Her eyes bounce all over me.
She doesn’t ask about Marv’s family. She either assumes he doesn’t have one or is too scared of who they are if he does. It’s the right move; she’s not ready for all that.
“There’s no point of Christmas if you don’t have traditions.”
“I have traditions,” I say with a raise of my beer.
She scoffs. “Beer and bowling isnota tradition.”
“It is if you say it is.”
Marv raises his head from his tablet, piping in with, “Traditions were invented by the government as a form of mind control for large subgroups of the population—found her. Hollis Hartwell.” She frowns. “Age thirty-nine. Born on February seventeenth. Writer forWe Womenmagazine. Four kids, delivered vaginally.” He glances at her with raised eyebrows. “Impressive. Legally separated for one year—divorce finalized yesterday as mentioned—from one Ryan Hartwell who is a medical doctor and graduate from Duke University. Hollis has one speeding ticket from the early 2000s and two overdue library books.” He puts the tablet back in his bag and says with a satisfied tone, “Clean.”
“Wha—how did you?” Her wide eyes bounce from Marv’s bag to me then back to Marv.
“I know more than them,” he states like it’s common knowledge, nonchalantly taking a sip of his beer.
“Anyway,” she continues, eyes lingering on Marv a second longer. “Trick-or-treating before the Christmas tree lighting ceremony happening right now four miles away is a tradition. Annual costume contests. Getting married in a white dress in the same church your parents did. Taking vows. Those are traditions. This—” She sniffs. “Is fun. There’s a difference.”
“Ah. So you’re saying traditions aren’t fun?” I counter, taking another sip of my beer to hide my smile.
“Of course they are,” she says, testy.
“Really?” I raise my eyebrows. “That tradition of matrimony seems to be a real hoot.”
She glares at me. A few strands of hair fall across her stained face.Cute.
“So you just take the holidays and do whatever you want?” she asks, judgmental edge to her voice. “Do you work? Or is holding down a job too traditional for you?”
“I’m a dabbler,” I admit with a grin and lift of my cup. “With a passion for beer.”
Her eyes narrow again. “Like a bartender?”
She doesn’t mask hergrow the fuck upexpression.
“Beertender,” I correct.
“Okay,” she drawls, flicking her skeptical gaze to Marv. “I’m guessing he won’t tell me what he does?”
Marv looks at her like she’s just pulled a pistol out of her pants.
I chuckle, lifting a bowling shoe–covered foot to a vacant chair and propping a forearm across my thigh. “I’m not sure I even know. What about you? You said you were here for work?”
She nods, tucking a strand of loose hair behind her ears. Now that she’s not hysterical, even with the face paint, I can see she’s pretty. The light brown hair spilling from the top of her headlike a fountain frames a heart-shaped face, full lips, and big blue eyes. The costume clinging to her slim body doesn’t leave much to the imagination, which I very much like.
“I’m a writer,” she says as Marv steps up to the line for his next turn. “For a women’s magazine, as your friend so disturbingly shared. I write articles for the online division. Tips for vacationing with families, routines to make life easier, summer activity guides, stuff like that. Every Christmas I write about family traditions. Now without my kids ...” Her voice trails off as fresh tears fill her eyes. The pins explode from Marv’s bowl before he steps next to me. I pull my foot from the chair and stand upright. “I don’t know if I can do it. I love Christmas.TraditionalChristmas. The baking of perfect cookies for the bake sale and the parades. Without my kids, I don’t want to celebrate any of it.” Her voice cracks and she sniffs.
Beer fills my mouth and I still, holding it in my cheeks until she continues.
“That’s why I’m here. Trick-or-treating was a disaster.” She looks down at her costume and her lips start to quiver. “I thought skipping the Santa costume contest and tree lighting to come here would spark an idea on something else to write about. My attorney told me to have fun. I came to the bowling alley.” She starts to cry again. From somewhere in the bowling alley, actual jingle bells ring, prompting her to groan-wail, “But Christmas is everywhere.” She drops her head with a loud sob. “My ex-husband got my kids for Christmas along with my will to live, so now I just-just-just—” She finishes the sentence with a cry and whole-body shake, causing beer to slosh over the rim of her cup and onto her catsuit.
I slip the drink out of her hand, set it on the table, and give Marv anow what?look.
He clears his throat. “I need to check the vents.”
The man plotting to take down the government flees from the crying woman.Wimp.
“You know,” I say, sounding a bit like a hostage negotiator. “Holidays are just made-up dates. You could do whatever you usually do with your kids on different days.”
