"True," I lean against the table and give Max a scratch behind her ears. "But that doesn't mean we can't try to find a little happiness in the small things, like adorable dogs in festive sweaters."
"Fine," Keaton sighs, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he reluctantly smiles at Max. "Maybe there's something to be said for your relentless optimism."
"See? Was that so hard?" I tease, sitting down in the chair opposite.
"Alright, don't push your luck. And why are you sitting down? I was about to leave.” He closes his laptop with a snap.
“I got you a drink. You looked sort of sad with that glass of water. You can have a sugar cookie too, if you like. Are you missing your family?” I push the cup towards him.
“Thanks. A little, maybe. I’ve visited every other year. What about you? Coming back here from the city can’t be easy.”
"Alright, I'll admit it," I begin, taking a sip of my drink before continuing. "This year has been challenging. Losing my job has left me feeling...well, a little lost."
Keaton's expression softens, the hint of a frown creasing his brow. "I'm sorry to hear that, Melody. You’re dedicated though. Rhys used to talk about how much practice you used to do for your skating. You’ll find something else. Don’t let it ruin your holidays back with your family."
"Thanks. You're right. I’ll try not to let this setback dampen my Christmas spirit. You’ve cheered me up!"
“Maybe there's hope for me yet."
"I always knew there was a soft, gooey center hiding beneath that tough exterior," I grin back at him.
"Now that’s a step too far!" he warns, but there’s a twinkle in his eyes.
"Alright. If you're not a fan of the holidays, what would your ideal December look like?"
"Simple," he leans back in his chair and crosses his arms, giving me a big grin. "No decorations, no carolers, no holiday parties, and most importantly, absolutely no cheesy Christmas songs."
"Sounds incredibly…dull. But I guess that's right up your alley."
"Hey!" he protests, but he still has a smile on his face. "Just because I don't partake in all the holiday hoopla doesn't mean I don't know how to have fun."
"Fine, enlighten me then. What does the great Keaton Price do for fun?"
"Wouldn't you like to know?" he asks, leaning closer.
"Actually, yes, that's why I asked," I reply. There’s a flurry of warmth in my core and I can’t tear my gaze away from his.
There’s a knock on the window and my brother waves at us as he rushes past. He’s carrying a large box and Sienna is scurrying along next to him, trying to keep up. I wave back, trying to work out where they’re going.
When I turn back to the table, Keaton’s on his feet, pulling on his coat. As he stands up, a little figurine falls out of his coat pocket. I lean down and pick it up.
“Hey, isn’t this one of those reindeer ornaments Christa used to give away with her cookies? I thought she’d stopped doing that years ago.” I peer closer at it.
He reaches for it, our fingers touching and an electric jolt moving up my arm as he touches me.
“I don’t know. Thanks for the drink. And the cookie. See you at the rink.” He doesn’t smile as he walks away, Max following as he weaves his way amongst the tables.
I get that feeling that I’ve done something wrong again, but I don’t know what it is. Screw him and his weird moods; I can’t keep up. If he’s annoyed with me about something, it’s up to him to tell me about it. Maybe Grandma was wrong. This is one bird I definitely can’t charm.
I get my sketch pad out, crunching on a cookie as I draw the ice rink from memory, adding in the twinkle lights decorating the trees on the path leading up to it. In the foreground, a guy stands looking at the skaters, his expression wistful. It takes me a moment to realize I’ve drawn Keaton. I put the pencil down and stare at the bulletin board opposite me.
A colorful flier in the center reads: "Don’t forget us at Christmas! Support Bakersville Animal Shelter." There’s a drawing of something that I think is meant to be a dog in a Santa hat underneath.
“It’s not the best drawing, is it?” Zuri’s collecting cups from the empty tables around me and loading them onto a tray. “I was going to mention it to you, you could do a much better illustration. It’s not paid, unfortunately, but it would be for a good cause.”
“I reckon I could give it a try. Who do I need to speak to?” I flip the page on my sketchbook.
“Mr. Huckle, I think?”
