I choke down my groan and set my headphones back on the desk. As I stand, it feels like half a dozen pairs of eyes are watching me. My cheeks heat, and I stare at the ground as I make my way past my coworkers toward my boss.
I hate being the center of attention. Or not even the center. Just the edge of attention is uncomfortable. I’d rather blend into the background than be the focal point.
I shut the door behind me and take the same seat I vacated less than an hour before. My fingers run across the knitting at the hem of my sweater dress, the material soft but also textured.
Sofiya sits and regards me with a tilted head and a pointed look. “I wanted to check on you. You seemed a bit ... dazed after the meeting.”
Despite being my boss, Sofiya has an openness about her that relaxes me a smidge when we’re alone. Talking to her isn’t as hard as talking to some other people. Maybe it has to do with English being her second language and the fact that every once in a while, she forgets a word she’s looking for or stumbles to get her point across. When I do the same thing, she’s patient with me and doesn’t let me fixate on whatever stupid thing came out of my mouth.
My shoulders brush the back of the chair, and I freeze before allowing my posture to relax. “I was a little surprised, I admit.”
“Why? You are one of the most talented designers this firm has. You deserve the chance at the promotion and raise.”
“Thank you.” I chew my lip before continuing. “Photoshop and InDesign I’m good at. People, not so much.”
“You’re better than you think you are, I think.” She laughs at herself. “See, none of us is Shakespeare. And good thing, too. We may not be so eloquent, but at least people can understandus.” She waves her hand. “Enough of that. You need to get out of your head, not spend more time there.”
She bends down and opens a drawer. When she straightens, there’s a Tupperware container in her hand.
“I believe in you, Mackenzie. You just need to believe in yourself.” She opens the container. Scents of honey, allspice, and black licorice waft into the air. She pulls out a white-glazed cookie. “Have you ever tried apryaniki?”
I sit up straight, my eyes stinging at the memories washing over me. I gingerly take the cookie Sofiya offers. “I have, actually.”
These smell better than the ones I had in the past, but the similarity is there. Warmth and cold chase each other down my spine, the way a good memory drenched in sadness leaves a bittersweet ache in your chest.
“Really?” Sofiya bites into the soft treat. “I don’t have many Christmas traditions, but eating pryaniki is one of them. The director at the orphanage made them for us every year.”
“That sounds like a nice memory.”
She wipes crumbs from her hands. “Not many outside of Russia have had this cookie. How have you tasted them before?”
I nibble on the end, letting anise mingle with the honey and spices on my tongue. The single bite takes me back to the kitchen of my childhood home. Mom in her apron covered with tiny candy canes, speckles of flour dotting her nose like white freckles, and Tchaikovsky’sThe Nutcrackerballet turning on the record player. “My mom made them.”
Sofiya’s sculpted brows jump high on her forehead. “She is Russian?”
“No, she just really likes learning about and celebrating other countries and cultures. She always wanted to travel, but being a single mom with a minimum-wage paycheck didn’t allow for vacations farther than the shores of Lake Michigan. Since she couldn’t travel to other places, she brought those places home to us. Especially at Christmas. Instead of the traditional Americanspread of honey ham and gingerbread houses, we had tamales andponcheoryiaprakiaandmelomakarona. We celebrated German Saint Nicholas Day, Colombian Day of the Little Candles, and the Thirteen Yule Lads of Iceland.” A smile curves my lips. “If you think coal is bad, it has nothing on rotten potatoes in your shoes.”
I take another bite, embarrassed by how much I’ve shared. Either my brain won’t spit out any words or it runs without a filter and doesn’t know when to stop. “These are much better than Mom’s. She tried, but a lot of times her recipes didn’t turn out very authentic.”
I stuff the rest of the cookie in my mouth so I can’t talk anymore.
“I am not so good in the kitchen myself. I buy these special from a bakery downtown. I tried to make them once and, well, let’s just say I know how long it takes the fire department to get to my house.” Her eyes twinkle. “Although I did get a date out of the experience, so I can’t say it was all bad.”
I laugh, wishing I could be more like Sofiya. More like my mom.
“It is good that you have these memories with your mother. Do you still celebrate the holidays together?”
My throat thickens, and I swallow. I curl my fingertips back under my dress hem. “Yes, I do.” Although it seems she’s a little less with me each year.
Which is another reason I don’t want to participate in the promotion contest. Keri may think I’m an honorary elf, but that’s because of how special Christmas is to me. Mom always made it the best time of the year, and now it’s my turn to recreate the magic of the holiday for her. How can I do that if I’m busy out-Santaing Jeremy here at work?
“That is good,” she says, unaware of my inner turmoil. “Family is important.”
I want to ask Sofiya who she spends Christmas with. Instead,I press my lips together and sit there, too afraid I’ll say something to make it worse instead of better. Maybe even make her cry.Goodness, I don’t want to make her cry.
The silence lengthens. Sofiya looks a little sad. A little lost.
The longer I don’t say anything, the thicker the air gets. My pulse starts to hammer against my ribs.
