santa with the promise of hot cocoa with extra marshmallows.
“For someone who hates Christmas, you sure do have this Santa thing down,” I tell him, still testing my drawl.
“Thanks, Paula Deen,” he says with a playful wink. I shoot him a dirty look and toss a secret bird behind my back as I pivot back to the table, where a line is forming.
Am I flirting with Santa Claus?
“Are you flirting with Santa Claus?” Ally says just out of Eben’s earshot. She hands me my peppermint mocha.
“No,” I say, taking it. “We’re just, you know, helping the children. And the old people.”
“Ah, yes,” Ally says dryly. “For the children and the old people. When did you become so damn altruistic, Mel?”
“Geez, it’s not like I’m flirting with the Easter Bunny!” I whisper-scream.
Teddy has a knack for overhearing what shouldn’t be repeated out loud. On cue, he hands Eben his psycho-black coffee and announces, “Wait—who’s flirting with the Easter Bunny?”
I groan. Why are the people you love most also the ones guaranteed to embarrass you the worst?
“So, Santa Man,” Teddy says. Eben eyes him with a hint of suspicion. “We’re all headed to the Drunken Elf tonight. You wanna tag along?”
We are? Since when.
“Now,” Teddy adds, teasing, "this is a pop-up Christmas bar—a Santa-speakeasy, you might say—and despite the red suit and pillow-stuffed gut, I’ve heard you’re not a fan of the Big C?”
“Teddy,” Eben says, “nobody is a fan of the Big C.”
Great. Santa is hot enough to melt the whipped cream on my mocha, and deft enough to manage Teddy’s enthusiasm and expectations—no easy task.
Teddy blinks. I lean and whisper: “He means cancer, ding-dong.”
“Oh.” His face falls, but in true Teddy style, he rebounds. He zeroes in on Eben. “Fine. You hate Christmas and cancer—what about beer?”
Eben laughs. “Beer, I love.”
“Great. See you at nine?”
They launch into a double-dude handshake, sealing my fate. I scan for Ally—she’s supposed to rein Teddy in before he auctions off my glass slipper at midnight.
One look and I shut my mouth. Ally is balls-deep in a tug-of-war with the world’s strongest, sweetest St. Bernard—and she’s losing. Miserably.
Straining with all her plant-protein might, she yanks pointlessly on Tidbit, trying to keep him from crushing the five-year-old in Santa’s chair, clutching a tattered Elmo and waiting (patiently-ish) for her photo with Discount Santa.
I glance at the toy and pray she’s asking for a new Elmo this year.
“Babe, drinks tonight?” Teddy hollers, blissfully unaware of the chaos and his impending murder.
Ally’s face turns redder than my half-Irish ass on a Florida beach in mid-July.
“Can you please just help me with him?” she hisses.
Another thirty seconds and Tidbit’s going to Beethoven our Santa set—and Ally—straight into the food court.
I throw my head back laughing as Teddy jumps in to wrestle his giant bear. When I turn to see Eben’s reaction, he’s staring at me. He looks away quickly, and I swear the faintest pink creeps across his cheekbones.
Interesting.
Behind Eben, a couple huffs and puffs, hauling a freshly cut Frasier fir tree toward the exit.
Two kids in puffy jackets trail them, belting “O Christmas Tree.” The parents pause to readjust their grip; the kids, maybe eight and ten, skip in a circle around them and then do a quick limbo under the trunk.
Mom and Dad share a quick laugh, hoist the tree again, and the little parade disappears behind a tent toward the parking lot.
A Grinchy pinch tugs at my chest before I can look away.
I wonder what it’s like to grow up with Christmas—a family united in celebration and tradition.
A real tree, cocoa by the fire, cookies in the oven, presents unwrapped on Christmas morning—all together.
It’s time I’ll never get back. I’ll never know the joy of being a kid on Christmas, only the ache of being left out.
And there it is—the sting of being without my family.
Sure, I can certainly celebrate now, create new memories, and find fresh joy.
I can do all the things I missed as a kid, on my own.
But I’ll always wonder what might have been—what a Hallmark Christmas might’ve felt like if my family hadn’t been shackled to a cult.
“Are you going to take one home?” A soft, warm baritone interrupts my thoughts.
“Take one what?” I ask. Eben smiles down at me as another happy kid reunites with her mom after time with Discount Santa.
“A tree,” he says, nodding toward the stand a few stalls down.
“Oh!” I touch my chin, considering. “I’ve always wanted a real tree. I’m afraid it would be dead in seconds.”
“It’s already dead,” he points out.
“Right. Duh.” I laugh, nervous—his brow furrows.
“You okay?” he asks, tilting his head. He touches my arm, and a shiver shoots through me. It’s cold out, but suddenly I’m hot all over.
He’s too close. It’s too much. I step away.
“Fine!” I say, plastering on a bright smile. I turn to the next kid in line. “Who wants to see Santa?”
A chorus of tiny cheers screams “ME!” All I can feel is Eben’s gaze on the back of my head.
Every time he touches me, it feels electric.
I wonder if he feels it, too.