“With what budget?” One of the other townspeople laughs, but not in a mean way. “We’re talking about Twin Waves here, not the Rockefeller Center.”
The suggestions fly around. Ask the high school drama teacher, see if anyone’s cousin knows someone who might be available. And the weight of Dean’s earlier words settle on my shoulders.
People trust you.
“What about you, Mads?” Michelle asks suddenly. “Dean’s right. You know how all this stuff works. You’ve been helping him coordinate Christmas events for years.”
“I’ve been helping,” I say quickly. “That’s different from actually running things.”
“Is it, though?” Jessica says. “Seems like you know what needs to happen.”
Everyone’s looking at me now, and I feel that familiar urge to deflect, to make myself smaller, to suggest someone more qualified. The way Spencer always made me feel. Too small for big ideas, too optimistic for real responsibility.
Asher is listening to our conversation while coiling up fire hoses. He catches my gaze and nods slightly, the gesture somehow managing to be both encouraging and completely unassuming.
Someone believes I can do this. Someone who doesn’t even know me yet thinks I’m capable of more than I think I am.
“I can coordinate,” I hear myself saying. “But we still need a Santa.”
The brainstorming session that follows would be hilarious if it weren’t so desperate. Mr. Jimbob volunteers despite being about five-foot-four and weighing maybe a buck-twenty soaking wet. Mrs. Posey suggests her nephew from Raleigh, forgetting that he’s currently serving overseas. Someone mentions checking if the mall in Wilmington has spare Santas.
“What we need,” Mom says thoughtfully, “is someone who actually cares about this community. A person who understands that being Santa isn’t just about the costume.”
“Who won’t scare the children,” Michelle adds, which eliminates half the remaining male population of Twin Waves.
“Someone reliable,” Lila says, “who won’t bail at the last minute when something better comes up.”
I’m mentally running through the list of possibilities when Asher appears at my elbow, holding a cup of coffee.
“Thought you might need this,” he says quietly, and the simple thoughtfulness of the gesture makes my heart do that skippy thing again.
“Thanks.” I wrap my hands around the warm cup. December air is actually pretty cold when you’ve been standing around in the coastal winds for an hour. “You didn’t have to?—”
“I wanted to.” His voice is matter-of-fact, but there’s something in his eyes that makes me think the coffee isn’t just about coffee.
We stand there for a moment, listening to the increasingly desperate Santa suggestions flying around us, and I’m very aware of how solid and reassuring he feels standing next to me.
“Why don’t you do it, Asher?” Jo says to him.
“What? Me? No way.” He scowls. “I’d be horrible at that.”
“Oh, come on,” Mom says. “We can add some padding to fatten you up.”
He crosses his arms, biceps bulging, and I can’t look away. “You’re really convincing me now.”
“Yeah,” Jo says, nudging her with her elbow. “He even has community theater experience.”
“Even better,” I say, grinning at his frown.
“What do you say?” Mom says.
“I still say no. There’s got to be a dozen other people in town who’d be better.”
“People with the acting experience?” Jo asks.
He groans.
“Think of the kids,” Mom says. “They’ll be so disappointed.”
