Bran stares back, nonplussed.
“Psst,” I hiss out of the side of my mouth. “Ask her what her name is. What she wants for Christmas. You know, starter script.”
Shifting on the throne, Bran clears his throat. “Hi there. What’s your name?”
She squints suspiciously. “You’re supposed to say ho, ho, ho. Is your beard real?”
“Oh. Um. Yes. It’s real.” His eyes flick to mine. “Ho, ho, ho.”
“So weak,” I cough into my hand.
He ignores me, barely. “What would you like Santa to bring you this year? A pony? Some pretty jewelry?”
Jewelry. I nearly choke.
“Santa, little Jamie here is four, not forty,” I stage-whisper.
Jamie frowns harder. “You’re weird,” she informs him solemnly. “I like Mall Santa better. And I want a Barbie.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing out loud as Bran solemnly promises Barbie delivery and hands her off.
The next kid, a boy about eight, is less judgy and more chatty. He launches into a breathless monologue about Transformers and Spider-Man and Minecraft while Bran nods, actually listening, occasionally tossing in a “That so?” or “Sounds deadly,” that makes the kid glow.
By the time we’re halfway down the line, Bran’s found his rhythm. Still gruff, still visibly uncomfortable in the suit, but hisshoulders have dropped a fraction. He’s not going to bolt. The world is not ending.
My bladder, however, is.
Fifteen kids in, my coffee and nerves have joined forces. I hitch my chin toward Floyd, who’s manning the hot cocoa urn behind Bran.
“I’m taking a bathroom break,” I call.
“Sure—” Floyd starts.
“No,” Bran says at the same time, not looking away from the little boy currently perched on his knee.
I make a face. “I’ll be fine. The bathroom’s just back here. I barely have to take ten steps.”
His gaze flicks up, sharp over the kid’s head. We have a full silent conversation in one heartbeat.
I will be in your line of sight the entire ti—
There’s a knot of kids shifting, a volunteer flagging Floyd down, someone dropping a cup that explodes cocoa all over the floor. For a second, everything in front of us is motion and noise.
I use the distraction like the shameless gremlin I am.
“Seriously, two minutes,” I say, already backing away.
“Tallu—” he starts.
I flash him a bright, innocent smile and slip around the comic book spinner rack.
The door to the back hallway is half-hidden behind a display of vintage comics in plastic sleeves. I duck through it, the noise of the main floor muting as it swings shut behind me.
The employee corridor is narrow, lined with boxes and half-opened cases of stock. I sidle sideways past a tower of board games, grateful I’m small and flexible. Someone’s dragged a tub of stuffed animals out and left it sitting in the middle of the walkway; I toe it aside with a muttered curse.
The bathroom is exactly where it’s always been—second door on the left, crooked “Employees Only” sign and all.
I pee. I wash my hands. Then I stand there longer than necessary, palms braced on the edge of the sink, breathing.
