But now it’s nearing sunset and admittedly a part of me is hoping that the dark makes her braver. Because we’ve still got our walk down Main Street tonight. Every year on the night before Christmas Eve, all of the shops down Main Street host a window-display competition. The shop with the most votes gets a red ribbon and bragging rights.
That may not sound like a worthwhile prize, but this is a fairly boring town. These people getcompetitive.Friendships are lost and folks scorned over it each year. We usually stop for a hot pretzel and waltz up and down leisurely. My father has a habit of talkingloudlyabout other shops down the way to stir up some drama. My mother brings a notepad and takes notes.
Evan’s parents haveneverattended—consumerism being the root of evil and whatnot— so I’m hoping she relaxes a little.
“I’ve been dying for a pretzel all year.” I exclaim from the backseat, looking at the back of Evan’s head as she looks out the window.
“They must have pretzels in Toronto.” My mother turns over her shoulder, teasing gleam in tact. Her smile falters when her eyes trace from me to Evan. “Evan?”
“Hmm? Yeah?” Evan turns slowly, a polite smile spread across her face.
“Do they have pretzels in Toronto?”
“Uh, yes. I think so. I’ve seen them.”
“Make sure she doesn’t wait another full year then.” My mother points a thumb towards me and Evan nods.
“I wait on purpose. None of them could ever taste like Patty’s.”
Evan’s back to looking out the window. My mother and I exchange a silent exchange of weary glances. She turns back to face the front, turns up the radio slightly, and I take the cue.
“Ev?” I whisper, leaning over, placing my chin on her shoulder. “Do you want to go home?”
She turns, forcing me upright. “A little.” Her nose twitches as if she’s about to cry.
“Okay, that’s okay.” I let her fall into the crook of my neck.
“No… you love this. You waited all year for this pretzel,” she whispers, nuzzling into me.
“My mom will bring me back a dozen pretzels if I ask. And honestly, I’m a little tired.”
“No, you’re not.” She argues.
I’m not.“Dad?” My father reaches for the volume dial. “Could you drop us home? We’re worried about Bagel being there alone.”
“I think we’ve got time to turn around, check on him, and come back?” He offers.
“No, that’ll just confuse him. It’s okay.”
“But you love—”
My mother, as subtle as she can, reaches out and pats my dad’s thigh. A silent signal that only comes with thirty-five years of marriage.Let it be.
Without another word, my father checks his blind spot and does a u-turn towards home.
“Ten minutes.” I press a kiss on the top of Evan’s head.
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“Bagel’s fine… he’s in the back hall playing hide-n-seek with what I suspect is a mouse. My parents might not let him leave if he manages to catch one,” I say, returning to my bedroom where Evan has gotten herself tucked in under the covers. She’s wearing the pyjamas my mother picked out for us—red and green plaid bottoms with black shirts. Hers says, “Nice,” mine says, “Naughty.”
Indelicately, I climb over her to the opposite side of my double bed which is tucked against the wall. “How are you feeling?”
“Guilty.” She pulls the blanket up to her chin.
“Well, I’d like that to stop.” I brush her hair with my palm just once before she rolls over to face me.
“I shouldn’t have come.”
