Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 59022 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59022 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
“You don’t sound like it, sweetheart,” he says in that soft voice and just before I’m about to throw myself in his arms and relive every nostalgic moment in my life, Santa aka Stetson’s dad pulls me in his arms and pats me on the back like he’s done it a million times before, like he genuinely cares and wants me to know that in a sea of children—I matter.
“There, there, Charlie,” his voice is soothing, and I feel like I’m wrapped in some protective forcefield. “You made sure your brother only had light in his life and sometimes that’s all we can do; shield them from the darkness taking it on ourselves so all they see is the sliver of hope light brings.”
I feel seen. So seen for the first time in my life that I start to cry harder. Oh God, I wonder when these ugly tears are going to stop, at this rate I’m going to dehydrate myself and pass out.
“And now,” he says gently pulling away, placing his hand on the top of my head. “Everything is going to feel okay, like a lovely dream you’ve relived, own the happy, acknowledge the sad exists, and choose to think on the moments that bring you joy. It’s all going to be okay, Charlie.” As he says the last words and places his hand on my head the tears just stop like a reservoir gone completely dry, a dam to hold the water back no longer needed.
Even the shaky breaths and ugly chest heaving stops completely stop. My breathing evens out. I feel almost, normal if that was a word one could actually use in a situation like this.
Crap, Stetson’s going to think I’m a basket case and his dad had to probably work some sort of ancient Santa magic to make me sane again. Does he have this effect on everyone or am I the lucky unstable one? More importantly, do they at least send you away with a present and a cup of hot chocolate for your trauma?
Unfortunately for me, I’m not a pretty crier. When I cry my nose and cheeks turn bright red making me look like I belong next to Santa and stay like that for quite some time. It’s my complexion and it’s a curse, which is why I very rarely let myself indulge in the stupid emotion in the first place. I guess that means that I do have some vanity left in me, I don’t like looking weak and I don’t like looking ugly—least of all in front of Stetson.
He's been quiet this whole time, supporting me with his silence and his presence in a way I can’t really explain. Maybe he saw the freak out coming. Maybe, like I originally thought, this is a normal occurrence like when you meet someone powerful or famous or even meet your childhood hero you just lose all sense of normalcy. Either way, even if I couldn’t see Stetson, I would know he’s there like we have an invisible tether linking us together.
Stetson’s dad pulls away from me and smiles at what I know is a swollen face. His eyes are full of understanding and dare I say a bit of mischief now. I immediately feel better.
“Perfect,” he rubs his hands together and announces. “And now, we cook!”
He turns around and makes his way into the massive stainless-steel kitchen. It has a red range and subzero fridge and even though I don’t see any cookies it smells like they’ve just been pulled out of the oven. Everything is sleek while also feeling like a home and something tells me Santa doesn’t just make amazing toys—he knows his way around the pies and meats too. Silence washes over us as Santa moves around and starts grabbing some pots and pans humming Jingle Bells to himself and I almost laugh because really what else would you expect the man to sing? Megadeath? Though honestly, I’d probably join in. Stetson is silent by my side. I’m not sure if I should say something first or if it’s going to be him, so I simply tuck my hair behind my ear like a nervous coward and wait.
Vulnerability is not something I enjoy feeling, add the shyness that won’t stop prickling at the back of my neck and I’m so uncomfortable I nearly rip the band aid off and ask Stetson for a shot of whiskey and the exit. I don’t behave this way in front of men. I’m strong, I’m independent, I know how I am. I’ve worked my ass off to find my strength outside of LA, where I grew up, and everything it tried to tell me I am. Slowly, I look up and see Stetson take a step towards me. At least he’s not running for the gum drop hills and chasing after sugar plum fairies.