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I knew why I wasn’t sleeping that particular night, and it all came down to guilt.
I’m evil. I’ve ruined Christmas for Ben.
Had I still believed in Santa whenIwas eight? Probably. And I had no clue what had made me tell him Santa wasn’t real.
Yeah, that was a lie. I knewexactlywhy I’d done it. I was pissed because his Outstanding Achievement award was stuck on the fridge door, and I hadn’t gotten one. And for an eight-year-old boy,God, he could be smug.
I’d wanted to wipe that smile from his face.
Of course, it had backfired. Ben erupted into oceans of tears, Mom asked me how I could lie to him like that, and Dad sent me to bed early with the threat of withholding presents hanging over me. I hadn’t even finished my supper.
So there I was, in the middle of the night, and I was hungry.
I crept out of the room I shared with Ben, taking care not to awaken him, because I didn’t want to be on the receiving end ofmoreof my dad’s wrath, and went downstairs to the kitchen. I moved a chair so I could stand on it to reach the cookie jar—except it wasn’t in its usual cabinet.
Then I remembered. There were cookies in the living room on the fireplace, along with a glass of milk, and a couple of carrots for the reindeer.
Well, Santa wasn’t going to eat them, was he? And ifIdid, that would only make Ben believe I really had lied to him, that Santawasreal, and that he’d stood in our living room, munching on Mom’s oatmeal raisin cookies. Because my parents sure weren’t going to accusemeof eating them, not when perpetuating the myth of Santa Claus would mean a less upset Ben.
I’d get my mom’s side-eye, but I was used to that.
I pushed the door to the living room open, and—
Holy shit. There was a guy in a red suit, putting presents under our tree.
No way.
No fuckingway.
Mom always left a lamp on in the corner, so there was no missing him.
Sanity returned.It’s my dad, dressed up as Santa.Except I’d heard my dad’s familiar snore as I’d passed their bedroom.
Sothatmeant…
I stood by the door in my boring striped pajamas, my jaw on the floor, my heart pounding.
Look at him.
He wasn’t at all like the Santas in pictures and in the movies. He wasn’t fat, for one thing. His cheeks weren’t round and rosy-red. His eyebrows were dark, and yes, even at that distance I could see his eyes were brown. His mustache was a dark steel-gray. He did have a beard, though it wasn’t that overabundance of stark, thick white curls I’d seen on every Santa whose knee I’d perched upon since I was old enough to demand being taken to see him.
Hisbeard was something else.
It was silvery white, encasing his cheeks, and had grown into a gossamer bush, curling at the ends, as delicate as spider silk. It framed his face.
It most definitely wasnotmy dad in a Santa suit. The long cloak was a gorgeous shade of deep red, reaching the ankles of his jet-black, shiny boots, into which were tucked his black pants. Beneath the cloak, he wore a jacket in that same shade of red, his gold belt buckle gleaming in the lamplight.
And then he reached for the plate of cookies…
With no thought to waking my family, I emitted a strangled sound. I couldn’t decide whether it was incredulity at finding Santa in my living room, or pain that my plan to eat the cookies was about to be thwarted.
Santa turned to look at me, those dark brows arched, his expression amused. “Something wrong?” His voice was light, almost musical. I’d expected a booming, deep voice that rattled the house.
Somethingelseeveryone had gotten wrong.
“I was going to eat them.”
His lips twitched. “Then how about I make you a deal? We can share them. And the milk too, if you want that as well.”
