Chapter 11
When my alarm goes off, I’m still reeling from my filthy Santa dream. It ranks among the weirdest dreams I’ve ever had—and is undoubtedly the most memorable. Who knew I had a Saint Nick kink? My subconscious, apparently.
No idea how I’m supposed to look Eben in the eyes today. Thank God we’re not suiting up as Mr. and Mrs. Claus tonight—the thought alone makes me blush while I “get ready for work,” a.k.a. brush my teeth, tame my hair, and throw a nice top over sweatpants for Zoom.
Business above; bed-rot below.
Ally texts on her lunch break.
Ally: So?
Me: So…?
Ally: Bitch, what did he say?
Patient, she is not.
Me: Nothing, just asked me what I was wearing and then went to bed.
Ally: HE WHAT???????
Me: It’s not what you think. He wanted to know if I was wearing Xmas PJs.
Ally: So he could jerk off while imagining it, clearly.
Me: You’re gross.
Ally: You’re the one with a Santa hat vibrator.
Me: I told you never to speak of it again!!!
The Santa hat and I got friendly just this morning.
Ally: Too late. Say, you should show Eben your toy collection…
Me: Not for all the snow in the North Pole.
Ally: I bet I know where he’d like to stick his North Pole…
Me: GOODBYE, ALLY.
She sends an eggplant emoji sandwiched between Mr. and Mrs. Claus. I want to kill her for being able to read my mind and decipher my dirty little secrets. I decide not to mention the sexy dream, lest I be subjected to an onslaught of half-naked slutty Santa memes.
The rest of my day is spent agonizing over an excruciating 3D floor plan and trying not to think about seeing Eben later. I just know I’m going to turn head-to-toe tomato red when I see him.
The second I step into the nursing home, my filthy Santa brain wipes clean—a paper airplane knifes past my ear.
These seniors are feral.
Forget the Hallmark postcard of flour-dusted grandmas and porch-rocking grandpas spitting tobacco and folksy wisdom.
Rec hour here is Thunderdome.
The seniors at Forest Park could put any 2000s frat movie to shame. Even if it starred Seth Rogan. And Vince Vaughn. Hitting a bong. With Owen Wilson.
I could hear “activity” from the activity room over my car’s engine when I pulled into the lot—and my car hasn’t had an oil change in two years, so that’s saying something.
Even from the hallways, the chaos is on an Olympic level.
I don’t know where to look first. Out of the corner of my eye, a hula hoop is spinning way too fast for someone who had a full hip replacement six months ago.
Roger’s hunched over a smoking contraption that sure as hell looks like a 1993 Easy-Bake Oven.
And Edna and Millie are running a black-market lottery, selling tickets at the door.
Well, Edna is selling. Millie is judging.
“Hi, Sugar, the jackpot is up to fifty mill. Wanna buy a scratcher?”
I stare blankly at Edna.
“Uh… where did you get those?”
Edna counts the cash stuffed in her bra alongside a wad of tattered Kleenex.
“I’m already up one cup size just in ones and fives!” Edna crows, still counting.
Millie crooks a finger at me and then shuffles away from her friend. She tugs my sleeve; I lean down out of pure curiosity. “Edna’s son has a drinking-and-gambling problem—”
“He’s a good boy!” Edna interrupts.
Millie rolls her eyes so hard it looks painful. “You spoiled him!” she shouts back, then lowers her voice to me. “That degenerate can’t visit his mother once a year at Christmas without hitting the bottle or the ponies first, so he always brings a little something for his mom and her friends.”
I watch Edna shove crumpled singles into her bra like a seasoned pro. “Why is she selling them?”
Apparently, her hearing aids are cranked all the way up, because Edna pipes in without even looking up from her stack of George Washingtons.
“Because, sweetheart, I can’t handle it if one of these geriatric losers wins on my dime.
At least this way I get a couple of bucks out of the deal. You sure you don’t want one, honey?”
“Sorry, Edna, I'm all out of ones,” I say, tapping my purse.
I scan the mayhem—and realize something is missing. “Is Eben here yet?”
Millie scans the room. “Haven’t seen him. Usually, he’s glued to Anne, but she’s MIA. Missy too. She’s normally handing out coloring books and crayons during rec time—she treats us like toddlers just because some folks wear diapers. Not me. Three kids in three years; still got the steel trap.”
Okay then.
Something whizzes past my head, and I duck.
Was that an apple?
“Sorry!” an old man shouts from across the room.
“Howard is reenacting the storming of Normandy for his talent,” Millie explains.
“With apples?” I ask.
“Whaddaya want him to use—cannons?” She looks at me like I’ve got rocks for brains.
They’re grown adults, sure, but this scene screams “needs supervision,” not unlike the other diaper-wearing demographic. They’re supposed to be practicing their talents, but Missy is supposed to be supervising while we plan the Christmas pageant.
God, I wish Ally were here. She’d better show next week or I’m TP-ing her house with tinsel.
I step out of the activity room and bump into someone at least ninety-five practicing the Lindy Hop. If you’re unfamiliar, picture the human body right before it slips on a banana peel. That’s essentially the Lindy Hop.
Please, God, let the floors be unwaxed.
I’m halfway down the hall, trying to remember where Missy’s office is, when I hear voices—loud ones. I slow down.
Through the cracked door, I spot a tall figure pacing, gesturing wildly. Eben. His hair is a mess, jaw tight, voice raised. Across from him, Missy sits behind her desk, arms crossed like a kindergarten teacher about to hand out detention.
“You need to call your father,” Missy says. “This is more than you can handle, Eben. You can’t shoulder it alone.”
“I’m not calling him.” Eben’s voice is rough. “He made his choice years ago. I’m not dragging him into my personal business.”
Personal business? Why is Eben talking to Missy about his personal life? I know he’s been volunteering here for years—maybe they’re closer than I realized?
Missy exhales. “Eben, please, for her sake, let go of your pride—”
“It’s not about pride.” Eben snaps, cutting her off. “It’s about what makes her happy.”
Her?
Missy leans forward. “You need help. You know he’d—”
“No. I love her more than anything. I’m not doing that to her.” Eben’s voice cracks.
Love? Does he love someone?
More than… anything?
My stomach flips. Eben never mentioned a girlfriend. I’ve been assuming he’s single like a complete dumbass. My knees go soft, and my microwave vegan pad thai starts rising like a bad omen.
“She’s all I’ve got,” Eben says, voice breaking. “We can make it work.”
I take three slow steps back from the door, heart pounding.
This is ridiculous. Santa is obviously taken. And I’m apparently so emotionally stunted that I mistake basic kindness for chemistry. He listened to my cult sob story, and I turned it into foreplay. What a desperate, lonely loser I am.
My face burns. I spin around, desperate to escape before I melt into the linoleum.
I’m so caught up in my own humiliation, I don’t even hear the door open behind me.
“Hi,” Eben says, voice rough. “How long have you been standing there?”
“I just got here,” I lie. “Nobody is overseeing the…activity…in the activity room, and it’s, uh, complete chaos.”
Eben sighs and stuffs his hands in his coat pockets. His face is flushed; he’s trying to calm down. “Is Edna selling lottery tickets yet?”
“She has a bra full of ones like a Prohibition-era showgirl.”
“Shit,” Eben says, finally cracking a grin. I didn't return it. “We’d better get in there.”
He doesn’t move, though, and for a minute we linger awkwardly. He stares at me, expression softening but still hard to read. I want to burst into tears, but I’m not going to be a baby about a man who happened to be nice to me once. All right—twice.
“We'd better get in there, Mrs. Claus,” he says at last.
“You can just call me Melody,” I say, defiant. I pivot on one boot heel and walk toward the community room, adding a little extra swing to my hips.
Now I’m lobster red for a totally different reason. I had a sleazy sex dream with someone else’s boyfriend. God, I’m dumb.
Missy finally emerges from her office looking worse for wear.
Eben and I sit, silent. She collapses into her chair with a legal pad and, without missing a beat, starts listing roadblocks we’ve hit with the pageant planning.
I don’t hear a word. I hate that I’m this affected, but I really thought he was into me.
It just sucks to have the rug yanked out, that’s all.
Eben glances over a few times, but I don’t look back. I stare at a corner of peeling wallpaper like I can glue it down with telekinetic powers. If I did have telekinetic powers, I’d also drop that giant, ugly fake plant over there on his head.
No. I mentally kick myself. Knock it off.
So what if he has a girlfriend? What am I, twelve? I can be a mature adult about this.
His foot brushes mine under the table, and blood shoots to my groin as the touch catapults me back to my dream.
I try to karate-kick the memory out of my head, but it won’t budge.
All I can feel are Eben’s hands on my body, his breath on my face, his warmth pressed against me.
Sure, it was just a dream—but it felt so real.
I want it to be real.
Wow. There it is. I finally admitted it to myself.
“I’m sorry, I can’t do this,” I say, standing. My chair nearly topples; Eben catches it.
“You can’t hand out programs at the door?” Missy asks, face twisting with confusion.
“No,” I say, panic rising. “I’ve gotta go.”
I make a run for it. I know I’m making a fool of myself, but I don’t care. I’m about to burst into tears, and I’ll be damned if I do it in front of Missy, Eben, and a room full of unruly retirees.
I hear footsteps behind me. I don’t look to see who they belong to. I just beeline for the door to the parking lot.
Not fast enough.
A gentle hand catches my wrist; I wrench it free. “Melody, wait,” Eben says, so soft it hurts.
My body betrays me. I stop and spin, panting.
“What?” It comes out harsher than I intended. None of this is rational, but I can’t help it. I’m a mess.
Eben looks taken aback, brow furrowed. “What’s going on?”
“I just don’t have time for this anymore,” I say—half lie, half truth. “It’s too big a commitment. I have a job. And a social life. I signed up to play Mrs. Claus once a week to bring happiness to neglected senior citizens.
“Then just do—”
“This is why I’m tragically single!” I shout at him. “I overcommit, and then I don’t have time to meet people and go on dates and get laid!”
Oh, God, I’m really doing this. The shame train has left the station. Ain’t no going back.
Choo choo.
“Dates?” Eben repeats, a hint of a smile tugging at his mouth. He’s amused. I want to slap the smile right off his pretty face.
“Yes, dates! With hot men who want to fuck me! I need to be doing more of that and less of…” I gesture wildly. “Whatever this is!”
“If I ask you out, will you calm down?” he asks, clearly suppressing a laugh.
“What?” My voice jumps two octaves. What a simp I’ve become.
“I’ll take you out Friday night.” His grin is big and sweet. “Then we can put this whole quitting-the-pageant-planning-because-you-need-to-get-out thing behind us. Deal?”
If I wasn’t cherry red before, I sure as hell am now.
What about the phone call? What about little Miss “she’s all I have”? My brain spins inside my skull at NASA record-breaking speeds with questions I’m too embarrassed to ask.
Clearly, after my outburst, this is just a pity dinner for a new friend.
All I can do is nod like a bobblehead.
“Great,” he says, grin stretches wider. “It’s a date.”