It sways and catches the light, scattering tiny prisms over his jacket.
When we reach the back of the store, the source of the music becomes clear: a small radio sits behind the counter, playing an instrumental version ofHave Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.
Perched on a high stool just behind it is a little boy.
He’s hunched over a coloring book, the tip of a red crayon clutched in his tiny fist.
His tongue sticks out of the corner of his mouth in fierce concentration as he works, the page beneath his hand crowded with a cheerful chaos of color as he fills in a reindeer, a snowman, and a crooked Santa with a beard too big for his face.
A few stray crayons lay scattered across the countertop.
His curls are wild and soft-looking.
His sweater, red with a slightly peeling snowflake pattern, hangs just a little big on his small frame.
He’s utterly absorbed until Dean’s shadow crosses his page.
He looks up, startled at first, then straightens, blinking up at us.
His eyes are a bright hazel that remind me so much of Noelle it surprises me.
“Hello! Welcome in!” he chirps, his small voice high and clear, cutting through the background music.
Dean chuckles, leaning against the counter. “Hey there, buddy. You the boss around here?”
The boy’s grin widens, eyes sparkling. “I’m theassistant manager!”
He says it with such conviction that I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.
Still, the corner of my lip twitches upward. “The assistant manager? That’s a big job.”
He nods proudly, leaning back on the stool while slamming the crayon down with purpose. “I help my mom. She says I’mveryresponsible.”
Dean glances at me, eyebrows raised, but I can’t pull my eyes off the kid.
His curls, the faint dimple when he smiles, the way his nose scrunches slightly when he talks, it’s all so familiar it hurts.
He’s like her carbon copy.
The door to the back creaks open then, and all my thoughts fall away.
“Eli, who are you talking to?” And there she is.
She’s balancing a large box in her arms, holding it tight against her chest as she walks out from the storeroom.
Her hair is pulled back in a loose twist, a few strands falling forward to frame her face.
The years haven’t dulled her at all, they’ve simply refined her. Her eyes, those same wide hazel ones her son shares, haven’t changed though.
She freezes when she sees us.
The box in her hands wobbles just slightly, her knuckles whitening as she watches us.
For a second, no one says a word.
Eli breaks it first, completely oblivious to the tension that’s seized the room. “Mama! Look, we have customers!”
Her gaze snaps back to him, a flicker of forced calm passing over her face before her eyes dart back to us, first me then Dean.
