Page 3 of The Grumpiest Elf

When Mom and Dad announced their divorce at the beginning of October, it threw me for a huge loop. I tried to keep up with school, I really did, but them divorcing was so unexpected, so out of left field, that I didn’t know how to cope with it and I ended up tanking my midterms. As much as I tried to, I couldn’t ignore it and pretend it wasn’t happening or that it didn’t really affect me.

And no one seems to understand my issues. I mean, I’m in college—or I was, at least—not a little kid. Shouldn’t I be able to suck it up and deal?

But I couldn’t. Not really. I managed to salvage the disaster of my midterms as much as possible, at least to the point of passing all my classes so that when I do return, I won’t have to repeat anything. Even that took every ounce of energy and willpower I had, and by the time the semester ended, I knew I wouldn’t be able to turn around and do it all again in a month. I knew before then, honestly. I’ve been planning to withdraw from school since before Thanksgiving, and spending that holiday with my dad—I’d spend Christmas with Mom in her new place—clinched it. The way he kept pressuring me about everything definitely didn’t help anything.

The real reason it affected me so much more than anyone expected is because I feel sort of responsible. I know, I know—it’s ridiculous. How could I be responsible for my parents’ marriage falling apart? I even saw one of the campus counselors a few times who told me as much. Not in those words, of course, but the idea was the same. It’s not my fault my parents are splitting up.

But I feel like it’s my fault they stayed together when they obviously weren’t happy and probably hadn’t been for a long time, though they hid it so well that I had no clue.

We’ve just become different people who want different things,Mom had said when I finally got up the guts to ask why about a week after they’d sat down with me on a video call and announced their decision to split up. They’d said it would be amicable, but that hasn’t turned out to be very true, especially now that I’ve moved in with Mom in Arcadian Falls after a dismal first semester in college.

Apparently Mom wanted to do more, see more, have a new career. Or maybe the career change was more because of the divorce than the reason for the divorce. I don’t know all the details. Either way, she ended up moving to Arcadian Falls and becoming the event coordinator at an old orchard a few miles outside of town.

She took over at the end of the apple season in late October only a week before Halloween when the last event coordinator had to quit suddenly due to a personal emergency. Mom stepped in and made their Halloween party the best they’ve had in years, according to Stephanie, the owner.

I’m happy for Mom. Really, I am. I’m just … feeling a little lost. Like everything I thought I knew has turned out to be a lie, even though I know that’s dramatic. Either way, I feel like pushing through last semester didn’t make things easier, and my grades, which were always As and Bs in high school, suffered, and I barely scraped by with Cs.

Plus, I don’t actually know what I want to major in. Dad is convinced I need a degree in business and will go to law school to become a corporate lawyer like him, but even after just one semester, I know that’s not what I want. Of course, telling him that also went oversuperwell. He’d tried to convince me that taking gen eds would still be worthwhile, but when I’m too wrapped up in my own family drama to pay attention, it seems like a waste of money.

So now Mom’s a party planner, and I’ve become an elf. I’m the first one in the building, entering through a side door. While I’ve only been working here a few days—I got hired almost as soon as I got into town last week and started over the weekend—I’ve figured out that I like opening better than closing. There’s something special about being the first one here. It’s hushed. Expectant. Full of possibilities. It’s all the best parts of Christmas—garlands draped on the walls, twinkle lights threaded through them, and just before it opens, they’ll start playing Christmas carols over the speakers. The few vendor booths I slip past on my way to the locker room near Santa’s Workshop boast signs and decorations as well, making me smile. From what I gather, the elves are the only ones who use the locker room.

A low grunt behind me clues me in to the fact that I’m not alone anymore. Turning, I see a guy in a blue puffer coat, a backpack slung over one shoulder, a beanie pulled low over dark brows that are pulled together in consternation over dark eyes that study me coldly.

With his straight nose, full lips, and high cheekbones combined with the broodiness of his whole demeanor, I’d typically find him attractive. But he clearly finds me annoying.

I offer him a bright smile that I’m sure looks a little strained around the edges. “Hey.” I sketch a wave with a mittened hand. “I’m Lydia.” Hooking my thumb over my shoulder, I inform him, “I’m an elf.”

That receives another grunt, and he brushes past me, dismissal clear.

“Well, okay then,” I mutter under my breath, heading for the locker room behind Santa’s Workshop. I’m already wearing the green and white striped tights and green stretch velvet dress that make up the majority of my costume. All I have to do is take off my coat, change out my snow boots for elf shoes, and add the ears and hat to complete my costume. It’s cute and fun, and I enjoy dressing up every day. The reactions from the kids make it that much better. The littlest ones love my pointy ears and always want to touch them.

Once I’ve stashed my things and finished off my costume, I’ll head into Santa’s Workshop to make sure everything is ready for today’s kids—filling the baskets with mini candy canes to pass out and organizing my favorite stuffed animals and puppets to get smiles out of the babies and toddlers. There’s an elf puppet and reindeer stuffy that are my favorites, and I like to make sure they’re in a safe and easy to reach spot. Nora usually makes sure the computer is logged in and set up, but she’s not on the schedule today. I don’t know the other person who’s scheduled. It said Elfie, which made my coworker Nora giggle yesterday when I asked her about them, and she’d just given me a smile and a cryptic, “You’ll see.”

Pushing into the locker room at the back, I’m greeted by the sight of light gray cotton stretched tightly across someone’s backside. A male someone’s backside.

At my squeak of surprise, Mr. Tall, Dark, and Broody straightens, pulling forest green pants up over the aforementioned boxer briefs, twisting to look over his shoulder and give me a nice view of his muscles rippling under the bare skin of his torso.

I throw up a hand to shield my eyes. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know anyone would be in here. Or, you know, using it as a changing room.” Head down, I turn around and fumble for the door, when his low voice slides over me, a rueful chuckle riding the words.

“My fault. Shoulda been faster. Just didn’t want to walk to work in thin high waters and tall socks, even if my boots would’ve covered the socks.” Fabric rustles, and his voice sounds muffled. “You don’t have to leave. I’m decent now.”

Dropping my hand, I turn to find him tucking a striped shirt into the top of the pants, his back still to me. When he adds a vest to his ensemble, pulls the green and white striped socks and elf shoes that look like larger versions of mine out of his backpack, it dawns on me. “Oooh.You’reElfie.”

The look he throws me could shrivel grapes into raisins on the spot. “Don’t call me that,” he barks.

I hold up my hands, palms out. “Sorry. That’s who’s listed to work today on the schedule.” I see why Nora found it funny.

“My name’s Dylan,” he grumbles. “My family thinks it’s hilarious to use the elf name Mom gave me when I was a baby.”

MomI mouth, putting it together. “Your mom is Mrs. Claus?” I clarify.

He jerks his chin in a nod, sitting on the bench to put on his socks and shoes, then shoving his backpack into a locker where his coat already hangs. I finally move to do the same, selecting a locker that’s reasonably far from him so he doesn’t think I’m trying too hard to avoid himorbe close to him, opening it with a clang and setting my tote bag inside while I take off my hat, coat, and mittens, then I pull out my shoes and elf hat from my bag.

“You must be the new girl,” he says as I sit on the adjacent bench to unzip my boots and put on my elf shoes.

“That’s me.” It comes out sounding like a sad attempt at being chipper, and I grimace to myself. I’m not sure what the right tone to strike with him is. I mean, I walked in on him changing, called him a name he hates—though that’s the name on the schedule, so that’s hardly my fault—and I can’t tell if me being here is specifically irritating him, or if that’s just part of his charm.

And by charm, I mean not that at all.

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