“I suppose. I’ve been on the path to head elf too long. I’ve hit my peak. It’s too late to deviate,” he says.
I think about teaching, how coming back here is a chance to carve a new way for myself. “You’re immortal. I don’t think it’s ever too late to deviate. Trust your gut.”
His head seesaws. Emotions flicker fast across his face. “I’ll consider it. Is there anything I can do or get you before I go?”
My first instinct is to have him tell Patrick I love him when he returns, but I know that might only make a hard situation even harder, so I tell him no.
Before he disappears back up the chimney, he says, “I know in my heart that you and Santa Patrick will work it out. The kind of love you both share always prevails.”
And then, I’m alone.
Is my heart racing from excitement or fear? I’m not even sure it matters.
This is brand-new to me. In my life, there were the family years, the years of just me and Mom, the three years of roommates in college, and then Patrick and I moved in together. It’s strange to think that never, in my twenty-six years of existence, have I been completely independent.
I continue to ponder this as I tread the rickety steps (alone), brush my teeth (alone), and crawl into bed (alone).
I cocoon myself in the blankets, build a fortress of pillows around me to protect from whatever monsters might be lurking in this house, and let the fateful moment where the magic turned against us rocket back to me.
I still can’t comprehend how Patrick decided I would want to stay in the North Pole beyond our agreed-upon year.
That’s how Patrick works, I guess. He decides, and then he sticks to it.
For a long while, I felt lucky that a decisive man had decided on me. It proved I was worthy.
My dad could leave, my mom could wish me different, but Patrick Hargrave could love me. And, at the time, that would fix everything.
I know now, in this bed that’s too big for one person, that that’s not true.
Going along with the wants of others has only left me empty and incomplete.
Still, in my heart of hearts, I also know the scattered pieces of my relationship are not unsalvageable. I just don’t have the vision or the energy to put them back together again. Not yet.
So for now, I hold Patrick’s pillow tight in my arms, and I sleep.
98 DAYS ’TIL CHRISTMAS
There’s no fresh pot of coffee waiting for me in the morning. I can’t plop an egg in an unheated pan and expect an omelet. I can’t even expect the fridge to be full. I swing open the door, and I’m greeted by nothing except a burnt-out light.
I wait for the annoyance to race out of me. Instead, there’s an invigoration to change it, to make myself useful after so many months of forced leisure.
On a notepad from a junk drawer, I write a to-do list:
Grocery shopping
Hardware store—fridge lightbulb
Call Mom
All I need now are my keys, which aren’t to be found in any of the usual places. I check the banana hook by the coffee pods, my backpack in the hall closet, and even the pockets of coats I vaguely remember wearing before leaving for the North Pole. I settle, finally, on taking Patrick’s car instead.
This proves a fool’s errand when I slip into the driver’s seat and his scent wafts up from the upholstery. Not his Santa scent. No, this is the ocean breeze body wash and spicy deodorant combination I miss more than anything. I buckle my seat belt and pull it tight to snap my body out of its odor-induced stupor.
That only works until I reach the stop sign at the end of our block, turn on the radio, and the Hozier song we had our first dance to crackles from the old speakers. I get lost in the memory of it until there’s a shout from outside the car. A kindly neighbor walking her goldendoodle is waving excitedly at me from beside a fire hydrant. “Quinn,” she shouts. I roll down my window. “It’s wonderful to see you’re back!”
“It’s wonderful to be back,” I say, remaining sparing with the details of my absence. The interaction helps me reset back to thehuman world. By the time she’s pulling a plastic baggie from her pocket to pick up after her dog, I’m lighter.
The to-do list takes me a good chunk of the afternoon. I didn’t mark down which kind of lightbulb I needed, which meant I had to get the store employee to look up the make and model of my ancient refrigerator, so I didn’t accidentally buy the wrong one. The grocery store has shuffled sections around since I was here last, so I text Veronica about my frustration (I’m back. Without Patrick. Long story. Where the hell are the avocados?!) and then spend a good fifteen minutes hunting for said avocados.
