Page 4 of The Christmas Cookie Crush

She casts a glance around, apparently just now aware that people—kids—might be paying attention, then leans in close and lowers her voice. “Nora? Nora Daniels? Dylan’s sister?”

Blinking again, I call up the memory of the obnoxious little kid that used to plague Dylan and me. That child ran around barefoot, covered in dirt more often than not, and I’d never have guessed she’d grow up into the gorgeous woman in front of me. “Wait, seriously? Nora?” I break into a big grin, but for some reason that just makes her scowl more. “What are you up to these days? I mean, other than the obvious. And how’s Dylan?”

Her mouth drops open, incredulous. “What am I up to these days? Are you joking right now?”

“Uhhh … no?” I’m not sure why she’s being so hostile. “I’m sorry, have I done something to offend you?”

She splutters and shakes, then smacks a card down on the counter in front of me. “Just give me a snowflake cookie, okay?”

My brows climb my forehead. “Riiiight. No problem.” I ring up the order and offer the card reader so she can pay, then get asnowflake cookie out of the case and place it in a white pastry bag. “Seriously, though,” I try again as I hand it to her. “You’re clearly pissed about something. At first I figured it must just be dealing with the public which we both know can be challenging at times. Maybe too many screaming babies, I dunno. But now it feels like it’s personal, and I’m just really lost on what I could’ve done considering I haven’t even been here in years.”

“You,” she hisses through clenched teeth, snatching the bag from my hand. “You made my lifemiserable. I was so. So.Glad. When you moved away. But then you kept coming back. And every time, I hoped you’d have grown up, matured, decided not to be such a little shit”—she has the grace to whisper the last part—“but my hopes were always dashed.”

I have to bite back a laugh at the last line. Her hopes were dashed? Seriously?

I spread my hands and try for an apologetic smile. “Look, I’m not sure what I did that was so horrible, but I promise I won’t do anything while I’m here to make your life worse. Truce?” I hold my hand across the counter for her to shake.

She looks at it like I’m diseased, her lips pressed into a thin line. “You’re already making it worse.” And with that parting shot, she flounces away.

The encounter with Nora sticks with me for the rest of the day. I can’t even remember the last time I saw her—sometime in high school, I’m guessing. But I feel like it couldn’t have been even that recent.

Thinking back, I try to remember when Dylan and I stopped hanging out. It was after I moved away. The first couple summers we palled around as much as ever when my family and I came to visit. But as high school progressed, he got busy with summer jobs, camps, and the friends that were here all the time, and we just didn’t really hang out any more. I haven’t seen him in forever, and we’ve lost touch.

Will he be home for Christmas? It’d be cool to reconnect if so.

And maybe he can help me remember what I did that so terrorized his little sister. Or maybe we did it together?

I remember her being around a lot, and while we weren’t exactly the nicest, I’m sure—shewaskind of an annoying kid, and we were obnoxious middle schoolers—I don’t think we did anything truly terrible. I feel like I’d remember if we did. It’s not like we shaved off her eyebrows in her sleep or cut her hair.

We were just normal, run-of-the-mill obnoxious. Or so I thought.

But I guess Nora remembers it differently.

When I walk into Grampy and Nana’s house, I’m greeted with the smell of something delicious and savory. “I’m home,” I call into the house because the living room is empty.

Nana bustles out of the kitchen, a smile on her face. “How was today?”

“Good. Busy as ever.”

She shakes her head, watching me as I toe off my boots and hang up my coat in the closet by the front door. “It’ll only get busier as we get closer to Christmas.”

“Don’t I know it.” I rub my chilled fingers together and step forward to give her a hug. “It’s already busier now than it was last week. The first weekend was pretty crazy, but it slowed down during the week. Now it’s constant, no matter what day it is.” I spent the first few days I was here figuring out where and how I could fill in the best. It was tricky navigating Grampy’s moods, which were by turns angry at being unable to work and thankful for my help. He introduced me to Sheila, the head baker and his assistant manager at the main store. I worked there for a few hours a day to understand how the business runs, then the week of Thanksgiving, she and I set up the kiosk in the ChristmasFest space, and I’ve been working there basically from opening at ten in the morning until it closes every day since. Most days it closes at eight o’clock, but Sundays close early at six.

Nana nods. “That’s how ChristmasFest goes. You’re keeping up okay, though? Do we need to hire someone else?” She pinches her lips together, her eyes going unfocused as she gazes over my shoulder, her brows coming together in thought. “We could probably afford another part-timer to get us through the last few weeks if we need it.”

I shake my head. “I’m good. We have a good system worked out where we have someone switch between the shop and ChristmasFest to cover breaks or help out wherever there are more customers. We’ve got it covered, Nana. Don’t worry.”

“Okay. Let me know if that changes, though.”

Bending, I kiss her cheek. “It won’t. But thanks.”

She shoos me toward the hall. “Go wash your hands. I’ll heat up your dinner.”

Grinning, I do as she says, grateful that I won’t have to wait to eat. At the end of a long shift, I’m starving. And I’m working more than full-time hours right now. It would be nice to have an extra person on hand, but I know the margins are tight, especially with Grampy’s medical bills. I can survive for a few more weeks until ChristmasFest is over.

As I’m washing my hands, Nora’s angry face flashes in my mind, and I find myself trying once again to figure out what I did that was so terrible to her that she’s hung onto it for all these years. But still, I’ve got nothing.

“Nana, do you remember Dylan Daniels?” I ask as I accept the plate piled high with a filling casserole full of chicken, rice, and veggies in a creamy sauce.

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