Three Days before Christmas…

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There aren’t a lot of things that I'm willing to come right out and say I’ve been a fool about. I live in a small town and, ego aside, I have a certain reputation to maintain. Foolish is not a good look for me. But if I’m being honest, there is a list, albeit a short one. And right at the top of said list is my wife. I have been a fool for that woman since the day we met. 

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In my defense, I was just twenty-two when she first crossed my path; so still pretty young. Scout, on the other hand, was even younger. Unfortunately young. Inexcusably young.

 

Young enough that she’d felt the need to lie about her age. And (as I’ve been reminded, repeatedly) young enough that I really should have immediately seen the lie for what it was. 

 

Which I didn’t. Which goes back to my first point. 

 

In retrospect, it was probably a good thing that she left town when she did. Not that I thought so at the time, of course. And despite the lies, despite the betrayal, despite all the years we spent apart, I never forgot her. 

 

So, when she finally resurfaced, just a little over five years ago, and we picked up right where we’d left off, it felt like fate. Like it was meant to be. And I don’t think I’m exaggerating when I say that, for most of those five years, we’ve both been as happy as any two people could reasonably expect to be in this crazy world.

 

Except at Christmas. Which is weird, right? I mean, who doesn’t like Christmas? Well…my wife, that’s who. 

 

I blame her father. Not that I ever really knew the man; we met only once, back in the day, and I counted myself lucky that he never found out about my relationship with his underage daughter. But, other than being a little obtuse, I’m sure he had his good points. 

By all accounts he was a caring if somewhat distant father; a successful artist, who made a comfortable living (then married into even more wealth) and whose death left his daughter very well provided for. But one thing he was never able to provide her with was a secure and stable home life. Which is something that most of us want for our kids. 

 

Growing up the way she did, it seems like the holidays were just one disappointment after another for Scout. And, as of yet, she hasn’t been able to move past that trauma. There are days when I’m not sure she ever will. 

 

Which is not to suggest that she doesn’t put on a good act. She’s a very talented actress, after all. She fakes Holiday Spirit the way I imagine some women fake orgasms. Not that I’d personally know anything about that. But Scout employs so much skill and enthusiasm when it comes to Christmas, that if I didn’t know her as well as I do, I’d almost believe that she was enjoying herself. Almost. But even I’m not that big a fool. 

 

I’ve seen the way she grits her teeth when the topic of Christmas shopping is raised—and trust me, it’s not the money; she has plenty of that. I’ve seen her yawn her way through more extended-family gatherings in the last few years than I care to think about. Especially since they’ve mostly involved my family. And I’ve seen how she rolls her eyes whenever I get busy decking her halls. And can I just say that she has some great halls to deck? Because man, oh man… 

 

Okay, wait. Hold up a bit. That was not a euphemism, all right? I’m talking about the house we live in. The gorgeous, Queen Anne, almost-a-mansion that Scout inherited from her stepmom. A house whose halls were positively made to wear boughs of holly. Also tinsel, candles, strings of twinkly lights, ivy garlands and (obviously) all the mistletoe.

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Deep down inside, I think Scout appreciates that there’s one of us in this marriage who makes a big deal about the holidays—for our son’s sake if nothing else. And I think she particularly likes the fact that it’s me. If only because that means it doesn’t have to be her. I know she enjoys the decorations once I’ve gotten everything in place. But, then again, I’ve also seen her sigh with relief when the last of the baubles and bows are packed away in the attic once again. 

 

If she were all alone—single and childless and left to her own devices—I’m pretty sure she’d choose to skip the whole holiday process altogether and spend the season somewhere else. Like Cabo, perhaps, or Kauai.

 

So, on the surface, this year is simply more of the same. And you might think that I shouldn’t be overly concerned about Scout’s customary lack of Holly Jollity. But all the same, I am.

 

I can’t help feeling that something’s different this time around. I don’t know what it is, exactly, but having been a cop for as long as I have, I’ve learned to trust my instincts. And I’m telling you now that something feels off.

 

“So, what do you think is up with Scout?” I ask my cousin Lucy as we wait in this seemingly endless line that snakes its way around Oberon’s town square so that my four-year-old son, Cole, can talk to Santa.

 

Lucy looks puzzled. “Is something up with Scout?” 

 

“I’m not sure. That’s why I’m asking. Have you noticed anything different this year? About Christmas, I mean.”

 

Besides being my cousin—and practically a sister to me—Lucy is also one of Scout’s closest friends. She regards me, for a moment, over the rim of  her chocolate peppermint latte, then says, “You mean, aside from the fact that she’s apparently skipped town and is gonna miss the whole thing?”

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I glance at Cole, who’s playing hide-and-seek among the lighted sculptures with some kids he knows from pre-school, to make sure that he isn’t listening in. “She didn’t skip town,” I correct. “She had some last-minute work to take care of in LA. And she hasn’t missed anything—yet. There are still a few days to go, you know.”

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“Well, that’s not true,” Lucy replies. “I mean, she’s not here tonight, is she? So that’s one thing she’s missing. Then there was Marsha’s party on the Solstice. And Sinead’s open house the weekend before that. Neither of which she was here for. I know that might not mean anything to you, but—” 

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“Okay, fine. She’s been gone awhile. That’s why I’m asking what you know.”

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Lucy frowns. “I wasn’t done. I’m expecting you for dinner on Christmas Eve, as you know. And, last I heard, we’re supposed to be having Christmas dinner at your house. Is that still on? I mean, I’m not holding my breath, or anything. And I’m sure that you and your kids’ll be there, but as for Scout…I guess I’ll believe it when I see it.” 

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“She promised Cole she’d be home in time for Christmas,” I say—which effectively ends the discussion. Scout might expect me, or Lucy, or her stepbrother, or any of her friends to excuse her absence from time to time, to act like adults and understand that sometimes plans change. But she’s not her father. And I know she’d never disappoint our son. Particularly not at Christmas.

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Lucy nods and shrugs, acknowledging my point. “Okay. Fine. She’ll be back. Glad to hear it. So then what’re you worried about?”

 

“I don’t know,” I’m forced to confess. “That’s the problem.”

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“Okay…” Lucy says, inviting me to say more. But what more is there to say? 

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My concerns are amorphous. There’s nothing concrete to point at and say, ‘you see this thing right here? This feels off’.’ 

 

“Boy, there really are a lot of kids here this year,” I observe instead. Which is maybe not the best change of subject, but it’s possible she’ll fall for it. “More than usual, wouldn’t you say?”

 

“Mm-hm,” she replies. Not falling for it at all. She knows—and I know that she knows, because I’m the one she learned it from—that if she keeps her mouth shut long enough, sooner or later, I’ll probably break and tell her everything. And she knows that I know that she knows—so it’s a whole big thing.

 

But now, I’ve given myself something else to worry about. Call me a control freak, but I pride myself on recognizing all my fellow townsfolk, at least by sight. And right now, I don’t recognize far too many of the people enjoying the holiday atmosphere. “Are they from out of town, do you think? Or has the population gotten that much bigger in the past few years?”

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“Dunno. Could be either one.”

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“Or maybe the kids that I remember as kids are all grown up now and these are their kids.” And, fuck, doesn’t that make me feel old?

 

“Mm.” Lucy sips her latte. I shove my hands deeper into my jacket pockets, wishing I’d thought to buy myself a drink as well. The line moves slowly forward.

 

“What’s with the sugary coffee drink tonight, anyway?” I ask. 

 

In general, my cousin’s a plain black coffee kind of woman. Occasionally an espresso woman, if she’s at home, or somewhere whose quality she trusts. When she’s stressed, she’s been known to switch to an unsweetened Latte; or to add a shot of Sambuca, or Amaretto or even Kahlua to her espresso. But that’s about it. 

 

This thing she’s drinking now? It’s a dentist’s dream. Or a dentist’s nightmare, I guess, depending on whether the dentist in question actually cares about their patients’ health and isn’t motivated primarily by greed. It’s capped with whipped cream and drizzled with syrup, dusted with chocolate and candy cane pieces, and served with an additional candy-cane sticking out of it—to take the place of a stirrer, I assume. Or maybe it’s just decoration. 

Lucy slants an exasperated look in my direction. “This is not a coffee drink, per se.”

 

“It sure isn’t.”

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“It’s a Christmas drink. Which is an entirely different thing.”

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“If you say so.” 

 

She waves a hand encompassing the entirety of Christmas Village and explains, “It’s seasonal, okay? It’s part of the holiday experience. Like drinking Irish Coffee on Saint Patrick’s Day. Having a Margarita on Cinco de Mayo. Or ordering the bottomless Mimosas at brunch. You could not do all that, but you’re always going to feel like you’re missing out.”

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“I think that’s called FOMO,” I say, to show I’ve been listening. “Like only ordering a regular Bloody Mary when you coulda had a Bacon Bloody Mary instead.” 

 

Lucy shrugs. “Joke all you like. You know it’s true.” 

 

And she’s not wrong—exactly. But, on the other hand, the only part of “the holiday experience” that I’m aware of missing right now is my wife. Because yeah, normally, Scout would be here. Looking adorable in a Christmas sweater—even if she was wearing it ironically. Snuggled up against me like there’s nowhere else she’d rather be. Taking sips of her own holiday drink—because yeah, Lucy’s argument sounds like something Scout would agree with, as well. 

 

And I guess all of that is a big part of why I’m worried. Because I know Scout would want to be here this year—if she could. Which is why I’m convinced that, whatever she’s doing in LA, it mustn’t be going as well as she’d hoped.

 

“I just wish I knew what this trip was about,” I say, capitulating at last. “You know?”

 

Lucy frowns. “What do you mean? What do you think it’s about? She’s there on business, isn’t she?”

 

“Yes. Supposedly.” 

 

My wife has followed in her artist father’s footsteps. She’s a well-known sculptor with a condo in Venice Beach, an agent in Malibu, a studio in Woodland Hills and an entire life that she pretty much abandoned when she moved back to Oberon to marry me.

 

“Supposedly? What’s that mean?”

 

“It’s just that she never mentioned any particular project that would account for it, but she’s been spending a lot more time in LA than usual, these last few months. And I don’t know why.” 

 

“Well, haven’t you asked her?” Lucy inquires. 

 

“No.”All I know is that she’d sounded disappointed the last time she’d called to tell me that she’d had to extend her trip a few days longer—once again. 

 

“Nick! Why not?”

 

“Because I… I don’t know how to.”

 

“Oh, bullshit.” My cousin glares at me. “Don’t be pathetic. How hard could it be? After all, you interrogate people for a living.”

I roll my eyes. That’s a gross exaggeration—and certainly not how I’d describe my role as a police officer in our very small town. But she’s not entirely wrong. “I think that may be part of the problem. I don’t want to interrogate my wife. Whatever secret she’s keeping, I know she’d have told me about it if she wanted me to know. And if I ask about it, already knowing it’s a secret…”

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“Then you put her in the position of having to lie to you. Got it.”

 

“She doesn’t ‘have to’ lie,” I say, not really thinking it through. “I mean, no one does, right?  It’s always a choice. She could choose to say nothing, instead.” Which—fuck my life—is exactly what she is doing. Isn’t it?

 

“Uh-huh.” Lucy smirks having clearly reached the same conclusion. “And how’s that working out for you?”

 

“It sucks,” I answer, but then honesty compels me to add, “But…then again, so would the alternative. So…” 

 

Given my job, I can’t always tell my wife about everything I’m involved in. And I’m not sure I’d want to even if that weren’t the case. There was a brief time when my wife turned psychic; when she didn’t need me to tell her what was on my mind—because she already knew. It was not our finest hour as a couple. Demanding that she reveal all her own secrets now seems wildly hypocritical.

 

“So where does that leave you?” Lucy asks.

 

“Uh…royally screwed?” I suggest.

 

Lucy laughs. “Well, yeah. But you’ve always been that when it comes to Scout. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

 

She had. Twenty-five years ago. When Lucy first found out that I’d fallen for one of her best friends she’d been furious with both of us. 

 

“I can’t believe you’d be this excited about finally getting to say, ‘I told you so’,” I joke…or sort of joke.

 

“Hey, vindication tastes even better cold than revenge does,” she sort of jokes back. “But help me out here, cuz. Because it seems like what we’re both saying is that this is nothing new for you guys; that this is just the status quo. So, again, what’s different? What exactly is the problem?”

 

“Honestly? I’m not even sure there is one. I just get the sense she’s worried about something. More so than usual.” 

 

“And you have no idea what?”

 

“Nope. All I know is that she’s actively not confiding in me about it. And that suggests that whatever it is, it’s something to do with me. Or with us. Or…shit. I dunno. Maybe I’m wrong?”

 

“Hmm.” Lucy shoots me a speculative look then says, “Much as I’d love to disagree, you’re probably not wrong. Whatever your faults, you’ve got good instincts—especially when it comes to Scout. But maybe it’s not so bad. D’you know what this reminds me of? It’s kind of like that time, right before your wedding. She was acting the same way then, too, wasn’t she?” 

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Christmas songs are playing over speakers set amid the tree branches—something about making spirits bright. Well, mine just took a nosedive. It can’t be a good sign that Lucy’s jumped this quickly to the same conclusion that I have, can it? “I know. That’s what I’m thinking, too.”

 

“Really?” To my surprise, Lucy perks up. “You think she’s pregnant?”

 

“What? No!” I stare at her. What the fuck? Where did that idea come from? Unless… “Wait—is she? I mean, did she say something to you about it?”

 

“No. Of course not. But that’s not a surprise, is it? She didn’t tell me last time either, so…”

 

“But…” My heart’s racing at the thought, and I’m feeling all sorts of confused.

 

Lucy frowns. “Why are you looking like I dropped a bombshell? You’re the one who suggested it.”

 

“No, I didn’t. That’s not…”

 

“Well, what else did you mean then? That was the big secret she was keeping before the wedding, wasn’t it?” 

 

“Yes, but…she wasn’t keeping it a secret from me!”

 

“Oh. Well, how nice for you,” Lucy mutters—completely unfairly, I might add, given that I’m the father of said child. “But if that’s not what you were hinting at, what were you talking about?”

 

“I’m talking about how she got cold feet at the last minute. How she started having second thoughts and tried to call off the wedding.”

 

“Oh, for pity’s sake,” Lucy scoffs. “Why’re you worried about that? You’re already married! It’s too late for her to back out now. That can’t possibly be the problem.”

 

But it could, and we both know it. Marriages break up every day. Scout’s father was married multiple times.

 

Before I can respond, however, we’re joined by Lucy’s husband, Dan. I feel a pang of envy as I watch the way my cousin lights up at the sight of him. Foolish, I know. Not to mention that I should be used to it. They’ve been married for over twenty years. 

 

Also, I know Scout does the same with me. Except that recently…recently, it feels like that excitement, that joy—that gleam in her eyes when she sees me—has diminished somewhat.

 

“What’re you doing here?” Lucy asks, in breathless tones. At least some of which might be due to how tightly Dan’s arms are wrapped around her. I’m impressed that she hasn’t either passed out or spilled her coffee, but when she blindly shoves her cup in my direction, I happily relieve her of it.

 

“Work was slow,” Dan replies, obviously referring to his job at his family’s nursery—which is ordinarily busy this time of year selling Christmas trees. “So, when Kenny offered to close up for the night, I took him up on it. Besides, something followed me home from work, and I wanted to show it to you.”

 

At that, Lucy wrests herself out of her husband’s arms and glares at him. “Cavanaugh—no! Not another dog? You promised!” 

 

“A promise?” Dan arches an eyebrow at her. “I did no such thing. But no worries. It’s not a dog this time.”

 

“A cat?”

 

“No.”

 

Lucy’s eyes narrow. “You haven’t been hanging around with Chay, have you?” 

 

It’s a fair question. And something to make anyone’s blood run cold. Chay Johnson runs one of the nature centers out in the foothills. He rehabilitates injured wildlife and occasionally fosters them out.

 

Dan chuckles. “Would you relax, woman? It’s not an animal—okay? It’s just this.” And he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a beribboned sprig of mistletoe, which he holds above her head. 

 

As Dan lowers his face to hers, Lucy slaps her hands against his chest to hold him off. “It ‘followed you home’?” she asks in scathing tones. But there’s a smile tugging at her lips, all the same. “That’s your story?”

 

“Well, it was in my back pocket. So, technically—yes. It was behind me the whole way.”

 

“And now you think I’m going to kiss you just because you dressed up a handful of leaves in holiday colors?”

 

That sounds almost like a reasonable question, doesn’t it? Yet I’m sure everyone within listening distance has just rolled their eyes—like I just did. Because, of course she’s going to kiss him. You couldn’t even find a bookie to lay odds on that.

 

“Well, it is traditional,” Dan murmurs. His eyes are heavy-lidded. His gaze is focused on her lips.

 

“Oh, and you’re really into tradition, aren’t you,” his wife replies gazing right back at him. Ditto on the eyelids. Ditto on the focus. Her tongue slips out to slick her lips and yeah…there’s no question at all about what’s gonna happen next.

 

“I’m into anything that results in you kissing me right the fuck now,” Dan says, prompting me to turn away in an effort to give them a little privacy. Although why I even bother is a mystery. It’s not like that’s ever mattered to either one of them.

 

Cole’s still running around. I call him over, so I can ascertain that he’s not getting too sweaty or disheveled—for the sake of the pictures. Then he runs off again. The line inches forward a little more, veering around Lucy and Dan who have stepped off the footpath, but are still PDAing like teenagers.

 

The spicy scent of peppermint wafting from the cup in my hand mingles with the evergreen scent of cedar from the surrounding trees, and with all the other holiday fragrances, as well. Marshmallow. Whipped cream. Pumpkin spice. Gingerbread. I listen to the lyrics tumbling down through the trees and imagine that I’m taking a walk with my favorite girl in a world made for sweethearts.

 

Five years in, I guess I’d forgotten that the season isn’t nearly as festive when you’re holidaying on your own.

 

“So, how’s it going, Nick?” Dan asks after he and Lucy have come up for air.

 

“S’all right, I guess,” I say, as I hand my cousin back her drink.

 

“No, it’s not,” Lucy replies. “He’s worried about Scout.”

 

“About Scout?” Dan looks at me in concern. “Why? What’s going on?”

 

“Nothing,” I say, but—once again—Lucy overrides me.

 

“Remember before their wedding, how she went down to LA, and everyone thought she must’ve had a boyfriend on the side?” 

 

This is an absolute lie, by the way; as Dan immediately proves by saying, “Yeah, that’s not how I remember it. I’m pretty sure it was just you who thought that, babe.”

 

Lucy frowns. “Was it? Well, whatever.” Then she turns to me and says, “I’ve been thinking about this, and I bet I’m right.”

 

“About which part?” I ask warily. Right about now, I’m starting to remember why it’s generally a bad idea to ask Lucy to speculate on anything. 

 

“Okay, look,” Lucy says. “It’s Christmas, right? So, what do people do at Christmas?”

 

I’m pretty sure Dan’s perplexed expression mirrors my own as we start offering suggestions.

 

“Decorate houses?” 

 

“Put up trees?”

 

“Bake cookies?”

 

“Hang stockings?”

 

“Send Christmas cards?”

 

“Sing carols?”

 

“Take their kids to see Santa?”

 

“Buy annoying drinks like that one there, which you’re gonna end up spilling all over yourself if you don’t finish drinking it soon?”

 

“No!” Lucy replies. Then adds, “I mean, yes. Sure. All those things, too. Other than the fact that my drink is not annoying, Dan; thank you very much.”

 

“We’ll see.”

 

“What you’ve both failed to mention is gifts! People exchange presents, don’t they? And what was the real reason Scout had to rush to LA before your wedding—to pick up her wedding present for you Nick. So, my guess is that that’s why she’s there now, too. She probably got you something special for Christmas, and for some reason she had to go down there to pick it up. Although since she flew instead of driving this time, she’s probably bringing back something small.”

 

“Okay,” I answer slowly, thinking about it. “That makes sense.”

 

“Yeah, it does.” Dan smiles proudly. “Good work, babe. I bet that’s it.” 

 

I nod and shrug. It could be. I’m not quite sure it fits the feeling I’ve been getting from her, but it’s possible.

 

“Or…it’s also possible that I was right the first time,” Lucy says. “And that means that the reason she hasn’t told you she’s pregnant is because she’s planning on surprising you with the news on Christmas. So make sure you act surprised—’cause I don’t want her getting mad at me again for spilling the tea.”

 

“Wait, Scout’s pregnant?” Dan asks.

 

I shake my head. “I don’t think so.” 

 

“But you’re not sure,” Lucy says. “Isn’t that what you said? And, at this stage, that would make for a very small gift. So, that’s more proof that I’m probably right. But, either way, I’d stop worrying if I were you. I’m sure it will all work out.” Then she nods toward the lawn and says, “However, you might want to call Cole over here again. They’re almost ready for him and he looks a fright.”

 

Somehow, in the very few minutes since I’d last checked in on him, Cole’s managed to get himself extremely grubby. So, the next few minutes are preoccupied with combing his hair, straightening out his shirt, and quickly cleaning his face and hands with wipes from a package that Lucy miraculously produces seemingly from thin air. 

 

Moms. I swear, they’re a breed apart. I can’t for the life of me figure out how it is that they’re not running the whole world yet. Unless they are, and we just don’t know about it. But, nah; that can’t be the case. The world would be much less fucked up if it were. 

 

Finally, one of  Santa’s elves (a local high school student that I sort of recognize from taking my daughter to school events) escorts Cole over to Santa’s throne and I take out my phone and start videotaping the scene because I’m sure Scout will want to pore over every second. Meanwhile, Lucy hands Dan her drink and pulls out her phone, as well, and starts snapping photos for much the same reason. 

 

“Who do they have playing Santa this year,” I ask, when I realize that I don’t recognize the young man on whose lap my son is seated.

 

“Not sure,” Dan replies. “Hard to tell, what with the beard, and all. He looks familiar, but I can’t place him.”

 

“He has a nice smile,” Lucy remarks. “But I think I’d remember if I’d seen it before. And I don’t think I do.”

 

Dan laughs softly in response and then adds, “Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell. Though all things foul would wear the brows of grace, yet grace must still look so.”

 

I turn my head to stare at him. “What was that?”

 

Lucy rolls her eyes. “Oh, God, don’t ask,” she groans. “He’s always quoting something. You know that.” She takes a few more pictures then turns to her husband. “That was Shakespeare, right?”

 

Dan looks impressed. “Very good. Want to try and guess the play?” 

 

“I sure do not,” Lucy says, then smiles. “But if you’d like to explain the connection, I’m sure Nick would appreciate it.”

 

She’s not wrong. It sounded a little dire.

 

Dan shrugs. “Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it?  It means that sometimes evil disguises itself as good, right? But good’s still gonna look good all the same. Angels equate to Santa—sort of. Santa equates to Saint Nick. Saints equate to good. Hence anyone dressed as Santa is automatically going to look good, even if he’s not. Think about it. It makes perfect sense.” 

 

“I’m sure you’re right,” I murmur. But if you want my opinion, I think the only thing that never makes any sense whatsoever is every single member of my family—Dan included.

 

“Omigod, Nick,” Lucy laughs. “He’s right. It does make sense. And that’s obviously why Good Saint Nick was never one of your nicknames.”

 

“Har-de-har-har,” I reply, still recording my son who’s seemingly having an animated and protracted conversation with Santa. 

 

“Boy, that’s gotta be some long-ass list Cole’s got this year,” Lucy says. “What do you think he’s asking for?”

 

I shake my head. “I have no idea. But I think I’d better find out before Christmas so I’ll be prepared.”

 

“Hey, speaking of nicknames, what was that they used to call you?” Dan asks, obviously following his own train of thought. “Spicy Nick? That was it, right?”

 

“Mm. Something like that,” I reply, in what I hope are quelling tones. A small lie, because of course I remember. And, yes, that’s exactly what it was. Which is idiotic, right? And all due to a now-forgotten TV commercial that I personally don’t recall ever even having seen— something to do with spicy meatballs, I believe? Apparently that, coupled with the fact that spaghetti and meatballs happens to be my signature dish, made for some sort of weird connection in some people’s minds. 

 

“Speaking of spicy,” Dan murmurs as he pulls Lucy close once more, “You taste amazing right now. Is that a new lip gloss?”

 

“It’s the peppermint,” Lucy tells him. “But hold on a minute. I thought you didn’t like my annoying drink? Are you saying you’ve changed your mind?”

 

“Nope,” Dan replies. “It is annoying. It’s in the way and we’ll pro’lly end up spilling it. But I never said I didn’t like the flavor.” 

 

And then they’re kissing. Again. Which, yeah, not exactly a surprise. They’re like this most of the time, but it’s definitely worse at Christmas. 

 

On the other hand, maybe they have the right idea. Could be I’m the one who’s totally screwing up his marriage by not kissing my wife more often. Maybe I need to take a leaf out of my cousins’ book and think of ways to spice up my own relationship. 

 

I’d ask them for tips, but that seems vaguely incestuous. Besides, I should be able to figure this out on my own—right? I am Spicy Nick, after all.

 

At long last, all the wishes and photos are done and Cole hops off Santa’s lap and comes running back over with a big smile on his face. After paying Santa’s Helper for a basic photo package, and saying goodbye to Lucy and Dan, I strap my son into his car seat and head home.

 

“So, what did you and Santa talk about?” I ask once we’re en route, wending our way across town, traveling through the same familiar neighborhoods and over the same quasi-rural roads that I’ve driven my entire life. 

 

Cole’s eyes are enormous as he takes in all the decorations, house after house lit up for the holidays. And, despite the lateness of the hour, he’s uncharacteristically wide awake. “I asked Santa if he could help Mommy get home in time for Christmas,” he says at last, and I feel my heart sink. 

 

“I see,” I reply, working hard to school my features and maintain a neutral expression because, more pressure—yay. “And…uh, what did Santa say about that?”

 

“He said that mommies aren’t the kind of thing he usually delibers. ’Cause they’re people and people should be free to make their own choices in life.”

 

“Okay. Well, you know, he does have a point.” Although one that probably flew over Cole’s young head by about three feet.

 

“But he said he’d do his best and that I shouldn’t worry about it.”

 

“Ah. Great.”

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