“We understand this is a huge decision,” Yvonne says, reaching out a hand to her husband, Chris. “It will come with sacrifices including not leaving the North Pole once you’ve committed.”
“Jeez,” Quinn utters.
“Of course we don’t expect an answer right this second.” Chris squeezes his wife’s hand. “Go home, get some rest, enjoy Christmas with your family and friends, and talk it over. We look forward to hearing what you decide.”
Part of me wants to jump up and say yes immediately. Thank them for this amazing opportunity. But I can sense Quinn’s uncertainty beside me growing larger.
Instead of making any rash decisions in the moment, we let Hobart escort us out and back to the garage area where we parked the sleigh earlier. The reindeer have been untethered. Probably brought to their stables for food and rest.
Beside the sleigh we rode in tonight, there is a smaller sleigh. Nearly a sidecar. It only has two seats.
Over the rev of the magical flying machine whirring to life, Hobart says, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you the full scope of what was happening here. I’m new at this job. Unprecedented times call for desperate measures. I hope you can forgive me.” The tops of his pointy ears go pink.
Perhaps seeing Hobart as he sees one of his students—overwhelmed but trying his best—Quinn steps forward and hugs Hobart. “It’s okay. Thanks for keeping us safe tonight.”
Hobart is stiff at first. His arms stick out forward, held at the elbow in apparent shock. But then he relaxes into it and wraps his arms around Quinn. He hugs me next, then helps us settle inside the flying contraption.
“It’s a small but mighty machine. You’ll be home in the blinkof an eye.” I try not to cringe when he slaps the front of the machine, and something not-good-sounding clangs inside. “Sorry, again. Hope to see you both soon.”
As Hobart backs away, the coordinates he punched in lock and load on a screen. The machine, without any coaxing, does a half circle as two barn doors open automatically. Strapped in with harnesses and seat belts, we clasp hands and hold on tightly.
For the gazillionth time this evening, we launch off into the sky, and perhaps a brand-new future for us.
16MEET THE PARENTSQUINN
A MEMORY
The future is impossible to ignore when there’s a giant banner hanging in front of me reading:PENDERTON UNIVERSITY… EMBRACE THE FUTURE.Those words in that font stir my worry.
“Magna cum laude,” I say, nervously flipping through the commencement program. Bradley, Patrick’s brother with the perfect hair and the law degree, sits next to me. We arrived around the same time and despite having never met us in person, he walked right up to me and chatted amiably with me as we found our seats. “It’s really impressive.”
“I was summa cum laude, but yeah.” He sips from a mini bottle of water we were handed on the way in. We’re in the Penderton stadium in uncharacteristic May heat. The football field is lined with rows upon rows of folding chairs in front of an end zone–spanning stage. Mr. and Mrs. Hargrave haven’t shown up yet. I’m trying not to pick at my fresh manicure. I want to make a good impression, and making a good impression means having perfect nails that match our university colors—red and white.
Mom was supposed to be here, but she’s never made a habit of showing up when and where she says she’s going to, so I wasn’t completely surprised when she called and started rambling about a dead car battery.
A little while later, Mr. and Mrs. Hargrave enter our section looking as if they’ve just stepped off the golf course at the countryclub. Sweat-wicking polo and hat for him. Head-to-toe white linen for her. I stand to greet them, feeling damp and underdressed in a silky, billowy blouse and drawstring trousers that I bought in the women’s clearance section at a boutique.
“Quinn, it’s wonderful to finally meet you,” Mrs. Hargrave says, kissing me lightly, once on each cheek. She takes stock of my outfit but speaks nothing of it.
“Put it there,” Mr. Hargrave says, wrapping my much smaller hand in a too-strong shake.
They say their hellos to Bradley, settle into their seats. Mrs. Hargrave produces a tiny, battery-powered fan from her ginormous bag. It sputters to life with a whirr, though I’m not sure it’s doing much since we’re sitting in direct, scorching sunlight.
“Bummer your mother couldn’t come. Such a bummer,” Mrs. Hargrave says, pulling out a compact mirror, presumably to see how shiny she is. “It’s unfortunate we didn’t know sooner. Patrick’s Nan would’ve loved to be here.”
“She’s nearly ninety. There’s no way she would’ve sat out in this.” Bradley shrugs off his blazer jacket, so effortless. Patrick has always depicted him as the golden child, supremely polished. I thought he was exaggerating, but Bradley doesn’t even have pit stains or a dewy forehead.
“I’d have brought her a hat. She’d have been fine.” Mrs. Hargrave snaps the compact shut to punctuate her point. Already I can tell that she’s no-nonsense. Mom’s antithesis in nearly every way. “Oh well.”
“Sorry,” I say meekly, already feeling like I’ve done something wrong. LikeI’mwrong. Wrong for not saying something sooner. Wrong for Patrick, maybe.
She pats my closest knee placatingly, and then the ceremony starts.
Any discomfort sedimented inside me crumbles away when Patrick marches in, long gown swishing as he walks. And, muchlater, when they call Patrick’s name to receive his diploma, the four of us stand and cheer for the gods.
“I’m so proud of him,” Mrs. Hargrave says, looking over at me with tears rimming her blue eyes that match Patrick’s. She holds Mr. Hargrave’s hand tightly. I wonder, for a moment, if Patrick’s angsting over his parents’ disapproval is more of a self-inflicted pain than a by-product of their true feelings.
“Me, too,” I say, smiling. It’s nice, this connection. This feeling of being one of them, having a person tying us together.
