It’s not until we’re back in the parking lot by my dorm building that Quinn unbuckles his seat belt and, assuaging my darkest fears, fiercely embraces me. His face smushes into the meat of my shoulder. “Thank you,” he says with resounding relief.
“Of course.” I run a hand soothingly through his curls. His hair has quickly become my favorite texture in the world.
Gingerly, he inches back, looks up at me with watery eyes, and says, “Pat, I love you.”
The LEGO set was perfect. But this is the greatest gift he ever could’ve given me.
“I love you, too, Quinn.” I kiss away his tears before kissing his newly smiling lips. “I love you so, so much,” I say again just to ensure he heard me. Loud and clear.
9UP ON THE ROOFTOPPATRICK
CHRISTMAS
Quinn is sheet-white and frozen.
I snap in front of his face. Trying to get him back to reality.
This isreality,right? Because it certainly doesn’t feel real.
It takes twenty minutes, but we finally get the man onto the living room couch and (mostly) upright. His head is dipped. His lip is a little busted. Quinn’s swing wasn’t that strong. I think it scared the man more than it hurt him. The frightening thud was purely from the man’s sheer mass.
But he’s definitely not playing dead. He’s conked out.
Which means we’re not any closer to answers.
“I’m sorry,” Quinn mutters frantically. It’s the seventh time he’s said it. “I thought he was going to hurt you.”
“It’s okay. I only knocked him out the first time because I was afraid he’d hurtyou.”
Our eyes connect. This would be a sweet moment in our tattered relationship if a man who may or may not be Santa Claus wasn’t partially passed out and maybe concussed on our (now that I consider it)uglysuede couch.
Quinn worries his lip. “I know I’ve asked this a million times, but what do we do now?”
“Wait until he wakes up, I guess.” I heave out a breath that barely registers over a sudden, noxious pounding up on the roof.“What was that?” If I really dial in, something lighter and jinglier floats underneath the pounding. “Are those bells?”
One after the other, we rush out the front door and onto the icy lawn. I pitch my gaze upward and, sure enough, my wondering eyes are graced with the sight of a massive red-and-gold sleigh. Eight fearsome reindeer are tethered to it by reins bedecked with bells.
“Seriously? That was reshingled before we closed!” I cry, noticing the damage that the weighty flight vehicle is causing. “Are you seeing this?” Bemused, I turn to look at Quinn. He’s on his knees. In the grass. Balling up leftover snow from a storm a week ago and shoving his face in it.
“I’m dreaming! I’m going to wake up! I have to wake up!”
I grab Quinn by the arm. “Stop! You’re going to wake the neighbors!”
I scan the street. The houses aren’t very close together. But I’m surprised to find that no one has rushed outside to see what the commotion is about. The one time it would be helpful to live near nosy people.
“Wake the neighbors? We killed Santa Claus.” Quinn sounds as undone as I felt when I wandered into the bedroom earlier.
“We didn’t kill anyone. He was breathing. He was just passed out. Come on. Let’s get back inside before we both freeze to death.”
Listening to reason or at the very least too cold to protest, Quinn nods and follows me.
Back in the blasting warmth of the house, still unsure what to do, I’m stopped in my tracks by the sound of clomping boots. Not mine. And not Quinn’s, either.
At the inlet to the hallway, Santa Claus stands with one hand on his slightly bruised lip. The other holds the frying pan out in front of him.
“Don’t come any closer!” he cries in a higher-pitched voice than you’d expect from the storied big man. “I’m warning you.”
Instinctually, I step in front of Quinn. I hold my arms up in evident surrender. Quinn mirrors me. “Okay, okay.”
