48 DAYS ’TIL CHRISTMAS
Nobody in the North Pole knows I have Quinn’s wedding ring fastened to a chain around my neck alongside my own. I wear it at all times.
Nicholas handed it over to me after our run-in the other night in the North Pole Headquarters. It feels wrong to put the ring in a box. The band rests against my chest. Bounces in counterpoint to my heartbeat.
That night and many nights since, I’ve binged memories like they are seasons of my favorite TV show. Revisiting moments from our past has given me more perspective about our future.
Time has changed us. Viewing the memories like that—switching between my perspective and Quinn’s—bolded and circled those changes. Made me realize that we’re not the same people we were when we met. We act a little different, we look a little different, and that means we need to love a little differently, too.
At turns, I’ve been selfish. Offering gestures instead of fixes.
No wonder Quinn wanted space.
On the other side of this revelation, I’m reinvigorated to win Quinn back. His trust, his heart, and then some.
I’m in Toy Maker Tower. Six helpful elves unravel the delicate, hefty scroll of the Nice list across my large desk. We’re doing things the old-fashioned way here with a quill pen and ink canister. I’m making handwritten edits as the magicstillattempts to reset itself.
I’m only on the G-names when Hobart knocks before entering with a large burlap sack filled to the brim with letters. “Time for a little break from list-checking, Santa Patrick. We’ve got some wishes to read over and grant.”
The six other elves exit. It’s just me, Hobart, and a mountain of sealed envelopes. It’s our job to read through them, cross-reference the Naughty and Nice lists, and send the approved wishes to production for fulfillment.
Even though it’s taxing, and my eyes have to strain, I love it. There’s something calming about going through these. Different languages magically translate themselves as I read, and misspelled words rearrange themselves on the page to make more sense. If I focus hard enough, it’s like I can hear the voice of the writer as clearly as if they were standing right in front of me.
This pile Hobart has brought us takes several hours to get through. The closer we get to Christmas the more letters come in and the faster production has to work to ensure no approved wish goes ungranted. This can mean long shifts, late nights, and steady streams of coffee with peppermint creamer to keep me going.
We’re about to take a break for the day when Hobart slips me an extra envelope out from the front pocket of his dark green overalls. He sets it down on the desk while whistling almost too casually.
The return address draws my eye. It’s my childhood home. And Bradley’s name above it. The handwriting is blocky and young-looking.
“Bart, what is—”
He’s gone. Vanished into thin air. The chair he was sitting in swivels and squeaks in his absence.
Inside the envelope, there’s an old wish letter Bradley wrotefrom when he was a teen. Mom made us write letters to Santa every year. No matter if we claimed to believe or not. A week before Christmas, she’d set out pens and paper after dinner and demand our undivided attention on the task. Even Dad.
When I got older, I always thought she was stealing them away, reading them, and making sure she purchased exactly what we wanted off our lists. I never suspected she was posting them to the North Pole.
It reads:
Dear Santa,
First off, thanks for the many wonderful gifts you brought me and my family last year. Every one of them was greatly appreciated. I hope you had a nice long rest after a busy year of planning.
I laugh. Even at eighteen, he was cordial. And if he was eighteen, that made me… freshly thirteen. The year I began to realize I might not be like all the other boys.
Now for the purpose of my correspondence.
I’m writing to you this year with a wish not for myself but for my brother.
He doesn’t care for me much, which is his right, but I’ve started to notice a change in his behavior.
I stop reading for a second. That statement is hard to swallow.
He comes home from school sullen. He shuts himself in his room. He’s grown quieter.
I don’t think he’d talk to me if I asked what was wrong, but I’ll admit that I’m worried.
Perhaps this is completely out of your purview, but I was hoping you could maybe gift him something—nothing flashy—that shows him how loved he is for who he is. I’m not sure it will fix things, but maybe it’s worth a shot.
