This place, Jingle Hell, the self-proclaimed “Grittiest Christmas pop-up in Savannah,” was a fever dream. Fake snow machines, a wall of broken nutcrackers, a bartender in a full Grinch costume who wouldn’t make eye contact.
And we’d been therewaytoo long.
I was wearing a sweatshirt with a giant, buff elf torso on it. An elf. Torso. Sutton already had her outfit from the Historical Holiday Tour we helped Magnolia with, but Lee and I still needed festive attire, so Sutton dragged us to the Christmas section of the Salvation Army. Lee handed me the sweatshirt like it was a peace offering. And me, being the idiot I am, I put it on.
“I can’t believe I let y’all talk me into this,” I said, dragging a hand over my face as the “Wham!” Christmas album blared overhead.
Sutton clinked her glass against mine. “Excuse me, but you’re the one who wanted to go do something fun.” She spun on her stool and took in the sad, slapped-together plastic holiday decor covering the walls of the old tux shop. “You love it. Admit it.”
“I love seasonal depression and bourbon,” I muttered. “This is just… tinsel and regret.”
Sutton let out a gasp so dramatic I thought someone had died. “Oh my god, there’s a pop-up holiday market on River Street!” she screeched, shoving her phone in my face. “Let’s take these drinks to go andshoooopppp.”
She dragged the word out like it had its own sleigh bells.
Before I could protest, she slid off her barstool in a glittery wobble, slunk behind the bar like she was on their payroll, and snatched a few to-go cups while expertly dodging the Grinch bartender, who was mid-existential crisis in front of the beer taps.
“I don’tshoooopppp,” I grumbled as she sloshed our cocktails into plastic cups with the concentration of someone defusing a bomb.
“You do now,” she chirped, handing me my drink.
Lee leaned over to inspect the operation. “I should get a gift for my mom.”
Sutton let out a bark of laughter. “Your mom? Good luck. That woman has everything—includinga full-blown fine-art collection and zero tolerance for handmade crap.”
Lee shrugged. “Yeah, but she likes Christmas ornaments and local soap. I’ll find something.”
Sutton wedged herself between us, looping her arms through ours, her head bobbing between our shoulders as we shuffled toward the door. Her tinsel crown was now a sideways tiara, glitter and glue smudged across her cheek.
“I justloveyou guys,” she hiccupped, swaying as we stepped out into the crisp air. “Even when you’re grumpy and judgmental and dressed like a half-naked elf.”
The crowd thickened as we made our way off Bay Street, winding down the old stone steps toward River Street. Lights twinkled along the railing, strung from lamppost to lamppost asif someone had tried to tie the whole city up in a bow. Holiday music floated through the air, faint and slightly warped by the wind and overlapping speaker systems. The scent of roasted nuts and kettle corn drifted around us, curling through the crowd with the kind of festive pull that was impossible to ignore.
Sutton had already tripped twice—once over her own foot and once because she stopped walking entirely to scream over a dog in a Christmas sweater, which caused Lee to bump right into her and knock her over.
“I want that dog,” she declared, pointing dramatically as it waddled away.
Lee snorted into his to-go cup of mulled wine. “You’ve already permanently glued your crown to your forehead and scraped both knee caps. Maybe pace yourself.”
Sutton squealed at the sight of a booth covered in homemade soaps and disappeared into the crowd with a dramatic flounce of her velvet skirt.
I lost her instantly.
Turning in a slow circle, I scanned the crowd, squinting through the horde of shoppers. “I swear to God, if she joined another caroling group…”
“She’s having fun,” Lee said, voice wry, sipping from his to-go cup like we weren’t chasing a human ornament through one of the busiest Christmas pop-ups in the city. “You gotta let her live.”
I grumbled under my breath about adult supervision and tried to keep my eyes on anything sparkly and human-sized, weaving past families in matching pajamas and parents dragging wide-eyed toddlers hopped up on peppermint bark. Right as I passed a booth covered in handknit dog sweaters and bourbon-scented candles, I spotted her.
TheCheese, Please!booth, glowing under strings of Edison bulbs, was bustling. Little sample trays lined the edge of thebooth, and in the middle of it, perched behind a table covered in gingham and wedged between waxed cheese wheels and a sign that saidSavor the Season, was Tally.
She looked different.
Her hair was down in loose waves, her skin warm and flushed from the snap of cold or maybe from laughing at whatever Sutton had whispered in her ear. She wore a bright red cardigan that hugged her shoulders and a long scarf she was fidgeting with, as if she wasn’t sure what to do with her hands. And yeah—she was definitely showing now. A little more than a few weeks ago. Enough that my brain stalled.
Not seeing her these last few weeks only made the pull toward her stronger. I’d seen the photos from the winter gala, and what she’d done to theCheese, Please!website—both were getting attention. Two big wins, and word around town was that she’d landed a permanent gig as the official photographer for the Daughters of Savannah Civic Society. Part-time, of course.
Not that I was asking around about her or anything.
