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“I should get up. Clean up the mess. Maybe order pizza. Do they have pizza here?”
“I’m pretty sure there’s pizza everywhere,” Ian replied.
“Really? Everywhere? What about Antarctica? Or the North Pole?”
“You don’t think penguins and Santa like pizza? Pretty sure you can’t be that jolly without eating some pizza.”
Truth.
“I like Santa.”
“Of course you do. Who wouldn’t?”
“When I was a kid, my older sister told me that Santa wasn’t real. I cried and ran to my mum so she could tell me the truth.”
“And what did she say?” he asked, growing tense.
She smiled sadly. “That I was too old to believe in silly fairy tales. That of course he wasn’t real.”
“How old were you?” he asked.
“I think I’d just turned five.”
He started swearing under his breath.
“I guess she’s right. It’s better to face reality than live in a fantasy world.”
“Nothing wrong with fantasies or dreams,” he told her fiercely. “Understand?”
She shook her head. “I can’t live with my head in the clouds all the time. Reality has a way of intruding. There are always bills to pay and chores to be done. I’m an adult now.”
He still didn’t look happy.
“And I need to go clean up my mess.”
“I still believe in Santa,” he said abruptly.
“No, you don’t.”
“Sure, I do. He visited me last Christmas. Brought me some really ugly boxers. They were red with white fluff along the top and around the legs.”
“He did not.” She giggled.
“Sure he did. I can go find them and show you.”
“All right. You do that.”
“And then you’ll believe in Santa again?”
She wasn’t sure why he cared. And she couldn’t bring herself to agree. “I’ll think about it. Are you going to get them?”
He grunted. “They’re back in my house at the palace.”
Ahh, right.
Or they just weren’t real.
But it was still cute that he was trying.
