Chapter 30
“Hiya, sweetheart,” he purrs.
She giggles like a schoolgirl.
“I heard y’all were ready for Santa Claus,” his voice ricochets.
If there’s one thing Ronnie Golding knows, it’s how to work a crowd. He waves, flashes those unnaturally perfect teeth, and within seconds, he owns the room.
Ronnie’s eyes are a darker, harder blue than his son’s. Eben has his mom’s eyes—a soft, ethereal blue. His dad’s are just… cold. Calculating.
But this crowd didn’t come for warmth.
“Have you all been goooooood this year?” he drawls, stretching good like he’s about to rip off his red velvet pants. (To be fair, they’re already bursting at the seams—he wears them tight, leaving little to the imagination.)
The crowd shrieks in a chorus of yeses, and a slow smile spreads across his face. He’s got them in the palm of his hand.
“I’m always good for you, Santa Baby!” someone slurs, her third Chardonnay talking.
Somewhere, Eben is having a coronary.
“Now I heard some of you met my son this year...”
Wolf whistles.
“Some of you saw him right here at the Cherry Bowl, taking pictures for a good cause, with Mrs. Claus by his side.” He looks directly at me and waves.
My face turns cherry red. I scan for Eben—he’s vanished.
The spotlight finds me.
Ronnie Golding and I couldn’t be more different. While he lives for his small-pond, big-fish moments, I’d rather be a fish choking on air than be the center of attention.
Luckily, he doesn’t share the spotlight for long. He’s already eyeing one of the ho-ho-hos in the front row. The second marriage might not be the charm for Ronnie Golding.
I shudder.
“And some of you,” he continues, squeezing suspense like he’s auditioning for The Bachelor, “came from other states to meet—what do you all call him?”
The audience shouts it.
“Oh, that’s right.” His smile is for all the wrong reasons. “Daddy Christmas.”
The room detonates. My blood boils.
Ally elbows me, balancing a plate of Christmas-themed snacks. “Change the record.”
I grit my teeth. “Those are for the guests,” I hiss, glaring at her plate.
“If I’m not getting paid, I am a guest.” She pops a red-and-green Oreo.
Catcalls spike as the spotlight swings to the curtain.
“May I present… my protégé, my son, my heir—Daddy Eben Golding Christmas.”
The room erupts like it’s ancient Rome, and the crowd’s about to watch a public mauling.
The look on Eben’s face drains the blood from mine.
He walks onstage like an Anne Boleyn reenactment I once saw in a documentary—like he’s about to meet his executioner. If I notice, no one else does. The second he steps beside Ronnie, the crowd combusts.
Daddy Christmas has arrived—and this is what they paid for.
What exactly they’re expecting, I’m not sure. But judging by the panic in Eben’s eyes, it’ll be a surprise to everyone.
If it involves lap-sitting and whispering naughty requests, I’m going to need medical attention. Luckily, we’re in the right building for that.
Ronnie throws a thick arm around him and utters the four fatal words:
“Like father, like son.”
A single shriek pierces the air—frail but mighty, furious and heartbroken, all at once. The room stills. The sound hangs like a curse.
Apparently, the Christmas King knows that shriek.
His face pales like the ghost I fear he’s about to become.
“No. He’s. Not.”
Three words. Sharp enough to restart time.
Anne Golding is on her feet. And by the look in her eyes, she’s having one of her rare lucid moments.
Carrie-level lucid.
And for once—just a heartbeat—I swear, Ronnie looks guilty. Like maybe, deep down, he knows he deserves what’s coming.
“My son. My son—do you hear me, you bastard—is nothing like your motherfucking, lying, cheating, family-abandoning ass.”
This. This is what Eben was afraid of.
And what Ronnie chose to ignore.
Until now.
Phones are everywhere. Flashes strobing. Recordings rolling.
Eben jumps off the stage toward his mom.
Ally nudges me. “Holy shit, we’re going viral.”
I elbow her.
But Anne doesn’t want comfort. She wants revenge.
Her grief, her rage, her decades of unprocessed trauma snap her into complete clarity—free her, even momentarily, from the Alzheimer’s prison she’s been trapped in. For the moment, her mind is razor sharp.
“Mom,” Eben whispers, rubbing her back. “Why don’t you calm down?”
Ally pops another cookie into her mouth like it’s popcorn. “Uh-oh. He said the magic words.”
I elbow her harder, but even I can’t help but wince.
I know he’s desperate. I know he knows better. But you can't tell a woman—or any person, young or old—to calm down and expect peace. That’s how you end up with your tires slashed and your soul rearranged.
The room is dead silent, aside from the soft clicks of phones.
In the age of TikTok and Instagram, this is primo content.
Anne stiffens, shrugs off her son’s hands.
“No, Eben.”
I gasp. Eben’s mom remembers his name.
“I will not calm down. This is between me and your father. Go sit down.”
Somewhere, someone whispers, “Oh shit.”
Anne steps toward the stage. Not frail. Not right now. Every step is a reckoning. The crowd parts for her instinctively, like the Red Sea—it’s almost Biblical.
A collective understanding settles in the air: a narcissist is about to get a long-overdue can of whoop-ass.
And naturally, phones stay up. If there’s anything the internet loves, it’s a narcissist getting called out on camera.
Ronnie swallows hard. And then lets out a shaky, forced laugh.
“Well, folks, it’s time to introduce you to the first Mrs. Claus.”
SMACK.
Anne’s slap rings through the room—turns out faux beards don’t protect against angry ex-wives. A gasp ripples across the audience.
I glance at Eben. His head is in his hands. He’s clearly mortified, but looking around the room, he’s not alone. It’s as if all 200 of us were just zapped back to childhood, watching our parents fight in public.
I want to reach him, but the crowd is too dense, and barging through would only make this a bigger spectacle.
Ronnie touches his cheek. Not angry—just sad.
“I deserved that.”
“You deserve so much more. Cheating on your wife for years, and then leaving her and your only son on Christmas Day.”
Another collective gasp.
Anne faces the crowd. “Yeah. On Christmas. How do you like them fuckin’ apples?”
My chest cracks open for Eben as a kid—abandoned by his father on what used to be his favorite holiday—while Ronnie parades around as the egomaniacal “Christmas King” for the whole town and his new side piece. My heart breaks for that little boy, and the words are out before I can stop them:
“And he leaves his son to pay the nursing home bills alone!”
I clap a hand over my mouth.
A hush sweeps the room. Eben’s eyes snap to mine, flashing anger, hurt, betrayal—then ice. I mouth I’m sorry, but he looks away.
I’m going to barf.
Ronnie’s face crumples in confusion. He clearly had no idea.
He turns to Eben. I see someone zooming in on their phone.
“Is that true?”
Eben blinks. Says nothing.
Anne’s quiet now, too—her lucidity narrowing—but a mother’s instincts don’t fade. She knows that something is profoundly wrong, and her son is paying the price.
“Answer me,” Ronnie booms. The sound rattles the room. We’ve all been grounded—collectively fifteen again.
That alpha-male bark is the match to Eben’s fuse. His dad talking down to him like he’s still a child—right here, in front of strangers and the goddamn internet—is too much.
Even across the room, when he steps forward, the floor seems to shift. Someone behind me mutters, “fuuuuuck,” so I know I’m not the only one who feels it.
“I don’t have to answer you,” Eben growls. “In fact, it’d be better for you if I ignored you—but since you’re demanding an answer? I’ve got one.”
Ronnie arches a brow, but his shoulders sag, his confidence collapsing like a snowman in a heat wave.
“Someone had to step up. God knows it was never going to be you.”
A ripple of approval moves through the crowd. Nothing the internet loves more than toxic masculinity falling flat on its impotent ass.
Ronnie opens his mouth, then shuts it when he sees Eben’s isn’t finished. He sneers at a too-close phone, “Can you turn that shit off?”
The influencer smirks. “Not a chance in hell.”
Eben puffs his chest, fists balled tight. “If you left us then—when things were good, when Mom was good—why the hell would I trust you to show up now?”
Now they’re nose to nose—two Santa Clauses, squared off like rival silverbacks in a late-night nature doc.
Ronnie suddenly looks smaller than his son. The big red suit deflates.
“Can we talk about this…” He glances at the crowd. “Offline?”
Eben snorts. “I have nothing else to say to you.”
He pivots to Anne, tears diamonding her lashes.
“Come on, Mom. Let’s get you back to your room.” He reaches for her hand, but she pulls away.
Missy slips in. “I’ve got her. Why don’t you go get some air?”
Eben’s eyes flick to me—blue ice—furious I aired private family business.
It’s my turn to shrink.
“Sure. Thanks.” His voice is void of emotion.
“Eben!” I call, desperate. He won’t look at me. He won’t look at anyone—he beelines for the exit.
The show’s over.
The community room doors swing open, and I push through the stunned crowd after him. The women who came hoping to see Daddy Christmas shake his bells are too shocked to be disappointed.
I keep my eyes on Eben, weaving through the appalled audience, and slip out—just before the first cookie hits the Christmas King.