Page 26 of The Grumpiest Elf

This job is over at Christmas, I remind myself sternly. And after that … well, I’ll probably take the week between Christmas and New Year’s to relax a little, and then I’ll figure out what to do with myself next. Find another job, though I’m not sure what kinds of jobs there are around here during the off season.

Just as I’m about to follow that rabbit trail down an unappealing hole—what if I can’t find another job? What if there are no jobs here in the off season? What if I have to wait until summer to find something else, and that’s only seasonal too, and I don’t want Dad’s help anymore, but how will I afford to go back to college when I decide I want to—Dylan stands, and I realize that people are starting to file out. It’s not a mass exodus or anything, but the group is already smaller. “Let’s get started,” Dylan says quietly. “Driving home’s already gonna suck.”

I toss him a questioning look. Is that a dig at me?

“The snow,” he explains, setting the basket of books and stuffed animals off to one side. “I overheard someone say it’s been snowing all evening. The roads might be difficult.”

I nod, then give him a sly smile. “Right, but that’s why you’ve got your big four-wheel drive truck, right? Can’t those handle just about anything?”

He chuckles, grouping the small fake Christmas trees in pots we brought off to one side and taking the garland off the backdrop walls while I take down the camera equipment, stowing everything carefully in the padded cases.

Once everyone’s gone, Dylan touches my arm. “Let’s change into normal clothes before we load everything into the truck. I don’t want to wear this stuff outside.”

Glancing down at my own costume, I nod. “Good idea.”

Once we’re in normal clothes, the atmosphere seems to have changed entirely. While it was festive and fun just moments ago, returning to the mostly disassembled Santa’s Workshop set looks sad, and Dylan’s warm and friendly demeanor is subsumed by focused determination.

I stay quiet, helping with whatever he needs, piling up the small things so we can carry out the big pieces first then fetch and carry the rest—the unloading process in reverse.

Partway through that, Mom comes in and sees that we haven’t started loading up yet, still caught up in disassembling the big pieces, me holding the walls while Dylan lies on the floor with the power drill, taking them apart. Mom gives me an apologetic look. “I’m sorry to keep you both so late. Everyone else is gone. Do you want me to help?”

Dylan sits up, putting the screws and bolts in his hand into a little baggy, glancing at Mom’s dress and heels. “We’ve got it,” he assures her. “But thanks for the offer.”

She glances down at her own attire and gives him a rueful smile. “I do have boots to change into,” she says.

Shaking his head again, he stands, taking the weight of one of the walls while I move to support the other. “We’ve got it. We’re almost done.”

“Okay.” She lets out a sigh of relief. “I’ve had a really long day. Lydia, if I leave the keys with you, would you lock up?” At my nod, she steps closer, handing me a key ring with a tag on it, then holds up a finger, her face stern. “Make sure you lock the door. Don’t lose the key. And give it back as soon as you get home.”

Grinning, I nod. “I will, Mom. Don’t worry.” Dylan relieves me of the wall, and I give my mom a hug. “Go home. I’ll see you there soon.”

With one final wave, she disappears, and Dylan and I start loading up. We work like we’ve been doing this sort of thing for ages, our actions in sync with little need for negotiation or commentary. Even so, I’m relieved when I climb into the cab of the truck, not having to do anything but sit here until we get home.

The truck’s been running while we loaded up, so it’s toasty warm when I get in, though the windshield is covered with snow. Didn’t Dylan clean it off before we started loading the back? I thought he did.

He opens the driver’s side, his hat wet with snow, his face almost grim. “Pass me the brush, would you?”

I fish the extendable brush out from under my seat and hand it to him. “Am I hallucinating, or did you clean off the car already?”

He cracks a small smile. “No, you’re not hallucinating. I cleaned it off. It’s coming down pretty hard.” His lips press into a thin line, and he looks around. “The truck should be able to handle it, though.”

“Is there anything else I can do?” I ask, not really wanting to stir from the cozy cab, but willing to help if it gets us on the road faster. From the look on his face, that seems like a smart move.

But he shakes his head. “Nah. You’re fine. This’ll only take a minute.”

The snow disappears from the windshield in a few big swipes from each side, and I see him check the headlights and side mirrors too before climbing in and handing me the brush to stow at my feet. After buckling, he takes a deep breath, puts the truck in reverse, and carefully pulls out of our parking spot.

We bump over the ruts in the snow in the parking lot, and I grab the handle above my door. Dylan glances my way. “You might wanna just hang onto that until we get back into town.” He adds a little smile that makes me uncertain if he’s joking or not, but either way, I keep ahold of the handle. It’s too bumpy not to.

Once we’re on the road, it doesn’t get much better. The snow looks like it’s almost as deep as the bumper, though we can still see ruts from the last car to leave. They’re just dents, though, not the clear tracks you’d expect since it hasn’t beenthatlong since Mom left. Has it?

“What kind of car does your mom drive?” Dylan asks quietly.

“A Jeep.”

He nods, blowing out a slow breath. “Good.”

I shoot him a look. I haven’t really been especially concerned about his ability to get us out of here, but that comment seems concerning. “We gonna make it?”

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