She turned to me, surprised. “Really?”
“You said this party matters. I should understand why.”
For a moment, I thought she might deflect. But then she started talking. “I moved to Seattle when I was six. My parents died, and I was sent here to live with my uncle—my dad’s brother. He didn’t really want kids. Never married, workedconstantly, drank too much. Christmas was just another day to him. Sometimes he’d leave a gift card on the counter. Most years, he forgot.”
My chest tightened.
“When I got to college, my roommates started inviting me home for holidays. Their families welcomed me like I’d always belonged there. Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter—I had somewhere to go. People who asked how I was doing and actually wanted to know the answer.” She paused. “They gave me what I never had growing up. So this party is my way of saying thank you. Of creating the kind of Christmas I always dreamed about and sharing it with them.”
I didn’t know what to say. What could I say? That I understood? I didn’t. My childhood was stable, loving, secure. Everything hers wasn’t.
“That’s why the magic matters,” I said quietly.
“Yeah.” She looked at me, and something passed between us. An understanding. “That’s why the magic matters.”
We pulled into the Reboot parking garage, and I found my designated spot on the top level. The silence felt heavier now, charged with something I couldn’t quite identify.
The lobby of Reboot was all modern luxury—polished concrete, floor-to-ceiling windows, and minimalist furniture that cost more than most people’s cars. Jonathan, the concierge, looked up as we entered and did a double-take when he saw I wasn’t alone.
“Mr. Thorne. I have your package in the back. It’s, uh…substantial.”
“I’m aware.”
He disappeared and returned a moment later, wheeling a dolly with a crate the size of a dining room table. Mollie’s eyes went wide.
“That’s your package?” she asked.
“That’s my package.”
“What’s in there?”
“Custom lighting installation for tonight’s benefit.” I pulled out my phone, already texting my transport team.
Jonathan cleared his throat. “Sir, that’s too large to leave in the main lobby. Would you like me to wheel it into the mail room? You can wait there while your team arrives.”
“That would be fine. Thank you, Jonathan.”
The mail room was tucked behind the lobby, a utilitarian space with sorting tables, package shelves, and the faint smell of cardboard and packing tape. Jonathan helped us maneuver the crate inside, then disappeared back to his desk, leaving us alone.
Mollie looked around at the towers of packages and the cubbies labeled with unit numbers. “This is very…behind-the-scenes.”
“Not exactly The Evergreen Room.”
“No, but it’s real. I like real.”
She leaned against one of the sorting tables, and I found myself doing the same, both of us facing the crate like it was some kind of modern art installation we were meant to contemplate.
“So what happens if it’s broken?” she asked. “The lighting thing?”
“Then I spend the next four hours trying to find a replacement or create something equally impressive from scratch.”
“That’s a lot of pressure.”
“It’s the job.”
She studied me for a moment, and I felt exposed under her gaze. “Is it always like this? Always one crisis away from disaster?”
“Event planning isn’t for people who need certainty.”
