I thought of Felix’s kitchen. The eggs and toast. The mug of hot chocolate. The way he made space for me at the table, even though he didn’t have to.
Nobody had done that in a long time.
I went back to the kitchen and stared at the notebook Mom had always kept by the phone. She’d written phone numbers in careful, looping script. Each one underlined. Plumber. Electrician. Handyman. Maybe I should call a realtor and bedone with it. No one needed Santa after the holidays no matter how good he was.
But I would start with the electrician and see how I went from there.
Wednesday came.
I woke at four a.m., heart pounding, sheets twisted around my legs. I couldn’t breathe. My brain kept going over everything from Felix’s kitchen, the club, the way he’d looked at me. The way he’d held me up without making me feel like a burden. I wanted to be held again. I wanted to matter. I wanted to make someone proud. But the second I let that thought form, my stomach twisted itself into a knot.
I wasn’t even supposed to be nervous. I’d done five parties since Sunday. Grown women had cried when I gave out their “Santa’s best” mugs. Kids had hugged me so hard I nearly lost the beard. I’d had three people flirt with me to my face and one of them had sent a selfie to her ex and cackled when he replied. I was good at this. Really good.
But this was Felix’s office. His world. His family. I couldn’t screw it up.
The bungalow had been freezing, so I layered two shirts under my suit. The electricity worked again, kind of, but the heater made such a racket I’d given up and just covered the vents with towels. I ate my bowl of instant oatmeal standing up, watching the window for the first sign of snow. Nothing. Just gray sky and the hiss of wind under the eaves.
I dressed slowly, taking care with every piece. The Santa suit wasn’t mall-issued. This one was plush, thick, with shiny buttons and a belt that could probably hold up my confidence if it slipped any lower. I checked myself in the cracked bathroom mirror, beard on straight, hat at the right angle, and tried to see Santa. Not a washed-up toy buyer with nowhere else to go.
I looked…good. I actually looked good. It was almost enough to let me walk out the door.
Traffic was murder. I sat in a rideshare Jenny arranged for me, hands folded tight in my lap, and watched the city lights blur by. My phone buzzed twice with Olivia’s directions. She believed in me. I tried to believe in myself.
The office building was all glass and steel. Big windows, gold wreaths on every door, and in the lobby, a twenty-foot tree loaded with oversized ornaments. There was already a crowd. Parents and kids, voices bouncing off marble, the air buzzing with anticipation. I wanted to hide, but I squared my shoulders and went in.
The event manager greeted me. She barely looked old enough to drink, but her handshake was firm, and she hustled me toward the green room. I got a bottle of water. She smiled, actually smiled, and said, “Let me know if you need a break, Santa. I know the suits can get too hot. Olivia’s running late and she’ll be sorry she wasn’t here to greet you.”
I almost laughed. “I’ll be fine. Just point me at the kids.”
She grinned. “You’re on in two. I’ll get the music playing.”
I was supposed to make an entrance down the open staircase. They even had a special sack of gifts for me. I gripped the banister and tried to breathe through the nerves. My heart rattled, hard and wild, and I had to keep flexing my hands so I wouldn’t drop the damn sack. My nerves were everywhere. Sweat prickled under the suit, and my stomach tried to tie itself in a Christmas bow.
I waited for the music cue, heart pounding. The crowd was so loud—it echoed up the staircase, every giggle and foot stamp ricocheting in my skull. I gripped the banister. I was going to be fine. Just don’t trip. Don’t screw up. Don’t let him down.
The music kicked in. Sleigh bells, bright and relentless, and the event manager signaled me. I pasted on the biggest grin I could manage and started down.
I barely made it three steps before the first kid let out a scream. Pure excitement. A whole line of them broke away, barreling right at me. For a second I panicked—I’d lose the beard, or trip over a toddler—but then I planted my boots and let them crash into me.
They clung, shrieking, and I boomed out the “ho-ho-ho” like I’d never said anything else in my life. It worked. They lost their minds. Little hands everywhere. Someone tugged my glove, another kid hugged my knee.
Behind them, parents took pictures, and one woman dabbed her eyes. I smiled for her, just her, and she smiled back like I’d given her a present.
“Santa, Santa, it’s really you!” A little girl bounced in place, pigtails flying.
“Of course it’s me,” I told her, and my voice didn’t even shake. “You’ve been extra good this year, haven’t you?”
She nodded, solemn. “I cleaned my room every single day.”
“Well, that’s impressive.” I handed her a gold-wrapped candy cane. “Santa’s very proud of you.”
I had them. I really did. I could feel it—the crowd, the energy. It was like walking into my old job and owning the toy display. I forgot about my own hands, my own shivering, and just focused on them, and wished I could do this every day.
Next kid climbed right into my lap, chattering about a Lego set. Then another wanted a picture. I hugged her close, made her giggle, heard her father laugh somewhere behind the phone camera. It was easy. I didn’t have to try.
The parents lined up too, grinning like kids themselves. Someone asked if I drank oat milk, and I told him I’d try it if he left me a cookie, and he almost dropped his phone laughing.
It went like that for over an hour. The kids, the parents, the flash of phones, and the smell of office punch. I gave out every single candy cane, posed for a hundred pictures, and never once felt embarrassed.
