Chapter 8
My closet is a catastrophic disappointment.
We’re way past the “nothing to wear” phase and deep into the “when did I stop caring what I look like?” era—or maybe even the “should I be on SSRIs?” stage.
It’s not that I don’t love shopping. I did just bid on a vintage set of Williams-Sonoma Santa salad plates on eBay last week. But last I checked, I can’t wear antique dinnerware to the bar.
Desperately, I rummage through my dresser drawers—a graveyard of mismatched PJs and tangled underwear. Then—hallelujah—I unearth a ruby-red cashmere sweater Ally gave me last Christmas. God bless that woman—not just for her shopping skills, but for never leaving me behind in the fashion wars.
I cozy into the soft wool, and pair it with a black mini skirt I found buried under a pile of old hats from a long-forgotten (and deeply regretted) hat phase. Add sheer tights and black suede knee-high boots, and I’m officially ready to hate myself for loving that Eben is coming out tonight.
When Teddy first mentioned inviting Eben, I was too shocked to be pissed—though honestly, I shouldn’t have been surprised. Teddy would invite the mailman out for drinks if it promised a good time and a potential new friend.
I guess Teddy butting into my life and inviting my arch-nemesis for holiday drinks is excellent for my plan to change Eben’s mind about Christmas, but terrible for my plan not to sleep with him.
Not that I want to. Okay, let me revise: not that I want to any more than any other woman partnered with a smokin’ hot Santa during cuffing season would like to.
I pop in my beloved hot rollers (thank you, Seventeen magazine circa 2009), coax a few going-out curls, swipe on lipstick—and I’m officially ready for a beer or three with Santa Claus at the Drunken Elf.
Ah, yes, the Drunken Elf. We go way back.
It’s a little tavern that easily could pass for Snow White and the Seven Dwarves’ favorite watering hole.
A yearly pop-up just off the highway; it feels like the spot where overworked, blue-collar elves unwind after a long, thankless day hand-making wooden trains for kids who actually want iPads and Xbox consoles.
Fat, multi-colored Christmas lights are strung everywhere—inside, outside, and probably through the plumbing. Inside, a roaring fire crackles in a stone fireplace that always smells like chestnuts roasted by the fake elf-eared staff and handed out in nutcracker-printed paper bags.
Side note: those nutcracker-printed paper bags also make excellent barf bags if you accidentally go ham on some Buddy’s Blazin’ Bourbon.
Like I said, the Drunken Elf and I have history.
The first year I left the cult, this was the place I came to every Friday night. I was depressed, maybe drinking too much, but it was also my first time being allowed to celebrate a holiday—any holiday.
And celebrate, I did.
At twenty-two, I was finally free—no weird rules or restrictions. No one is spying on me or jumping out of the shadows to report my “sins” to the elders.
Yes, I lost my family, but I gained something else—myself. An identity. A “me” when no one else was telling me how to think or what to believe or who to be. And who is anyone without that?
I came here every Friday night that first Christmas, alone and free. This place is where I learned not just to love Christmas openly, but to love myself, despite everything and everyone I had lost.
But tonight, it’s hard to think about everything I lost, not when I’m so dangerously close to feeling like I have something to gain.
Ally and Teddy snagged a cozy booth by the fireplace, within arm’s reach of those delicious roasted chestnuts.
The staff usually limits customers to two free bags a night—unless you’re so wasted they consider the carbs a public service.
But Ally and I learned long ago that the booth closest to the fireplace offers optimal access to chestnuts.
From here, we can sneak as many bags as we want without having to be shitfaced to earn them.
Ally looks both comfy and glam in a fluffy white sweater and a red lip. I love her in winter white with a pop of red—welcome back, Marilyn Monroe! Cue the eyeroll when I say so.
Teddy looks at her like she’s the sun, the moon, and the stars. No one’s ever looked at me like that. A yearning stirs deep within me. I’ve always loved watching him love her; I’ve never thought of wanting that for myself.
“Where’s your man?” Teddy teases, taking a sip of his Reindeer Ale.
“Don’t get her flustered before he gets here,” Ally warns. “If you make Melody nervous, she’ll spill her drink all over the table within three minutes of him sitting down. And I’m wearing white.”
“Oh, right.” Teddy chuckles, remembering the last time we attempted a double date.
That was my first non-religion-affiliated date, and Teddy told me it was customary to kiss the man’s hand when he arrived. Eager to fit in as a normal person, I took my Bumble date’s hand as he sat down—and kissed it.
Very lovingly, as Ally likes to remind me.
The guy jerked his hand back so fast, I panicked and knocked my wine all over Teddy. Deservedly so.
“I swear on Santa’s balls, I thought you knew I was joking,” Teddy says now.
“You can’t joke with social pariahs, Ted!” I clap back.
“I know, I know. I’m sorry!” He turns a little red, and that’s how I know the apology is genuine.
“I, for one, thought it was a charming kiss,” Ally adds, grinning.
"What kind of charming kiss are we talking about?” A deep, velvety voice enters the chat.
I look up to see Eben—tall, devastating, and very anti-Christmas in a black turtleneck sweater that is channeling Robert Redford in his prime.
Teddy opens his big mouth, and Ally and I kick him under the table at the same time.
Good lord, the yapper on this guy. He certainly puts some of those nursing home women to shame.
I scoot over so Eben can slide into the booth next to me. His hip brushes up against mine, and suddenly the fireplace feels like it’s been turned up to broil.
Our elf server—her nametag reads Candy in curly peppermint font—approaches with a too-bright smile.
“What can I get for you?” she says, her voice dipping an octave lower than when she took the rest of our orders.
Beat it, Candy. I feel my face heating up. Good lord, am I getting jealous of a lady in fake elf ears?
“I’ll just have a scotch and soda,” Eben says.
“You got it,” she purrs, tucking her pen behind a latex elf ear and sauntering off.
A knee brushes mine. I glance over. Eben’s expression is stoic, but there’s a hint of a smile as he sips his water. A drop clings to the corner of his mouth, and his tongue darts out to catch it.
Oh, lawdy.
“Scotch and soda, huh?” Teddy scans the menu. “Pretty sure you meant Snowball Scotch.”
Eben laughs. “Nope. Just a regular, boring scotch and soda.”
It’s nice having my friends here. My shoulders drop; my muscles relax. The Sleigh Bell Sour I’m drinking helps, too. Around Teddy and Ally, I can be myself. They can do some of the talking, while I solely focus on trying not to be weird—a full-time job if you’re me.
Ally asks, “So, when you're not busy cosplaying as Kris Kringle, what do you do?”
Eben grins. “What do you mean? Being Santa is a 365-day-a-year job.”
Teddy actually slaps his knee. “Dude, this guy is great.”
Eben’s eyes twinkle—twinkle, for God’s sake—and my heart does something reckless.
He’s clearly having a good time with the two people I love most, which somehow makes me feel hopeful and sad at the same time.
I’m not even halfway through the evening, and I’m already chalking this up as a lost cause.
“Well, the real gig isn’t as glamorous,” he continues. “I’m the media manager for Golding Home.”
My heart stutters.
Ally kicks under the table, but misses her intended recipient—me. Instead, her pointed patent leather toe lands a blow squarely on Eben’s ankle.
“Ouch,” he mutters, massaging his ankle. “What, were you a soccer player in another life?”
“Varsity. State champ,” Teddy says proudly. He slings an arm around Ally, whose eyes are doing wide-eyed Morse code at me. I cut her a look and clear my throat.
“So… you work for Golding Home?” I ask, taking a casual sip of my drink—the picture of cool, calm, and collected.
“Do you know it?” he asks, arm casually stretching over the back of the booth behind me.
Do I know it? Do I know it?
Golding Home is my mecca. The best and only Christmas décor store in Cherryville. Thousands of handmade ornaments. Miles of ribbons. And the best part: at least fifty top-to-bottom professionally-decorated trees.
It’s my holy place. My sanctuary. My church of Christmas.
And Ebeneezer Scrooge himself works there.
“I’ve heard of it,” I say, stirring my drink.
“Heard of it?” Teddy practically gasps. “She lives there during the holidays.”
“Okay, Teddy.”
“I swear to God, she’d set up a tent if they let her—”
“Okay, Teddy.”
Eben laughs. “I’ll tell my dad you’re a regular. He’ll make sure you get a discount.”
My drink freezes halfway to my lips. “Your dad?”
“Ronnie Golding,” he says casually.
My jaw drops.
“Wait—the Christmas King is your dad?” Allison blurts.
Eben shifts in his seat. “That’s correct.”
Ronnie Golding is a Cherryville legend—the face of every Golding Home commercial, all red suspenders and a booming laugh.
He even inspires an unofficial Facebook page of thirsty middle-aged women salivating over his burly Santa shtick.
The group—Ronnie’s Naughty List—is private, and I shudder to think what goes on behind those digital curtains.
And that’s Eben’s dad.
No wonder Eben nails the Santa act. He’s basically a Hot Santa nepo baby.
“You don’t seem thrilled,” Teddy says, earning an elbow from Ally.
“Let’s just say, my dad’s Christmas schtick gets old after a while.”
Candy reappears with his drink, leaning way too close. “We’ve got food menus and free nuts—as long as you’re drinking.” She winks.
Teddy stands to grab a menu, jostling the table. Our drinks wobble dangerously, and we lunge to steady them. Candy backs off, momentarily distracted from her flirtation attempt, and I exhale, relieved.
Is it just me, or is it kind of ballsy to flirt with someone who’s clearly on a date? Does this not look like a date to her? Or maybe it’s not a date. What if I’m reading the vibes all wrong?
Good God, my brain is turning to mashed potatoes.
“Earth to Melody,” Teddy waves the menu in front of my face. “You good with the Naughty Nachos?”
“Love ‘em,” I say, maybe too fast.
Candy walks off with our food order, and I turn to ask Eben how the hell the King of Christmas fathered a man whose heart is two sizes too small—when I feel the hair rise on the back of my neck.
“Melody?”
A shrill, unwelcome voice slices through the music. My mind blanks. Blood drains from my face.
Every bone in my body, every muscle, every cell—screams run. I scan the room for an escape route, but every exit is framed with holly and twinkling lights.
The lights are too bright, the music is too merry, and the holiday magic I’ve grown to love so much is a noose around my neck, strangling me.
I’m trapped—surrounded by Christmas. Caught red-and-green-handed at the scene of a not-so-merry major crime against Heaven’s Heralds.
And when I turn around, I’m face-to-face with the upturned nose of Heaven’s biggest snitch.