I type one out now, focused more on speed than accuracy, trying to thread the needle as it were with my limited signal time.
“Whatcha doing?” Amanda, nosy as always, leans over my shoulder.
“Taking on a new client.” And if it works out, I’ll be taking on more than just a client.
“Get out.” She shoves me—playfully but hard enoughthat I spend a few precious seconds backtracking the smear of random letters it made me type. “Really?”
“Yes, really.” Though I don’t want to say anything more until I hear back.
The piano on the small stage clunks a chord that sounds like it lost a fight with time—a signal the caroling festivities are about to start. A woman in a Santa hat with holly berries skewed like a crown pushes a crate of thin paper songbooks into the hands of anyone within reach.
I hit send on my text just as a book smacks my chest. I catch it on reflex.
Amanda nudges my elbow, her earlier enthusiasm dimming as she looks between me and Audrey, who’s edging into an opening near us—but notwithus, if that makes sense. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.” I nod, eyes on the catalyst to my recent decision. “I’m sure.”
Audrey catches us looking and tries her smile again. It still misses, but something settles in my chest.
“I spent years building my career in LA.” Pulling my attention back to Amanda, I reshape my expression into its usual easygoing agent’s smile. “It makes sense to?—”
The mic squeals; half the town winces. The beleaguered volunteer at the keyboard clears his throat into it like he’s negotiating with the machine before declaring “Twelve Days” the opening number.
Portia links arms with Amanda, either not caring or oblivious to the stares aimed their way, and Amanda forgets our conversation in favor of her first foray into public caroling.
Mine too.
Buzzing with anticipation from what I just set in motion, I find the first verse of “Twelve Days” low-stakes—everyone mumbling about a pear tree like we’re unsure whether we believe in birds as gifts.
I trace the words in the booklet with my finger because the font is microscopic and the light is romantic rather than functional, wondering if I should shuffle over to Audrey since it doesn’t seem like she’s going to move any closer to me.
Second verse: two turtle doves, and my confidence, which was mostly distraction, is grossly misplaced.
By verse three, though, a problem surfaces.
A different problem than the one I have with the town baker.
I can’t hear myself.
Or rather, I can—but I assume everyone else can’t, because I am a man who has given presentations to skeptical studio heads. I project, therefore I am. I lean into it a little—pure defensive habit.
When you’re not sure you’re blending, you turn up the volume so you won’t get swallowed by the chorus.
I attempt what I imagine to be a warm baritone. “Three French hens…”
Amanda’s head turns slowly. Portia’s eyebrows climb like mountaineers in need of oxygen.
I glance toward Audrey, looking for reassurance and calibration, and while she is finally looking at me, it’s with wide eyes, her mitten pressed to her mouth with horror rather than affection.
This is where a wiser man might lower the dial.
I am not that man.
Verse four. A kid in a beanie pivots like a weathervane in a storm. My storm. A couple near the cocoa stall exchange the look of people who just discovered a faucet leak behind a wall: not catastrophic yet, but there’s a sound—and it’s me. I’m the leak.
I try to soften.
It does not soften.
