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5
MAC
Iwatch out my window as Jocelyn moves from room to room in her house. All her lights are on. Even the ones in her garage. It makes me nervous. Why is she burning every light in the house?
“What’s the deal?” I pet Sylvester as he watches me from his cat tree I put against the front window. “She’s freaked out or something.”
Pacing in front of my window, I keep an eye on her yard and her shadow as it passes from room to room. Why is she so antsy? Something’s wrong. Oh, shit. Does she think there’s a prowler? Is she scared?
Just the thought of someone creeping around her house has me grabbing my coat and knit hat, lacing up my boots and stomping out to my porch.
The moon’s up now, the night clear and chilly. I head down my front steps and stride past the busted mailbox stake. A bitter wind whips down our street, and though there aren’t any clouds, the air promises snow.
Her lights are still on, though her Christmas décor seems to have been forgotten. After a quick circuit around her house where I don’t see anything except an owl looking down at me from the strip of woods beyond Jocelyn’s back fence, I return to the front. No prowler. Not even a nosy neighbor. It’s too cold out here for anyone except me.
The blowup Santa is deflated, and none of lights are glowing on her bushes. She may be able to do everything for herself, but this is something I can at least help with. I find the outdoor plug along her front foundation and look around for her extension cord. It’s in the brittle grass behind me.
Grabbing it up, I finish attaching all the strands to the power strip, and then I plug it in. Everything lights, and the Santa on the front porch inflates with a whir. He’s not lined up right, probably got turned around from the wind. Instead of facing the street, he’s looking right into Jocelyn’s living room.
I hop up the steps and grab him when I hear a bloodcurdling scream.
“Jocelyn!” I forget the Santa inflatable and bang on her door. “Are you okay?” I turn the handle, but it’s locked. “Jocelyn!”
She doesn’t answer. Fuck! I’m already in motion before I’ve thought it through. Pulling back, I heave forward with my shoulder and bust through her front door, wood splinters flying as I stumble inside and almost knock her over.
“Jocelyn.” I grip her shoulders and pull her tight to me as I look around the room. “Is someone here? What’s wrong?”
She presses her face to my chest, and I swear I feel warmth blooming from that little bit of contact. “I-I’m fine. I just saw …” She doesn’t finish her sentence.
The wind blows through her busted front door and rustles the garlands on her small Christmas tree.
“Shit. I’m sorry about your door.”
She shivers. “It’s okay.”
I don’t want to let her go, but she’s shaking. So I strip off my coat, drape it over her, then turn and close the door as best I can. The chilly air still seeps through the busted frame, but at least I can throw the deadbolt and keep the door in place.
“I can fix the door. Don’t worry,” she says, but when I turn back to her, she isn’t looking at the door. She’s staring at the window.
The Santa is gone. Damn, I think I tore it down when I went through the door. What else am I going to destroy today? “I’m sorry, Jocelyn.”
“I can fix it,” she says again and pulls my gigantic coat tighter around her small frame. The thing almost touches the ground, and the collar looks like there’s a giant bear arm wrapped around her. “I’ve got plenty of wood and putty. It’s just a door.”
“No, I mean—” I point to the window. “I think I killed Santa.”
Her eyes flick to mine, and the color drains from her face. “Wh-what did you say?”
I pull her to my chest again, even though she didn’t ask. Even though I’m afraid I could hurt her. Because in this moment, I can tell she needs me.
“What’s wrong, little bit?” I stroke her hair.
She snuggles closer.
Goddamn, that feels so good. No, not just good, fuckingamazing. Jocelyn in my arms, holding on to me. This is what I’ve dreamed about for so long. Well, I suppose I didn’t dream about mauling her blowup Santa and tearing down her door—but the hug part, definitely.
“Nothing’s wrong. I just got a little scared.” She’s so small and delicate in my arms.
I want to lift her up and hug her, but I don’t want to spook her. “What scared you?”
