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He shakes his head. “I’m not here about the music.”
I’d been trying to affix a giant red bow over our front door when I spotted him. “The decorations?” I guess.
He shakes his head. “To make an apology, actually.”
I sit straight down on the porch. With him standing on the walkway, it makes us almost eye level. “You’re kidding me.”
“I’m not. And I wanted to return this.”
He’s holding a plastic bag in one hand, but he holds his other one out, and I recognize the well-loved seahorse resting on his palm.
“Evie’s favorite ornament.”
He nods. “She left it for me the other day. Said she hoped it helped me like Christmas. It worked, so I thought I better give it back.”
When I stay there, staring, he steps closer and sets it on the step next to me. “Tell her thank you. It helped.”
I look from him to it and back again. “You can tell her yourself when she gets home from school today.”
“If that’s okay with you?”
“As long as I’m around, sure.”
“I’ll do that.”
We both fall silent. It’s fine for a second, but that stretches to three and starts to feel weird, then stretches five more and it’s awkward as hell, so I speak to break the tension, except he does too.
“I guess I better—”
“I was hoping you might—”
We break off and stare at each other, and I feel a bubble of laughter threatening to escape me, a sure sign that we’ve reached peak awkwardness.
“I was hoping I could explain why I’ve been . . .” He trails off like he’s looking for the right word.
“A pain in the—”
“Scrooge,” he says at the same time.
“Like, which part? There’s a lot of them.”
He winces. “I know. And all the parts.” He holds up the plastic bag, angling it so I can see that it’s from Bixby’s. “I brought a bribe in case you haven’t had breakfast yet. There’s an assortment of pastries and muffins since I don’t know what you like. What do you say?”
I practically lick my chops. Bixby’s is a rare treat, and it feels un-neighborly to say no. “I can be bought. But I have to warn you that there will be no reduction in Christmas craziness around here, not even if there’s a chocolate croissant in there.”
“Why would I get Bixby’s and not get the best thing on the menu?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “Why would you hate Christmas?”
His lips twitch. “Touché, Prickly Neighbor.”
“Just dishing it back, Hill the Pill.”
“So croissant, conversation, and truce?”
I eye the bag. “I’ll agree to the croissant and conversation. Truce depends on what you have to say.”
“Fair enough.” He glances around like he’s wondering where my porch furniture is.
