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Dad's a brand-new Range Rover guy. He isn't used to my crappy second-hand car: he doesn't know to twist the key twice to get her going and he doesn't realize how stiff her handbrake is or that the volume dial turns in the wrong direction, but he refuses my offer to take over. At least three times, I tell him to just pull over and I'll drive when he mutters about the jerkiness of the automatic transmission's gear changes.
It took thirty minutes for him to get used to the car, and we suddenly had nothing to talk about when he was no longer asking why the buttons on the radio didn't match their functions. In the end, I plugged in my AUX cable – the Bluetooth hasn't worked for well over a year – and put on one of my driving playlists. We passed Dayton in silence, then Columbus, and when we reach the halfway point between my house and my home, I'm seriously doubting Dad's sincerity about wanting to talk.
But then he clears his throat. He flexes his hands on the steering wheel and pushes his glasses over the bump in his long nose, and he turns down the music. I glance at him, but he's looking straight ahead. He drives like he's still in driver's ed. Hands never moving from nine and three; eyes fixed on the road.
"Why did you lose your job?" he asks. I wonder how long he's been wanting to ask that. Probably all weekend. Probably wondering how a child of his could fail so hard.
"They had to make staff cuts. I was one of the last ones to join, so ... yeah." I shrug. After more than a year of busting my ass waiting tables just to scrape by, I spent six months working behind the desk at a hotel near my apartment – it was easy and convenient and I figured I'd have time to figure out what I want to do. "It was only ever going to be a temporary gig. I just didn't realize how temporary."
I wish high school had prepared me for this. Real life. For four years, it was drilled into me that college was essential, that it would be the best time of my life and it would set me up for the future, that I would never get a job without a degree. No-one ever explained how hard it would be to get a job with a degree, nor did anyone bother to ask if I wanted to go.
Honestly ... I don't know if it was worth it. Perhaps I'm just jaded by the fact that in two years, I haven't had a job that I couldn't have got without going to college, but I don't see the point. I still don't know what I want to do, but at least I can say I got my bachelor's and I can show the certificate to prove it.
"Hmm," Dad muses. I have no idea what he's about to say. We've never talked about my future. I wouldn't know what to say. If I haven't figured it out by now, will I ever? I can't imagine that one day I'll have a eureka! moment when I suddenly see my life's calling. Dad clicks his tongue and hums. "The world of work can be hard. I was very lucky."
Somehow, despite having two kids by the time he graduated – with a master's in business, no less – Dad managed to get straight into investment banking. I was a baby when we moved from the middle of Alabama to the big apple and I had just started elementary school when we picked up our lives again and moved to Cincinnati. After a few years in the city, we moved to the house I call home now. That was the first time I realized my family had money.
That realization was brought into sharp perspective when I came across Dad's tax return a few years ago and the seven figures made my eyes water. That's not just luck. He works his ass off, half of his time spent in Manhattan. I remember him and Mom talking about moving back to New York, back when Daria was a baby. Except it was more like Dad suggesting it and Mom shutting him down. She's a country girl. Forty-five minutes from Cincy is enough city for her.
"This is a setback," Dad says, "but you'll find your feet when you realize what your passion is."
"Was banking really your passion when you were in college?"
He glances at me. There's a hint of a smile in his eyes. "No." He relaxes his hands a little. "When I got my bachelor's, Matthew was about to start kindergarten and you were barely a month old. My passion was my family. I wanted to provide for you and your mother. I wanted to make sure Allie never had to worry."
"So you followed the money."
He pauses. Glances at me again. Nods. "I suppose I followed the money."
He's never been so open before. I've seen his soft side, when he's reading with the girls or flirting with Mom, but I've never seen this honest side before. But I guess I've never asked.
"So, I guess I need to have a kid to give me the drive to succeed."
He gives me a dry, withering stare. That's the Dad I know.
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Another silent lull lasts until we pass a sign for the Cleveland Metroparks Zoo and it hits me that we're almost there, just four hours after leaving home. Dad breaks the quiet to ask for directions and after sailing down the interstate for two hundred and fifty miles, it's just ten minutes from the exit to my front door.
"Thanks, Dad," I say, getting out of the car and standing for an awkward moment when I remember that this is my car, and I'm not sure what his plan is. "D'you want me to drive you to your hotel?"
"I have a car service," he says. "They'll be here in fifteen minutes. I'd like to see your apartment."
I grimace and shift my bag on my shoulder. "It's just a studio unit," I say. "There's nothing to see."
He just shakes his head at me and there's nothing I can do when he follows me up the steps of the townhouse. I've managed to keep my parents away from this place for the year that I've lived here, too embarrassed for them to see the pathetic space I own, but there's no going back.
Thirty-two more steps carry us to my door, which opens against the tatty sofa that came with the apartment. I dump my bags on it and flip the light switch. An energy-saving bulb slowly comes to light, illuminating my hastily-made bed and a few plates waiting by the sink to be cleaned. It only takes a few seconds to see everything.
To the left of the door, against the wall, is the kitchen. A counter, a sink, a fridge and an oven make up the essentials, with a table wedged against the wall, a sheet of paper folded under the uneven leg and a chair tucked in as close as it'll go. To the right, a sofa and a bookshelf act as a divider between the kitchen and the bedroom, where my bed – a double that looks out of place – shares the tight space with a desk that stands beneath the window, butting up against the bathroom.
Dad stands with his hands clasped in front of himself, his lips pressed into a tight line.
"It really isn't much," I mutter. A few steps from the kitchen and I'm at my bed, the ceiling sloped above it. I have to be careful every morning not to knock myself out. It's become second nature to bend as I stand, or scoot to the end of the mattress.
"It's your own space," Dad says at last, after I'm sure he's cycled through a hundred tactful responses in his mind. "I take it that's your bathroom?" He nods at the plywood wall that shakes when I shut the door. He peers inside, at the shower that I'm almost too tall for and the toilet with a sink in the tank.
I sit on the end of the bed while he inspects the place and raises one eyebrow at my quick fix for the window. I don't keep any loose papers on the desk when the window has such a habit of flying open. My shame sinks deeper the longer it is before Dad says anything and after managing to relax on the drive over, now I just want him to go.
"You should decorate more," he says at last. "Make it your own."
"No point. I'll be kicked out in three weeks."
Dad looks at me. He perches on the edge of the sofa, carefully. "You can move back home in January, or I can take care of your rent. You won't be kicked out," he says. "If you want to stay and you are not able to make the rent, just tell me." He folds his hands in his lap and sighs. He looks out of place here, in his crisp shirt and suit pants. "I know you think otherwise, but I'm not a monster, Liam. I don't enjoy seeing my children suffer and my money is no good if I don't use it to help you."
The words sit for a moment before I say, "Thank you." I don't mean to sound ungrateful. It's just a surprise. "Thanks, Dad," I add. He nods. "I don't think you're a monster."
"Well, I'm glad of that. Now, get up."
"Why?" I ask, after I've already stood up.
"It's nine thirty and neither of us have eaten dinner." He checks his watch. "The car will be here soon. I know somewhere nice."
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Dad's idea of somewhere nice is on par with my idea of real people actually eat here? The kind of place where the less food there is on your plate, the more it costs. He didn't even check the price on the wine menu before he ordered a bottle of his favorite red and he scalded me when I balked at the cost of the entrees. I don't spend that much on a week's shopping.
It was late, but I was hungry and Dad was paying, so I ordered a fillet steak and I'm not sure I'll ever be able to eat steak again for fear of crushing disappointment. A glass or two of wine helped loosen the noose that ordinarily ties itself around conversation with my father, and it was surprisingly easy to talk about home and my siblings.
He tentatively mentioned Storie – I'm guessing Mom told him about the depressing state of my love life – but it turned out the wine didn't make it any easier to talk about her. He apologized. I shrugged. He ordered another bottle. We drank. It helped. It was nearing midnight, the restaurant bringing service to an end, by the time we went out separate ways. Dad called me a car to take me home. He told me to tip the driver ten bucks and gave me cash, and it was only when I got home that I noticed he'd given me a few extra twenties.
When I tipsily texted him, assuming it was a mistake, he said that Christmas is no time to be worrying about money, and he told me to sleep well.
And I did. Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was the money. Maybe it was connecting with my dad. I don't know, but I slept the best I've ever slept in that lumpy bed.
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My seven o'clock alarm is a harsh wake-up call on Monday morning, blaring at me to get my butt over to the winter wonderland to have grumpy Kaylani show me the ropes. I stuff myself into the ridiculous costume – embarrassingly tight, but the key to an easy hundred bucks if I can grin and bear it for ten hours – and barely have time to grab a slice of toast before I need to be on the bus.
This place is gawdier than I remember it being. There are multicolored Christmas lights everywhere, strung up between the trees outside and in the bright light of a snowy morning, the fairground rides at the back of the garden center look tacky. I feel like an idiot in this damn elf suit, but I'm not about to lose this job for lack of enthusiasm. Right before I go in, I tip the hat at a jaunty angle. The bell on the end lets out a plastic jingle.
Eight on a Monday morning is clearly not peak garden-slash-Christmas-festival time. The place is quiet when I step in, and I'm the only one around for a moment before a light-skinned black girl appears and it takes me a moment to recognize Kaylani with the same hat jammed down over her afro. At least her costume actually fits. She stares at me for a moment and sighs.
"I'm too old for this shit," she mutters, twisting her earring and jerking her head at the doors. "Come on. Time to initiate you. And see if there's a bigger costume somewhere, God."
I pull at the tights, trying to give myself a little more space. Kaylani screws up her face and sets off, and I follow her like a dog following an order.
"Have you worked here long?" I ask when we end up in the office, while she roots through the black bags on hangers, searching for anything other than a small.
"I do this gig every Christmas," she says over the horrible screeching of metal hangers on the rail. "It's easy, so don't sweat it. As long as you can tolerate over-excited kids hopped up on sugar and Santa, whose parents seem to have given up on life, then you'll be fine. Can you act?"
I shrug one shoulder. "I'm not gonna be up on a stage or anything, am I?"
She laughs. "God, no. I just mean you gotta act elf-like. You know, like you're one of Santa's Chosen Ones. As far as those kids are concerned, you're the real deal and you've been put on this earth to spread the joy from the North Pole. Is that something you can do?"
"If it'll get me paid," I say. She laughs again.
"That's the spirit ... what's your name again?"
"William. Call me Liam." I tap the nametag I remembered to pin to my chest at the last minute. "Or elf number thirteen."
She taps her own. "Kaylani, and you can call me that. And I'm proud to announce that thanks to a seasonal workforce and this being my fifth year doing this crap, I'm elf number one. If you're so inclined, feel free to call me Elf Superior."
She gets to the last costume on the rail and gives me a semi-sympathetic look. "I'm afraid you're just gonna have to stick with what you've got on. It's that or an XXL female elf, which you're welcome to try, but I think it'd be a bit too baggy, and you don't quite have enough boob to fill it out."
"I guess this'll do."
"It'll have to. But don't come to me when parents start complaining about your inappropriate outfit. That's a senior management issue."
"As Elf Superior, are you not senior management?"
She gives me the same kind of withering glare as Dad. I feel right at home.
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It turns out there's not much to this job, and there's not much choice when it comes to outfits. By lunchtime, I've got the hang of my role. It basically involves staying in character in the indoor wonderland and switching between running games, supervising the grotto, and wrapping crappy stocking-filler gifts for Santa to give the kids when they sit on his lap.
Three o'clock is when it starts to get busy, when schools are starting to let out and tired parents bring their kids here to tire them out before home. I'm getting into a rhythm with the gift wrapping in a comfortable mutual silence with one half of a reindeer on a break, hidden behind a snowy curtain, when Kaylani pokes her head round it. She's tied her hair down in two explosive bunches to make her hat fit better.
"You're up," she says. "From now until closing is peak grotto time, so it's a three-elf job. Keep the kids excited and try to get the parents to take them outside if the line's getting long. Tell them to get their ride coupons from the igloo elves – three ticket for five bucks, or a dollar each if they buy ten."
She disappears before I can ask any questions, and I'm yanked from my comfortable solitude behind the scenes to the reality of a second-rate Christmassy garden center, complete with far too many kids. But I keep the painful grin on my face, reminding myself that every hour I survive this place is another ten bucks in my hand at the end of the day.
Over the next two hours, there are plenty of parents grumbling about the length of the line when all their kids want to do is see Father Christmas, and it's hard but I manage to keep up the act. When it gets close to six, still a couple hours before the garden center shuts, the lines start to die down a little and the older kids rock up in groups, more interested in the rides than Santa.
I'm about to take a break in a rare moment of no kids clamoring to sit on Santa's lap when something catches my eye. I scan the crowds and my heart leaps to my throat when I see what caught my eye. Well, who. I haven't seen Storie Sovany in four years, except for the occasional glimpse across campus when I was a senior, but it's unmistakably her looking at the stands full of tree ornaments.
She hasn't changed a bit. She looks radiant, the flickering lights making her brown skin glow. Her hair's a few inches shorter than when we were together, when it swept past her waist, but otherwise she's the same. I feel sick and giddy at once. I can't stop thinking about her and now here she is, even more beautiful than in my memories.
Then I see the hand in hers. The little kid skipping along beside her. I feel faint. She has a kid? His skin and hair are a little lighter than hers. He looks the same age as Anna. If that's right, if he's Storie's kid ... I do the math and feel lightheaded.
She spots me. Our eyes meet. I smile. So does she.
"Storie!" I call before I can overthink it, and I abandon the empty grotto. I'm drawn towards her. I can't look away from her. I can't tear my eyes from the little boy, either. He's holding her hand and giggling and she's beaming down at him. When she hears her name, she looks up at me again and says something to the kid and nods at me.
The space between us diminishes until she's right in front of me and it's all I can do not to pull her into a hug. I miss the feel of her in my arms and I wish I could hold her again.
"Hi," I say, trying to hold down a million feelings that swell up to the surface.
"Hey," she says. She gives me an awkward smile. "Long time no see, huh?"
"Too long. You look amazing."
She smiles. "Thanks." She looks down at the boy, then back at me, and my eyes fall to the kid too. I don't know what to say, how I'm supposed to ask.
"Is he..." I trail off. Storie laughs when she twigs on to my train of thought.
"Don't worry, I didn't secretly have your baby," she says, rolling her eyes at the conclusion I leapt to. "This is Jasper. He's Mom and Tad's son. My brother."
"Oh. That makes more sense." I laugh, but it sounds weird. I feel sick, seeing her again and knowing that any minute now, she'll walk off and I'll be alone again. There's nothing to lose, so I just blurt out, "I miss you."
She stands a little straighter and says nothing for a moment, then crouches down to her brother and says, "Hey, Jaz, how about you go and see Santa, huh? I'll be right out here with my friend."
He grins and nods and doesn't need any more encouragement to race to Santa's grotto. Storie stands up, her arms folded, and she lets out a sigh. She holds my gaze. I just want her to say something. Anything. Even if she told me to let go and fuck off. That would be preferable to silence.
"I miss you too," she says after a moment. I replay the words she told me when she broke up with me four years ago. Maybe this was a lesson we both needed to learn. Maybe it'll work in the future. My pulse picks up.
"You do?"
She gives me a half smile. "Yeah. I do."
I drop my hands to my sides. So does she. "Can I ... uh, can we hug?" I ask, feeling awkward the moment the words leave my mouth. A smile plays on her lips and she steps closer and aggressive butterflies swarm my stomach and my hands and my heart when I wrap my arms around her and she rests her cheek against my chest. We fit together. I don't care how long it's been. We fit.
"How have you been?" she asks when she peels herself away from me and I reluctantly let her go. In this moment, I honestly don't care if I get fired for inappropriate conduct between an elf and a customer. "God, it's been forever."
If it's been forever, then that's how long I've loved her, how long I've ached to just see her again, to hear her voice. "Can we catch up?" I ask. "I get off in twenty. Maybe we could go for a coffee? I mean, I know you probably have no interest in talking to me but God, I miss you, Storie. Is there any chance we could get a drink?"
She slowly nods, slowly smiles. "Yeah. Yeah, that'd be nice, actually."
My eyes widen. I wasn't expecting that. "Really? You're sure?"
"Yeah. It's been a long time," she says. "I'd like to talk." She glances at the grotto, where we can hear her brother yapping away to Santa. "Did you drive here?"
"No, I got the bus."
"Ok, well, I'll meet you outside in twenty minutes?" She tilts her head to one side. "You can come with us. I need to drive Jaz home and then we could maybe get something to eat?"
I can't control my grin. "That'd be fantastic," I say. "Wait. Home as in Five Oaks?"
A laugh escapes her and she shakes her head. "That'd be a bit far," she says. "My parents are away for the week so Jaz is staying with Kris. We can drop him off when you finish. It'd be really nice to get a drink."
Her smile warms my heart. Literally, I swear, heat spreads through my chest and blooms on my cheeks and they must be going bright red, but at least they'll match the elf aesthetic. My painful blush only worsens when Kaylani walks past and gives me a death glare as Storie's brother races out of the unsupervised grotto.
"Hey, thirteen, you're here to work, not to flirt. Get your butt back to the grotto."
Storie laughs. It's a magical sound. I don't remember the last time I heard it. She scoops her brother up onto her hip. "You heard her. I'll see you outside?"
"Awesome. Yes. Great. I'll see you." I don't care if I come off like a bumbling idiot. I am a bumbling idiot. Seeing her has reduced me to jelly knees and a cotton candy brain and when she waves as she leaves, my heart feels more like a bag of popcorn.
Kaylani comes back with a box of candy canes in her arms. She glances after Storie. "That your girlfriend?"
"No," I say, "but I wish she was."
"Well." She checks her watch. "Fifteen minutes and you're free." She winks. "Go get her, elf boy."
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i hope you liked this one! i really enjoyed writing it. i planned to have it up last night but i got tired and had to be up early because today i'm flying to new york for wattcon! hopefully i'll be able to get another chapter or two written while i'm away. what did you think of this chapter?