Page 9 of Callan

Well, I’m not, but I’m hoping that’s the case.

Another ping.

And it’s not coming from my phone.

This time, I set the remote down, slide my feet into my frog–shaped slippers, and move quietly to the patio door.

My phone.

I should’ve brought my phone.

I almost pivot to the table when something big and red moves at the corner of my eye, quietly dangling from the upstairs balcony.

So I stay put before tilting my head to the side like a dog about to get a bone as I try to figure out what that red thing is.

It looks like pants.

Are they Santa’s red pants?

No.

Really?

I push back a chuckle.

So Miss Horny upstairs has banged Santa himself?

And now he’s trying to move from her balcony to mine?Does that mean he’ll end up on my balcony?

I don’t want to think about it as I attempt––again––to go to the table, pick up my phone, and record some of this.

Kayla will have a blast. Plus, I need to document it, or she won’t believe that a man dressed like Santa dangled over my balcony while hiding from an angry husband and waiting for his argument with his cheating wife to end.

What is this one thinking?

Does he really think he can climb back up after the shouting match ends, use their main door upstairs, and just get lost?

Is thattheirplan? The plan hatched out with my neighbor, who’s shown him to the balcony in the first place.

Who does that?

And where was her husband all this time?

Has he been traveling?

Perhaps.

Were they on a break?

That’s possible.

Or were they living separately while trying to work things out?

I doubt it.

I find it hard to believe that she has enlisted Santa’s help to resolve her matrimonial troubles.

No way that happened.

---