And a Sheep Escapes Too
LEO
The running boards descend and light up when Stella opens the door. They actually light up. Like a runway. Blue LEDs that pulse in sequence. "Did you… Did you mod your car for short people?" I can't help it. The grin breaks through.
Stella turns slowly. Looks up at me. All five-foot-nothing of her in a puffy winter coat that makes her look like a determined marshmallow. “Leonard Bennett. Backseat."
"Wait, I didn't mean—"
"Backseat. Now." Max is trying not to laugh. Failing. His shoulders are shaking.
"But I'm six-one—"
"Should've thought of that before you mocked my vehicular accessibility features." She pats the running board fondly. "These are custom." I fold myself into the backseat. My knees are basically at my chest.
This is humiliating. Max slides into the front passenger seat, still grinning.
His eyes sparkle when he catches mine in the mirror.
I look out the window. That grin is going to be the thing that breaks me.
I hear him shift in his seat, and when I catch his reflection in the glass, the grin is already gone.
I keep staring out the window. Watch the farms roll past. Count silos, seven so far, because my brain needs something to do that isn't thinking about Max's expression in the mirror.
When we pull into the parking lot, Stella's already unbuckling.
The Christmas market is exactly what you'd expect from a small Wisconsin town in December.
String lights everywhere. Wooden booths selling handmade everything.
The smell of cinnamon and pine. Families bundled up, kids running around hyped on hot chocolate and holiday spirit.
Couples holding hands; a lot of couples holding hands. I shove my hands deep in my pockets before they can do something stupid..
"Oh, how lovely!" Stella's already beelining for the first booth. Handknit scarves. "Max, honey, do you think Isaac would like the blue or the grey?"
"Uh." Max looks between them. "Grey?"
"Hmm. But blue is his favorite color. Leo, what do you think?"
"Grey's more practical?" I offer. She narrows her eyes, squinting between them, and then buys both.
We move through the market. Stella stops at a candle booth.
Then, carved wooden signs. Next, something with pinecones.
I stay close to her, using her as an unintentional buffer between Max and me.
We make it almost twelve minutes before Max tries to talk to me.
Stella examines a display of wooden ornaments, debating the merits of a hand-carved snowflake versus a painted cardinal when Max sidles closer.
"Hey. Can we—"
"Oh, look, a nativity scene." I'm already walking away. "With actual kids. That's. Yeah, I'm gonna go see that." Behind me, I hear Max's frustrated exhale.
The nativity scene is set up in front of the community center. Real hay bales. Real kids in biblical costumes, definitely from the church basement costume box. Mary's halo is crooked. Joseph's beard keeps slipping. Baby Jesus is a doll that's seen better days.
"Shouldn't he be in a man-jer?" A gap-toothed kid standing in the front row, arms crossed, asks loudly.
"He is in a manger."
"That's a laundry basket." The little critic looks like he's having fun now.
"It's a manger!" Joseph adjusts his scratchy-looking beard with the patience of someone who has already had a very long day.
This kid is going to grow up to be a health inspector
"I can see the Tide logo, and there's a sock hanging out the side." Joseph looks down. There is, in fact, a sock hanging out the side. He tucks it in with great dignity and says nothing.
Max appears at my elbow. "Leo—"
"The historical accuracy is really something," I say quickly. "Did you know that mangers were actually feeding troughs for—"
"I don't care about mangers." Max's voice is tight. "I care about why you're still being weird.”
"I'm not being weird." But I still can’t look him in the eye.
"You won't look at me. You barely talked the entire drive here.
You're actively running away from me at a Christmas market.
That's weird, Leo." One of the sheep is trying to escape.
The animal has clearly had enough of standing still, and honestly, same.
The shepherd, in his classic bathsheet toga, attempts to corral it.
"Can we just—" Max tries again. The sheep makes a break for it.
Thank god. It goes full sprint, directly into the crowd. I turn to watch with probably more enthusiasm than the situation warrants, because it gives me somewhere to look that isn't Max's face. The bathsheet toga kid chases after it, yelling, "COME BACK, SHEEP!"
Mary drops baby Jesus, and the doll hits the floor with a hollow thunk. Its head rolls off. A little girl in the front row starts screaming. Full-on sobbing. "BABY JESUS IS DEAD!"
Her mother tries to comfort her. "Sweetie, it's only a doll—"
"HE'S DEAAAAAAAD!"
Joseph's beard falls off completely. One of the wise men trips over a hay bale. The sheep barrels through a family taking photos, knocks over someone's hot chocolate, and nearly takes out a stroller.
"SHEEP ON THE LOOSE!" someone yells, like this is a legitimate emergency.
I am having the best time. The crowd parts, parents grabbing their children, the sheep booking it toward the vendor booths.
I could watch this forever. Honestly, I could watch this instead of having any conversation ever again.
Then a man in flannel appears out of nowhere, an actual farmer, built like he throws hay bales for fun, and scoops the sheep up. Tucks it under his arm like a football.
"Got 'em!" he announces cheerfully.
The shepherd kid catches up, panting. "Thank you, mister!"
"No problem, buddy. Maybe give your sheep a snack break, yeah?" The crowd erupts in applause. Mary retrieves the headless baby Jesus from the hay. Joseph picks up his beard with as much dignity as a nine-year-old can muster.
In the chaos, I slip away from Max. I'm the worst friend alive.
Stella finds me three booths away, studying handmade cutting boards. "Hot chocolate!" she announces. "My treat." There's a line. Of course, there's a line. I feel like we've been lining up since we were in line to park her car.
Max positions himself directly next to me in the queue. Close enough that I can feel the cold still coming off his jacket. "We need to talk."
"About what?" I'm studying the menu board like it contains information I urgently need. Hot chocolate. Dark, milk, or white. Seasonal specials. Very interesting. Extremely fascinating.
"You know what."
"Next!" the vendor shouts, and I have never been so grateful for overworked seasonal staff in my entire life.
"What can I get you?"
"A large hot chocolate," I say quickly. "With whipped cream. And marshmallows. And do you have peppermint?"
"We have peppermint syrup, peppermint stick, or crushed peppermint topping."
This is perfect. Anything to distract Max. "All three."
Max stares at me. "All three?"
"And caramel drizzle. And chocolate shavings." I pause. "Do you have cinnamon?"
"We do."
"That too." Anything. Any topping. As many toppings as it takes to stand here long enough that we run out of time to talk.
The vendor looks impressed for a second, then her expression shifts to concern. "Honey, that's gonna taste like a Christmas candle had a baby with a chocolate bar. How about we do whipped cream, marshmallows, a peppermint stick, and caramel? Skip the other stuff?"
I deflate slightly. "…Okay. Umm, actually, let's leave off the caramel too."
"That sounds better. Trust me. I've seen what happens when people go overboard. It's not pretty." She starts making the drink. "Still living your best life though, right?"
"Umm yeah, something like that." It takes five minutes to construct my monstrosity of a hot chocolate. Max orders a regular one with just whipped cream. Oh shit, Max didn't even get sprinkles. I’m hurting my best friend, but I don't know how to stop.
When we get our drinks, I hand him mine. "What?" Max looks up at me, and I have to ignore the urge to put my hand on his cheek.
"You like peppermint." I hand him the cup before he can argue and take the plain one for myself.
Max blinks and takes it. His expression opens up, soft and confused and searching, and I look away before he can find anything. "Leo—"
"Gonna go see what Stella's looking at." I'm gone before he can finish.
My hot chocolate is too hot to drink and tastes like guilt anyway.
I trail Stella through three more booths: jams, pottery, and hand-knit mittens.
I nod when she asks my opinion, and I don't look back.
I don't need to. I can feel Max behind me, close enough that I'm aware of every step he takes, every time he falls a little further behind, every time he catches back up.
He doesn't try to talk again. Neither do I.
"Boys! Can you hold this?" Stella materializes out of nowhere.
When did I lose her? She thrusts an enormous platter of cookies at us, Christmas trees, snowmen, bells, all elaborately decorated and stacked in precarious layers.
"I need to pay! Don't drop them!" And she's gone, back to the booth, before either of us can respond.
Max and I are standing there holding opposite ends of this massive platter. Trapped. His hands are at ten and two. Mine are at three and nine. "Okay," Max says quietly. "You can't run now."
"Max—"
He interrupts me, "Just listen. Please." A kid sprints past us. We both lurch to protect the cookies. His hands shift. Brush against mine. My brain shorts out. A full blue screen of death system failure. Static and sensation, and the ghost of his hands on my skin that night. "Leo?"
"What?" My voice cracks.
"I asked if I did something wrong."