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My mouth fell open again. “You know about that?”
Santa gave a shrug. “Perhaps that’s why I let you see me. I wanted you to know I was real. But it might be a good idea to take Ben aside tomorrow, and tell him you didn’t mean it, that of course I’m real. Let him hold onto his childhood a while longer. Pretty soon there’ll be plenty of things to occupy his thoughts, and I’ll become nothing more than a myth.”
My heart quaked. “Does that mean one day I’ll forget about you too?”
He placed his hands on my shoulders. “You will believe in me for as long as you want to believe.” His voice had a grave tone to it, and for some reason it did little to ease my troubled mind. He ruffled my hair. “But now—bed. Enjoy tomorrow. Remember what the day means, though.”
Oh God.“That part is real too?”
He nodded. “We celebrate His birth, which is why it should be a day filled with love. Unfortunately, it doesn’t always end up that way.” For a moment, his eyes held such sadness they sent a sharp pain spearing into my gut.
He blinked, and just like that, warmth radiated from his face. “Merry Christmas, Anthony.” And then he was gone, without a flash or a fanfare, just a simple click of his fingers and a swirl of red.
“Goodnight, Santa,” I whispered. One thing I knew with absolute certainty—I would be waiting for him the following year.
When I was fifteen
1982
I glanced at the alarm clock next to my bed. Almost midnight. That meant he could already be downstairs. I could still remember how wonderful I’d felt two Christmas Eves ago when I’d crept into the living room to discover it hadn’t been a dream, and Santa was standing by the fireplace, drinking milk. And the following year, there he’d been again.
Part of me reasoned there would come a day when I’d walk in there and the room would be empty—I was fifteen, and childhood was slipping through my fingers like sand on a beach—but until that day came, I meant to enjoy every chance I got to see him.
I snuck a peek at Ben, but he was fast asleep. I threw back the comforter, and walked as silently as I could manage to the door, praying it wouldn’t creak. Once outside the room, I could hear muffled sounds from below.
He’s here.
I ran down the stairs and into the warm living room. Then I saw why it was warm—he’d lit a fire.
“How can you go up the chimney if there’s a fire going?” I asked.
Santa turned his head to give me that glorious smile. “Good to see you too, Anthony. And if you remember, that wasn’t how I left you the past three Christmas Eves.” There was that familiar twinkle. “What did I tell you about not believing everything you hear?”
I went over to the rug in front of the fire and sat cross-legged on it. “So you really can do magic?”
“How else do you think I can do this job?” Santa sat in my dad’s wide, padded armchair, still holding the glass of milk. “You’ve grown since last year.”
I snorted. “Yeah. Mom keeps complaining about how often she needs to take me clothes shopping.”
He gave a nod. “I prefer these pajamas.Star Warsis very popular.”
I beamed. “Mom let me choose them. I told her I was too old to have her choose everything I wear.”
Santa smiled. “Fifteen. Oh my. You must be dating by now.”
My stomach clenched. “No, I’m not.”
His brows furrowed. “Why not? You’re a fine-looking young man. There must be plenty of girls wanting to date you.”
As much as I’d enjoyed our previous three encounters, I wasn’t ready to bare my soul. Three short conversations about school, books, movies… that was okay, but I wasn’t happy about getting into the personal stuff.
Especiallythatstuff.
He keeps telling me I shouldn’t believe all I hear. Well, who knows what he’sreallylike? Maybe Santa has different ideas.
Maybe Santa was like my parents. Nowtherewas a thought.
To my relief, he held up his hand. “It’s okay, Anthony. You don’t have to tell me anything. It’s not of my business. But… are you happy?”
