Once I send Mick onto the stage, it’s a bit like I’m sending apiece of me out there, too. The lights pick up on the glitter dabbed on Blizzard the Poet’s cheeks, the subtle sparkle embedded in the fabric of the tutu. The words shine just as brightly, spoken with clarity. I couldn’t be prouder.
After congratulating Mick on a job well done and sending them back to the greenroom to hang with the rest of the acts before the big finale, I start toward the audience and then make a pit stop in the costume shop.
While I was sewing, I noticed this jumpsuit on one of the mannequins. It was a Christa design, and it looked to be about my size. It has a deep V neckline, a gathered waistline, and long, flowing legs. Delicately, I undress myself before undressing the mannequin.
The lights are low in the house when I finally make it out to my seat. Patrick’s box is pivoted toward the stage, where heavy, red curtains hang down. Golden fringe tickles the boards below as it sways. The cast must be moving behind it, prepping for the next act.
Patrick sits alone, thumbing through the program. It’s not until I clear my throat that he looks up. His cheeks lift one at a time. “You’re here. And you changed.”
“I did,” I say, trying to combat the self-consciousness that always comes with being perceived, even by my husband. “It was hot back there.” Though there’s no reason I should have to qualify how I present myself. Except maybe to Christa, who will probably want to know who stole her creation.
“You look great,” Patrick says, standing to allow me to pass and get to my seat. He kisses me on the cheek. His big, calloused hand slips down the silky fabric from my shoulder and lands in the crook of my lower back. Desire rolls through me. “And Mick was— Wow. Really something. They were lucky to have you.”
I smile and nod, but ultimately say, “I think it was the other way around.”
The smile doesn’t slip from my face for the rest of the show, which goes off without another hitch.
“What do you plan on working on next?” Patrick asks during our slow amble back to the chairlift after it’s all over. The streets are filled with elves still buzzing about the show, but Patrick and I stick to the sidewalks, to each other. I don’t want the bubble of our perfect night together to pop too soon.
I shrug. “Enjoying the freedom of not having my days planned down to the second?” Working with Mick has shown me that I was never married to the academic aspect of being a teacher. Maybe I only ever wanted to help young people, be a mentor. The connection is the part that I love. “I have a lot of options.”
“Seems like the elves really like having you around,” Patrick says. “Every time you’re out and about, the happiness meter in my office spikes.”
“That’s nice to hear,” I say, feeling a blush rush up my neck and across my cheeks.
He guides me closer to him, so we fall into perfect step, and he leans in to whisper: “Myhappiness meter spikes when you’re around, too.” His voice is feather-light and his breath ghosts over my ear.
The blush from a second ago becomes a scorch. I laugh at his dirty joke, shove him playfully away.
As we approach the town center where the gargantuan tree glistens against the evening sky, a faint song floats on the wind. It echoes against the buildings. The snow flurries slow to a nearly choreographed flutter. Flakes catch on Patrick’s long, blond eyelashes as his pupils dilate.
“Do you hear what I hear?” Patrick asks, eyebrows bouncing. Everything is a Christmas pun around here. I’ve grown to love it even if it’s corny.
Straining, I faintly make out one of our favorite songs to joke-sing together. “Baby, it’s cold outside,” I say.
“I know it is. Why do you think I’m all bundled up?” he jokes, performing an overblown shiver.
I shake my head, biting back a smile. “What a dork.”
“Yeah, but I’myourdork,” he says. He whisks me into the square where some musicians are playing outside of an overflowing pub called Hand over Hearth. The cast and crew from the Elf Extravaganza are raising frothy, chilled pint glasses in celebration while some of them harmonize along to the lead singers that are dueting the holiday classic for all to hear.
Plenty of elves have taken to the street and are holding each other close. The indigo evening overhead is swished with green and has the distinct aesthetics of a Thomas Kinkade painting. My breath gets swept away as Patrick sweeps me into a dance hold.
I fall into the steps easily, even after so little practice. “Go easy on me,” I say. “I don’t think we’ve danced together since our wedding night.” In our first apartment, after particularly stressful days at work, in the cramped living room, we’d move the coffee table and the couch out of the way, and we’d put on a rowdy playlist to dance our cares away.
Close by, Ashley and Samson are dancing to the song as well. He twirls her under his muscular arm.
Ashley notices me and without missing a step says, “Quinn, sorry about my attitude earlier. The Elf Extravaganza is my one big task a year and it means a lot to me. You really came through. Thanks.”
“No sweat. It was fun,” I say before she twirls away, leaving me with a hope that I’ve finally garnered her favor.
“We’re coming up on our anniversary. Can you believe it’s almost been one year of marriage?” Patrick says, continuing to lead us in a step-touch.
“Time flies,” I say. Though, it doesn’t quite fly here. It ripples. Every day is more expansive than a simpleXon a paper calendar.
“We’ll have to do something special,” he says, sounding serious.
I blink back at him, a million love bugs tickling my heart. “I’d love that,” I say before swinging him out, rolling him in, dipping him low, and kissing him hard on the mouth.
