“Oh God,” I choke out, laughing and whimpering at the same time. “What a mess.”
“It took me a minute to get the lay of the land, so to speak. To understand how you tick, and to accept you have your own beliefs surrounding Christmas.”
“Dean—”
“I’m sorry for messing up your house. I’ll pack it all away just as soon as we go inside, and I won’t speak of it again.”
“My dad used to take most of December off work so he could dress up as Santa every year and listen to little kids make their wishes.” I draw a shuddering breath, filling my lungs until my chest expands. “We weren’t rich or anything, not even close, but he’d save his vacation time all year long, so an entire month without pay wouldn’t sting so bad when the bills came in. He’d scrimp and collect every penny he could, making it stretch as far as possible so our month of no income wouldn’t become a reason for anxiety. Every January, when the sales were on and toys dropped to half what they cost in December, he’d snatch up as many as he could afford and hand them out the following Christmas.”
Sniffling, I drop my focus and stare into my mug. “I don’t want to turn this into a wholewoe is mething, since we hardlyeven know each other and you have no desire to hear a lame sad story.”
“I wanna hear.” He gently tugs on my hand, grinning when my eyes come across. “I’ve been trying for days to get you to talk to me. What does a man have to do to get a woman’s attention? Step in front of a semi-truck?”
I choke out a dumb, watery snicker. Shaking my head from side to side, I exhale a soft sigh. “I’m gonna tell you, and you’re gonna promise not to turn it into a big deal.”
“Fine. It’s not a big deal.”
“I don’t want you to pity me. And if you stare at me across a room later with that look in your eyes, ya know, the one where you feel sorry for me and you’re worried I’m gonna spontaneously cry or whatever…”
He crosses his heart, gritting his way through the painful movement with his bad arm.
“My mom died a long time ago.” Say it fast. Say it without emotion. “Which isn’t ahugedeal, since everyone’s parents eventually die. I loved her and missed her a lot, and she was obsessed with Christmas, so my dad and I went a bit nutso celebrating every year after.”
“Hence,” he murmurs, sliding his finger along the heel of my thumb. “Your dad cosplaying as ol’ Saint Nick every year.”
“Right. We believed in the magic too.” I swallow the croak nestled deep in my throat. “We believed in it so much, we couldn’t help but spew that shit all over town.”
He snorts, the sharp exhalation of air tickling my arm. “Logical progression after loss, and I have zero pity or spontaneous tears for you. Continue.”
I roll my eyes. But damn, he makes it easy to say the things I need to say.
“I think you’ll be sorely disappointed when this is all done. You think being hit by my car is some kind of divine intervention and I’m an angel sent to sprinkle Christmas dust all over your head, but really, I’m just a sourpuss Christmas grump.”
“But—”
“And worse, I’m a cliché. Nothing but a big fat soap opera banality with zero substance. My mom, a devout holiday enthusiast, died just a couple of days before Christmas when I was nine years old.”
“Bummer.” He speaks in monotone. Simple, bland, and falsely uninterested. “I’m still not feeling sorry for you.”
I snicker, watery and gross and mildly embarrassing. “And here I was, thinking you wereincapableof listening. So there she goes, dying and ruining my winter break like a total jerk.”Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry, you big dummy!“My dad and I over-corrected and went all in on Christmas craziness. We had a reputation and everything. Front-page news eight years running. I spent every December of my childhood dressing up like an elf and skipping around a homemade Santa hut while children lined up to tell my dad what they wanted for Christmas.”
He lays his head back and grins wide. “I’m imagining it, but I’m a creep, so I booted kiddie-you from my fantasy and tossed in current-you.” He tilts my way and meets my eyes. “Do you still have the elf costume? Will you put it on and show me?”
“No!” I tear my hand free and smack his thigh. “Is there something wrong with you? Why must every conversation be about your libido?”
“It’s not.” Laughing, he captures me once more, trapping my hand with strong fingers. “I didn’t mention my libido. I didn’teven say how it would be kinda cool to see you dance for dollar bills while grinding up against a giant candy cane.”
I narrow my eyes.
“I just asked if you still had the costume. You’re in the middle of telling me a very serious, but not at all pitiable story, Counselor. If you could get on with it, the court would appreciate you not wasting its time.”
“You’re exhausting.” I attempt to escape his hold, to pinch the bridge of my nose, since my other hand is wrapped around my coffee mug, but he refuses to allow me escape. To let me wallow.The bastard. “Mom died. Christmas ruined. Yada yada yada.”
“So that’s why you don’t like the holidays now? The trauma?—”
“My dad died today, four years ago.”
He snaps his lips closed. Loses his smile. Straightens in his seat.
