Chapter 12 - Ben
Chapter twelve
Ben
We left the theater through the side door. Three more nights until Christmas Eve, the day of the show—and until Alex had promised me an answer about staying.
The run-through had gone well. Alex was finding his footing as Santa, and Charlie had nailed his scene so thoroughly that Mrs. Brubaker had to dab her eyes with her sleeve. Even Jack had managed to get through his declaration of love with feeling.
"You were good today," I said as we turned onto Main Street. "The bit with the dropped teddy bear—that was perfect."
"It wasn't planned. She looked so worried about it. I just reacted."
"That's the whole point. You're not performing Santa anymore. You're inhabiting him."
Yuletide Valley's downtown festival announced itself before we saw it—carolers singing, children's laughter, and the distant jingle of sleigh bells from the carriage rides. When we rounded the corner into the town square, Alex slowed beside me.
Strings of lights crisscrossed overhead, creating a canopy of warmth against the early evening sky.
The massive Norway spruce, the official Yuletide Valley Christmas tree, wore its holiday finest—thousands of twinkling bulbs and handcrafted ornaments from decades of community celebrations.
The scent of roasting chestnuts drifted toward us, mixing with pine and woodsmoke.
"I keep forgetting how much this town commits to Christmas." A hint of wonder resonated in Alex's voice. "It should feel excessive, but somehow it doesn't."
"The festival's been a holiday fixture for almost a century now. Want to walk through?"
"Sure." Alex fell into step beside me. "Though if Mrs. Cummings corners me about her granddaughter's Christmas list again, you're running interference."
"Deal. I should warn you—she's still mad at me about her porch railing. I matched the style perfectly, but apparently the paint was one shade too dark."
He let out an easy, unguarded laugh. I'd never get tired of hearing it.
We wove through the crowd, past booths selling hot cider and handmade ornaments. A group of teenagers from the high school choir practiced "O Holy Night" near the gazebo, their harmonies imperfect but earnest.
"Ben! Alex!" Charice's voice cut through the noise. She waved from the hot chocolate stand, wearing a festive coat that sparkled with tiny sewn-in lights. Her husband, Mike, operated the serving station while their son, Ryan, helped stack cups.
"Hey, guys!" She waved us over. "Ryan, look who's here."
The boy's face lit up when he spotted Alex. "You're the one who taught Marcus how to dance with his IV pole! He told me all about it."
"You know Marcus?"
"He's my best friend. We were in the same room at the hospital." Ryan bounced on his heels. "I got to go home last month, but I visit him all the time. Mom takes me."
Charice's hand rested briefly on her son's shoulder. The gesture said everything about the gratitude that her boy was healthy enough to be here, drinking hot chocolate and talking about his friend.
"Marcus is doing really well," Charice told Alex. "The nurses say he hasn't stopped talking about the show. He's convinced Santa is going to visit him on Christmas Eve."
Alex replied with a steady, confident voice. "Santa will visit him." The man who'd hidden in a prop room, having a panic attack, was nowhere in evidence. "I already confirmed with the hospital."
Ryan tugged at Alex's sleeve. "Can you help me with something? It's really important."
He produced a folded piece of paper from his coat pocket, already wrinkled from being handled too many times. "I'm writing a letter to Santa, but it's not for me. It's for Marcus."
I watched Alex kneel to Ryan's level, his expensive wool coat pressing into the slush at his feet without a second thought. "Tell me about it."
"Marcus really wants to go home for Christmas, but the doctors say he can't yet.
" Ryan's voice dropped to a near-whisper.
"So I thought maybe Santa could bring him something to make the hospital feel more like home.
He likes dragons—the nice kind, not scary ones.
And he misses his dog. And he said the ceiling in his room is boring. "
Alex smoothed the letter carefully. "Those are really thoughtful wishes, Ryan. Should we work on it together? Make sure Santa understands exactly what Marcus needs?"
They settled on a nearby bench while I helped Mike clean up a spilled drink. I couldn't stop watching how Alex listened with his entire body, and his usual vocal polish transformed into something genuine and tender.
"He's good with kids." Mike followed my gaze. "Charice says the whole cast is different since he started directing. More... real, she said."
"He's good with everyone. He just didn't know it yet."
Ryan's voice carried across the square. "What if we ask Santa to bring Marcus a dragon nightlight? So he won't be scared when it's dark, and he can pretend the dragon is guarding him."
"I think that's perfect." Alex's voice was warm. "And maybe we could ask about something for his ceiling—glow-in-the-dark stars, so he can look up and see something beautiful."
"Yes!" Ryan continued in an excited tone. "And maybe a picture of his dog that he can keep by his bed?"
They bent over the letter together, crafting wishes for a boy who couldn't be here. The carolers shifted to "Deck the Halls," their young voices pure in the cold air.
Alex's phone rang.
He said something brief into the phone, then turned back to Ryan. "Hey, buddy—can you give me just a minute? I need to talk to Ben about something, and then we'll finish the letter together. I promise."
Ryan nodded solemnly. "Okay. I'll work on my spelling. Mom says Santa appreciates good spelling."
Alex crossed to where I stood. Mike had the good sense to suddenly need to check the cocoa supplies at the other end of the booth.
"That was Claire." Alex's voice was low enough that only I could hear. "My agent."
"The one who told you to take time off?"
"Apparently, less than two weeks was enough of a break.
" He laughed, but there was no humor in it.
"The director from that Phantom audition—the one where I fell apart—saw some regional news piece about me playing Santa here.
His parents live nearby and still get the local paper.
" Alex shook his head. "He wants to give me a second chance.
Private audition next week for the touring company. "
The festival swirled around us—lights and laughter and the smell of roasting chestnuts. I watched Alex's face for clues about what the call meant.
"That's... that's huge, Alex."
"I know." He reached for my hand and gripped it tight. "A few weeks ago, this kind of opportunity was all I wanted."
"And now?"
He turned to look at Ryan, still bent over his letter with fierce concentration. Beyond the boy, the reindeer pen drew clusters of children, their excited voices carrying in the crisp air.
"Now I'm standing here thinking about Marcus waiting for Santa, and Charlie, who finally believes he can perform, and—" His voice cracked slightly. "And you."
The largest reindeer in the pen lifted his head, dark eyes finding us across the crowded square. Something ancient stirred in my blood—recognition. I pushed the feeling aside. Later.
"What are you going to do?" I kept my voice neutral.
"I don't know yet. I know I won't decide anything until after Christmas Eve." He squeezed my hand. "Until I've kept my promises."
"You don't owe anyone—"
"I owe myself. I need to finish what I started here, not run away because something shinier appeared." He smiled slightly. "Besides, I promised you an answer after the show. Can't very well give you one from a New York audition room."
Relief and fear tangled in my chest. He wasn't leaving—not yet. But the door had opened, and I could feel the draft.
"Come on." Alex tugged me toward Ryan's bench. "I have a letter to help finish. And then—" His eyes drifted to the reindeer pen, where the large buck was still watching us. "Then maybe you can explain why that reindeer is staring at you like you owe him money."
"It's the apples," I said automatically. "I usually carry—"
"Ben, I've watched that animal track every movement of yours since we got here. And I've seen the craftsman's marks in your workshop—the ones shaped like hoofprints." He raised an eyebrow. "Try again."
"After," I said quietly. "Help Ryan finish. Then I'll show you something."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
We settled onto the bench. Ryan immediately scooted closer to show Alex his spelling progress. He'd written "dragan" and crossed it out before writing the word correctly.
"Looking good," Alex said. "Now, what else should we tell Santa about Marcus?"
While they worked, I let my attention drift to the reindeer pen. The buck—I was almost certain now that his name was Donner, though I couldn't have said how I knew—stamped his hoof in a pattern I recognized from my grandfather's stories. Three quick, two slow. A greeting, or maybe a reminder.
I know, I thought. I haven't forgotten.
Whether he heard me or not, Donner's head dipped once before he turned to accept an apple from a delighted child.
"There." Ryan's triumphant voice pulled me back. "Do you think Santa will understand?"
Alex reviewed the letter one final time. "I think Santa will know exactly what Marcus needs. This is beautiful, Ryan. You're a great friend."
The boy beamed, then threw his arms around Alex in a hug that clearly caught him off guard. Alex recovered quickly, hugging back with genuine warmth.
"Will you make sure Santa gets it?" Ryan asked. "You're playing him in the show, so you probably have a direct line, right?"
"I'll make sure." Alex folded the letter carefully and tucked it into his coat pocket, next to his heart. "Marcus is going to have a great Christmas. I promise."
Charice appeared to collect her son, mouthing "thank you" to Alex over Ryan's head. As they walked away, Ryan looked back twice to wave.