The Santa Shack Up – by Susannah Erwin #3
Joe looks at Mom, who looks down at the table. He sighs. “If we don’t take in double our sales projections during Countdown Week, we need to think seriously about selling the farm.”
We swivel our heads to take in Pete’s reaction. Of all of us, Pete is the most connected to the land. In fact, he’s far more comfortable around the trees than he is around people. He nods his understanding, but his gaze is bleak.
Angie pats Pete’s hand and then turns to Joe. “And if we increase sales? We can keep the farm?”
Joe shrugs. “It will be tight, but if we have a good Easter, maybe add some more activities, we should be okay. “
Mom looks up. “Your father will be able to come home around March. We might need a part-time nurse, but the bills should decrease.”
Pete speaks for the first time. “All that matters is Dad gets well. We’ll make it work. No matter what.”
The room is quiet as the implications of losing the farm start to sink in. We need a miracle. And those have been in very short supply around her.
“I have an idea,” Angie says slowly. “What if we added a new feature to the Christmas options, went after a new demographic?”
Joe raises an eyebrow. “A new demographic?”
Angie nods. “Single women. Maybe single men, too.”
I do not like where I think this is going. “No,” I say firmly.
“I haven’t even said my idea, Lizzie.”
“No,” I repeat.
Angie huffs and turns to Joe. “The other day, Sean Boswick filled in for his grandfather as Santa. I’m telling you, that kid has a body of death. What if we offered—” She makes quote marks in the air. “—‘Santa After Dark?’ Zuri can be a sexy elf for those who want a photo with a female.”
“Hey!” Paco and I protest at the same time.
“That’s exploitive,” I add. “Plus we’re Sandoval Family Holiday Farm. It’s off-brand.” Let’s see how Angie likes it when I throw her marketing buzzwords back at her.
“It’s not a bad idea.” We all move as one to look at Zuri. She shrugs. “I saw Sean’s abs, too. Angie has a point.” Paco opens his mouth, but Zuri stops him with a reassuring squeeze of her hand. “If a sexy costume can help save the farm, I’ll wear one. This is my family, too.”
I can’t decide if I am angriest with Angie for suggesting Santa’s Workshop as an exercise in sexist objectification, or for suggesting Zuri as the hot elf but not me. “Who takes the photos if Zuri is dressed up?” I ask.
Ha. Let Angie figure that one out.
“Sven can take the photos since it’s after work hours,” Angie says. Sven nods. “And we’ll offer selfies. Twenty dollars a photo op, and some of the money can go to charity. We’ll make it a fundraiser for the National Stroke Association.”
I sink into my chair, my objections deflated.
I can’t argue with the charity angle. And I know it will bring our friends and neighbors out, too.
So many asked us what they could do to help, but we knew the community was still recovering from the brush fire and we didn’t want to take money when others had more urgent needs.
But a fundraiser for the National Stroke Association? Sure. “Who is going to ask Sean?”
This time the family swivels as one to look at me.
No. Hell no. No. No. No.
An hour later, I’m cutting through the pine trees.
There’s a party at Phil Cheng’s house tonight, a gathering of people from my high school graduating class who are home from college for the holidays.
I’m pretty sure I only scored an invite because the Chengs own the property next door and they’re using some of our land as overflow parking.
I wasn’t going to attend, but Angie is convinced Sean will be there, making it the perfect opportunity to hit him up with her idea.
“He’ll have some booze in him, he’ll be relaxed—go for it,” she urged as she pulled an outfit out of my closet and thrust it at me. It’s the only time I’ve heard Angie endorse underage drinking. I was about to call her on it when she shoved me out the door.
I catch sight of the Chengs’ house through the trees.
Light pours from the windows and I hear pounding dance music and laughter.
If I didn’t fit in during high school, what chance do I have now?
Everyone has moved on to their next stage of life while I’m stuck in the same old place.
Not to mention the Incident of Hot Shame, which lingers like the memory of a bad smell.
I do an about face and retreat from bright glow of the party. But I can’t go home. The family is still there, running sales numbers and making contingency plans. The breeze picks up and I shiver. Stupid unseasonable weather. I went out without a coat, but with the sun long gone I need one now.
There’s only one safe place to go: the Shack.
There’s no heat, but I’ll take four walls and a roof to keep out the worst of the cold.
I can hang out there for a few hours—or until my phone battery runs out and I can’t read my book—and then sneak into my room.
When Angie asks, I’ll tell her I didn’t see Sean at the party.
Hey, it won’t be a lie. Technically. I trudge toward the area of the farm that holds Santa’s Workshop.
Though the tall pine trees I draw closer to the Shack, the squat, bulky shape dark in the moonlight—wait. Not so dark. There’s a light, a dim one, visible through the windows.
I turned off the electricity before I left.
If I hadn’t, the entire Shack would be lit up, from the multicolored strings on the roof to the tiny white twinkle lights in the garland lining the door.
My heart speeds up, the whooshing noise drowning out the silence of the woods.
I’m about to run home to get one of my brothers, not caring I will expose my party pooper status, when a very familiar profile is silhouetted in the light. .
Sean Boswick is in the Shack.
I rub my eyes and blink hard. Then I focus again on the window. Yep, that’s Sean. The square outline of his jaw is unmistakable, lit by the phone screen in his hands.
Why is he here? Did he bring—my heart continues to thump, but this time a sharp stabbing pain—a date to the Shack?
Then a wave of anger makes me forget the cold. Seriously? He brought a hook up to a place where babies sit on Santa’s knee?
I march to the front entrance. Slapping one hand over my eyes so I won’t see the defilement of the Shack, I use the other hand to wrench open the door. “Have you no shame?” I cry.
I hear a grunt of surprise, followed by the sound of something clattering to the ground. “What the hell, Lizzie!” Sean growls.
No one else speaks, so I figure it’s safe to take my hand off my eyes. Sean is standing up, his fists clenched as if ready to defend himself. His phone is on the ground, the screen playing some sort of video. AirPods are visible in his ears. As I watch, his fingers slowly uncurl.
He’s alone in the Shack.
“Good reflexes,” I say.
He gives me a look of utter disgust before he bends down to pick up the phone. “Good job knocking,” he says, examining the device for any damage.
Now that I know the Shack isn’t being used as a sex palace, my heart rate slows. Still, I can’t let his remark go unchallenged. “This is my family’s property. I don’t need to knock. You’re the one trespassing.”
“Yeah. I know. I’m leaving.” Still looking at his phone, he moves toward the door.
No. Wait. This can’t be our last conversation.
I shut the door behind me and block his progress.
If he wants to leave, he’s going to have to remove me.
Physically. “I’m sorry. You can stay. I was just shocked to see you here.
” Moonlight streams in through the windows and I can see Sean brought a blanket, a greasy sack from the local burger joint, and a thermos.
“Looks like you were planning to be here a while.”
He shrugs. “Just a few hours.” Then he finally raises his head, his gaze catching mine. His eyes are deep unreadable pools. “So why are you here? You haven’t—” He stops speaking and starts examining his phone again.
“I haven’t what?”
He half-shrugs, a one-shoulder flex. “Been to the Shack at night before.”
“And you have? You mean—wait. You don’t sleep here, do you?’ The thought at once saddens me and sends a thrill down my spine. Sean Boswick, sleeping less than five hundred yards from my bedroom.
He shakes his head. “No. I just needed to get out of my house.”
I exhale. “Boy, do I understand that.”
And for the first time in a long time, Sean catches my gaze and smiles at me. A real smile. The kind of smile we used to exchange on an hourly basis when we were kids, but became few and far between once puberty kicked in.
“So why are you here?” he asks.
I sigh. “Trying to simultaneously avoid and attend Phil Cheng’s party.”
His brow creases, but he nods. “I think I’m doing the same thing. You want your family to think you’re out having fun with your friends. But it’s the last thing you want to do.”
“Sort of,” I say. “They’re not my friends. But my family likes to think they are. Hence, the Shack.” I sweep my arm to indicate, and suddenly I am very aware of three things:
One: With the door shut, the Shack is not a big space.
Two: I’m standing closer to Sean than I have in a very long time.
Three: Sean is even more devastating gorgeous up close than he is from my usual worship-from-afar vantage point.
My knees start to buckle, just a little, and I manage to scoot past Sean and sit on Santa’s throne. “Do you mind if I take your chair?”
He smirks. I’d forgotten about the dimple that flashes in his left cheek. Now it will haunt my daydreams. “It’s Granddad’s chair. But I had fun.”
A vision of Angie, hands balled on her hips, pops into my head. “Ask him!” vision-Angie hisses.
I ignore her. Instead, I nod at his phone. “What were you watching?”
He puts the phone in his pocket, taking a seat below me on the carpeted steps that lead to Santa’s Throne. “Just some game film. Checking out a football team, how they play.”