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“Leigh.”
“Right. Let her see this side of you.”
His eyes lock with mine. Several long moments pass, but I won’t look away. I want him to get it. The eye contact breaks when he slouches in his seat. “I’m different with some people than others.”
“You can be more intentional about it.”
“How, Paige?” He sounds tired and skeptical.
“Let’s try it right now. You keep up your guard even when you think you aren’t. You have to practice letting it down.”
He’s resting his head against the back of the sofa, staring up at the ceiling, and he sounds amused when he answers. “Is this where you drag my deep dark secrets out of me?”
“Basically,” I say.
“Go ahead.”
I stretch out a foot and nudge his thigh. “You can start by telling me your tragic Christmas backstory. Tell me what happened to your grandmother and why you feel like it’s your fault.”
He’s silent for a long time. So long, I’m beginning to think he won’t answer until he gives a heavy sigh, and that flutter in my stomach returns. He’s going to share with me, and whatever it is, I have a feeling I’m one of the few people to ever hear the story. This is important, and I don’t want to blow it.
He turns toward me, tucking himself into his corner the way I’ve tucked myself into mine. I’m sitting this way because I’m already that comfortable in his home. I bet he’s doing it because he feels safer this way, his back protected, and my heart squeezes for him.
“We used to come visit my grandparents here all the time. I loved this house.” He glances around. “My mom was their only child, and I’m the only grandchild. They spoiled me when I was here. My grandmother and I baked, and my grandfather and I would take long walks, and he would tell me about the history of Creekville.”
He scrubs his hand through his hair, and when he removes it, a few tufts stick up. I want to reach over and smooth them down, but I don’t want to derail his story.
“I was very young. That’s probably why I don’t remember this Christmas Town thing.”
“Maybe, but next year is the twenty-fifth anniversary of the tradition.”
“So it’s almost as old as you, but didn’t start until I was eleven. That’s strange to think about.”
I don’t like this train of thought. “So you came as a baby, but not when you were older.”
“No. My parents bought our first house, so my grandparents came to spend our first Christmas in it with us. It was in a small town outside of Richmond, and they also did a big Christmas thing. Santa on a sleigh and throwing candy. Reindeer pulling it.”
He falls quiet, back in time again. We’re at the root of the Christmas problem. I feel it. This time, I tuck my toes under his leg, a way of letting him know I’m here and listening without breaking into his thoughts with words.
After a while, he picks up the story. “I think that was the first year I understood what Christmas and Santa were. I was so excited for the parade.” He smiles. “I must have made my mom sing me the same three Christmas songs a thousand times that week, including ‘Rudolph.’ But.” He stops.
I scoot forward and wrap my arms around my knees, keeping my toes tucked under his warm thigh, and wait.
“I can’t listen to that song now. Or any of them.”
“What happened?” I ask quietly.
“The tragic backstory.” There’s no smile as he says it. Just a flatness. “I wanted a good spot to see Santa. My gram was game, so we went down an hour early. Then we played games until it was time.
“The parade started, and it was all stuff I didn’t want to see. City officials. A horse club. Cheerleaders. I wanted Santa and his reindeer. I’d lean way out trying to look down the road to see if I could spot them.”
A knot forms in my stomach, maybe a premonition of what’s going to come as I picture an impatient little boy, eager for his first sighting of Santa. I press my face into my knees, still listening, but wishing I could go back and undo whatever is about to hurt Henry.
“Finally, the band stops, and I can hear bells. ‘Sleigh bells,’ Gram tells me. But the parade stops and starts every time the sleigh pauses to throw candy. It’s taking forever. And then finally, I can see the reindeer. He has two pulling him.”
He’s slipped into present tense, like he’s in that moment, right now.
“What I hadn’t told anyone was that we made a craft at school. ‘Reindeer food.’ It’s oats and colored sugar. Stuff like that. The instructions said we were supposed to sprinkle it on our lawn on Christmas Eve.”
