I’m speechless. We didn’t discuss this. I mean, in the abstract we have “one day when we’re married” conversations like every long-term couple does, but those plans always feel far-off, something we can aspire to. I never imagined I’d be staring down the barrel of marriage so young.
Is that how I think of marriage—a loaded barrel, a threat?
Conflict crisscrosses inside me, pummeling elation into the recesses of my heart. The one emotion that can’t be beaten back, though, is my love.
My love for Patrick is undeniable.
I love our life together. I love the closeness we share in our tiny, messy apartment. I love his lopsided smile and his collection of unstylish sweater vests that somehow look good on him regardless of the occasion. I love his willingness to take on challenges headfirst.
But do I love Patrick enough to be the husband he deserves?
Scratch that.
Can I be a husband, period?
“What do you say?” Patrick asks, his voice a gentle hook reeling me out of my mind and back into the present. Optimism shimmers across his expression.
The rink is awash with anticipation for an answer. I don’t want to disappoint them, myself, or most importantly, Patrick, so I give one.
I hold out my right hand to him, beaming for everyone to see. “Yes, yes. A million times yes.”
32TIME FOR A CHANGEPATRICK
294 DAYS ’TIL CHRISTMAS
From my desk in the office above the workshop, which I’ve come to love, I’m humming along to the soundtrack of cheery tunes the elves play while they work.
At Carver & Associates, there was a no-earbuds policy, so I had to work to the drone of office chatter. Chairs rolling. Papers shuffling. Keyboards clacking. Back in my office at the house in New Jersey, which could barely fit my drafting table let alone a fireplace and whole sitting area like this one, I worked in silence. The quieter the room, the better I could focus.
Here, I don’t know if it’s the lack of pressure or the freedom from financial instability, but I can dial in to the music. I let the jangly notes of “Sleigh Ride” infect my body and lift my spirits. No wonder Santa is always depicted as jolly in commercials and cartoons.
From my fingers down to my tapping toes, Ifeeljolly.
Especially because things with Quinn have been going spectacularly. Our revamped love life has inspired me to start working on a special project. On one level of my desk, I have the original blueprints of the workshop main floor unrolled and pinned down flat. On the drafting table, I have initial sketches for the redesigned workshop I’d like to build. They’re very much a work in progress. But they’re getting there.
Over the last couple months, as I worked as an overseer andthe manager of toy production, I’d make notes about how to boost efficiency, worker happiness, and optimize the space here. My creative brain kicked into high gear.
I’m once again reminded of the sketches for the hub for Kacey’s nonprofit. I disappeared from New Jersey overnight. I don’t want her to think I’ve ghosted her or forgot about our plans. The work she is doing is important. Now more than ever, really.
I wonder if I can send an elf back to our house to grab them. I can finish it up here and then get someone back in New Jersey to see them through down there. I know it’s a tall order.
I’m about to leave myself a note on the topic when Hobart materializes in my office, as he usually does, without knocking.
“Can I get you anything?” Today he wears a pair of puffy green pants, a thermal long-sleeve shirt, and his usual pointy hat. There are bells tethered to his shoes. Every step he takes is a mini concert.
Head elf might as well be code for personal assistant. He has made my magical life immeasurably easier over the last month. And it’s not like any of my current duties are rocket science as is. Which leaves me plenty of brain space to focus on Quinn and architecture, my two true passions. “No, I’m all good, but can I get your eyes on something?” I shuffle around some papers.
Once he’s peering over my right shoulder, he says, “What exactly am I looking at?”
“That, but better.” I jab my thumb toward the window behind me.
Hobart looks out the window at the work floor that’s bustling with whistling workers. “What’s wrong with how it is now?”
“There’s nothing inherently wrong with the way it is now, but as I’ve been observing, the flow of the space is cramped and isolating. I understand this is a workshop operation, but it all feels a little too humdrum. I want to let in more natural light while mixing workspaces between departments. No more locking the designers away up in Toy Maker Tower and the builders solely inthe factory. I want to integrate design and production to make our workshop more inclusive and social.”
“I like the idea.”
A belly-laugh (an entirely Santa-like belly-laugh, to be exact) bursts out of me. That’s been happening more and more. The longer I’m here, the more Santa-like I become. Quinn even pointed out that I’ve started to grow light, soft facial stubble when not wearing the cloak. A major perk in my book.
