“If you could just humor me?” I set the marker down and take a wary step closer to the woman apt to run. Though, not before she knocks me unconscious with a cast-iron frying pan. “It’s not that I didn’t hear you?—”
“Oh, okay,” she quips, falsely enthused. “So, youchoseto do something you knew would upset me?”
“Counter perspective…” I take another step closer. “Ihopeddecorating would encourage you to reconsider your stance on the holidays.”
“I don’t need to reconsider!” She throws her hand in my direction. “This is my house, Dean! This is my life. Those were my wishes. And these,” she shoots an accusatory finger toward the reindeer, “were your actions.”
She stalks across the kitchen and snatches poor Rudolph up by his bright red nose. Opening her back door, she yeets that sorry motherfucker into the snow and slams the door behind it. “I don’t want Christmas! I don’t want to pretend that this isn’t statistically theworsttime of the year for countless people. I don’t want to hang a fucking wreath and act like,yep, that fixed everything! And I don’t want to stand here and pretend to enjoy Christmas just to make you happy.”
“Anna—”
“I get it, okay?! You like the holidays. You like to dance and bake and hug your mom and sing and watch cartoons. You like to emotionally manipulate everyone around you, and God forbid a personadmit December fucking sucks! It sucks, Dean. December is lame, and Christmas is lame. Families are lame andgift giving is lame.Mayyyyybe, way back at its inception, the spirit of Christmas was sweet and romantic, a way to bring families together, but it stopped being that a long,longtime ago. Now, it’s credit card debt and seasonal depression. It’s loneliness and guilt and a warped sense of duty to people you probably don’t even like, anyway.” She chokes on a hitching breath, her chest shuddering with pain she’s been harboring since… I don’t even know when. “It’s you,” she moans, “trying so fucking hard to make me smile, because you think tinsel and mistletoe can fix something that can’t be fixed. The joke’s on you, because you’ve taken that responsibility on your shoulders for a woman you don’t even know… for someone you don’t even like.” She stares me down from across the room, her cheeks splotchy in the early morning light, her eyes glassy.
Fuck, I made her cry.
“I get that we’re in this weird in-between space this week. We met under unusual circumstances, we’re both attempting to avoid prison for the crimes we’ve committed, and you’re clearly a romantic at heart who thinksif I can just be persistent enough, I could thaw that Grinch Bitch out and be the hero I always knew she needed. But I don’twantto be thawed out.” She drags the sleeve of her hoodie over her cheek. “I don’t want to fall in love with Christmas again.”
She spies my cup of hot chocolate, her breath hitching and fresh tears dripping onto her cheeks, then she crosses the room on fast feet and steals it. “I think it’s wonderful that you believe. I think it’s beautiful and sweet and, in spite of your massive criminal history red-flagging all over the place, I think a man whose immediate thought upon waking after being hit by a car is that I might be a Christmas angel and not simply a reckless driver, is sexy and charming and green flaggy enough toneutralize some of the other stuff. But I’m not the person you’re gonna share the magic with.” She carries the hot chocolate around the counter and stops right in front of me.
Glancing up, she hits me with wet eyes brimming with heartache.
“This isn’t a Hallmark movie, and I’m not a Christmas angel come to sweep you off your feet. I’m just a bitter, mean harpy who should’ve learned her lesson twenty years ago… but didn’t.” She licks her lips and releases a tired sigh. “I didn’t listen. I didn’t learn, so the universe smacked me down and pushed a painful—unforgettable—lesson home.”
Her sadness breaks my heart. Her helplessness almost makes me weep. But her eyes, as she spins and heads toward the door, make me weak.
“I’m not saying youhaveto leave, since I know we’re still dealing with the car thing, and the not-a-jewelry-heist situation. But for every minute you stay inside my home, you’re robbing yourself of a chance to experience Christmas magic. You won’t find it here, and you’re way too cute Ho-Ho-Ho’ing your way through each day to miss out. Go be with your family.” She stops by the door, one hand on the frame, one wrapped around my mug. “Go bake cookies and drink spiked eggnog. If the police figure this heist stuff out, it’s possible you’re gonna spend a few years behind bars, and when that happens, you’re gonna wish you didn’t waste your time on me.”
“You gonna snitch to the cops?” I stay where I am, though my hands itch to grab her. I cock my hip against the counter, though my heart yearns to meet my perfect match exactly where she is. “I heard you talking to the captain last night. You planning to tell him what you think you know?”
She coughs out a soft, laughing breath. Shaking her head, shepushes away from the doorframe. “Nah. Breaking attorney-client privilege could get me disbarred.” Before she goes, she peeks back and meets my eyes. “Will you please rescue Rudolph from the backyard? I feel kinda bad now.”
“Sure.” I fold my arms and hold my space for as long as she stares. For as long as she needs. And then, for the time she takes to wander the living room and inspect the decorations I’ve already put out.
At the sound of the front door opening, and a second later, closing, I turn to the dry erase board and reread my words. The hastily scribbled message. The heart I infused into every letter.
Anna. I was a little slow off the mark, since I was twelve when I realized Santa wasn’t real and all the magic Ithoughtbelonged to him actually existed because of my mom.
I was sad when she told me. Devastated, like someone I loved had died. She held me through my heartache and promised that if I believed hard enough,Icould be the magic for someone else. Please don’t be mad I decorated your house. You deserve to believe again.
Exhaling a sad sigh, I swipe my message away, dragging my thumb through each letter I penned, through the hope I hoped to gift her with, and the magic I wish she could feel.
Picking up the marker a second time, I uncap the end and simply write;
I’m sorry for hurting your heart. It wasn’t my intention.
ELEVEN
ANNA
Itrail my fingers along the frozen steel frame of my dad’s beloved Road Runner. Around the gleaming silver bumper, and the forest green scoop. Over the crystal-clear headlights, and as I make my way along the body, I stroke the doorframe that was once marred by a jagged, grating scrape.
It’s all better now. Repairs have been made. The damage, rectified. The torn whitewall tires, just the two on the left side, replaced, and the mirror—the one I picked up off the side of the road a full three weeks after it first detached—now sits proudly back in place.
Wild, flirty laughter echoes all the way from Mel and Nick’s house, thundering footsteps as the duo race around their home and count down until their wedding… so soon.
Good for her. She deserves nothing but the best.
Unlocking the driver’s side door and breaking the thin icy seal, I drag it wide open and lower onto the rich leather seat,careful not to spill my hot chocolate or track muck onto the original floor mats.
