“Where’s Patrick?”
I sigh quietly, wishing I could tell her the truth after all she just shared with me. “Still traveling,” I say instead. I’ll explain it all when the time is right. For now, I want this to be about us. Only us.
“That must be tough, my baby,” she says. “Being apart like that around the holidays.”
“It is.” Those two words can’t convey even the half of it.
“I’m sorry. I’ll tell you what. I’ve got some sick days saved up I need to use before the end of the year. Why don’t I come out for Christmas this year? We’ll spend some time together.”
I blink back new tears. “That sounds great.”
Before she hangs up, she promises to call again when she’s on the road back from Massachusetts when the cell service kicks back in. She tells me she loves me. I tell her the same.
Leaving my bag by the trunk, I go to the mailbox, expecting only bills and the odd Christmas card from those families who haven’t gone entirely digital. My breath catches when I discover an envelope with no return address.
I don’t even need to open it to know it’s from the North Pole, from Patrick. The cinnamon scent wafts up off the postage.
My heart turns incandescent.
Inside the house, I sit at my desk in my bedroom, heart beating so hard you’d think I was about to learn government secrets. Which, I guess, being at the North Pole, I kind of did.
The envelope contains two pieces of paper. The first is a letter dated a few days ago:
Dearest Quinn,
My family may not be perfect, but there is one good thing I learned from them: Hargraves never give up.
I made a wish a long time ago, and I won’t give up on it.
Not now. Not ever.
Trust in that.
All my love,
Patrick
The second paper is another letter. This one has the Casola’s Christmas Village logo printed in the top right corner. It’s from his birthday all those years ago, the letter he wrote to Santa. Only, it doesn’t say:I wish for my degreelike he’d jokingly said to me on the Kissing Bridge. Instead, it says:
Dear Santa,
I wish to love Quinn Muller forever.
50REMINDERS OF HOMEPATRICK
25 DAYS ’TIL CHRISTMAS
On my walk home from the workshop after a long day with minimal issues, a light snowfall begins. Barely even a flurry. I have to tilt my head up and stick my tongue out. Taste the flakes to even register it because it’s so dark. But it’s happening. I hug my coat closer to my body from the sudden rush of welcome cold.
Elves emerge from their homes. Plant themselves on their doorsteps. Excitedly shout to their neighbors, “Come quick! Look!”
I smile to myself as the shimmer of our protective snow globe shell winks in the starry sky. Status quo is returning steadily.
On the mat inside the door of the dream house, an envelope is waiting for me.
Inside the envelope, there’s a hand-drawn birthday card. In the pandemonium, I probably would’ve forgotten all about it had I not received this. I always said I wasn’t good with words, and Quinn always said he wasn’t good at drawing. Except there’s a valiant effort made here, which touches me.
In the center of the paper is Quinn’s interpretation of our dream house.Mydream house?
