Page 36 of The Grumpiest Elf

CHAPTERNINETEEN

Dylan

I openthe doors to the main event space for ChristmasFest, and for the first time in I don’t even know how long, I don’t feel assaulted by the sounds and sights and smells—cheerful Christmas carols piped in over people talking, a sea of bodies with kids darting in and out, Christmas lights and garland festooning the walls and booths, the warm smell of sugar and spices from the places selling baked goods right near the entrance. They’re positioned there on purpose, the welcoming smell immediately enticing people inside.

Well, other people. I usually feel stifled by the cacophony.

Not today, though.

Today it feels festive. Exciting. Fun.

Partly because I didn’t have to work today and partly because it’s nearly closing time so the crowds are thinning. But mostly it’s because I’m here to pick up Lydia and take her to dinner.

My stomach growls at the smell of the cookies, and on a whim, I decide to buy a couple. We can munch on them on the way to dinner, or we can save them for dessert. Of course, once I get there I can’t decide which one I think Lydia will like best, so I opt for two Snickerdoodles and two beautiful iced cookies—a Santa and an elf. Seems fitting. I would’ve gotten two elves, but they only had the one left this late in the day. Only the one Santa too.

I move slowly through the crowd, taking the time to browse a little as I head toward Santa’s Workshop. There’s no rush. There’s still nearly half an hour until it shuts down for the night.

When I get close to Santa’s Workshop, I’m surprised by how deep the crowd is. Lydia and Nora are busy, so I don’t say hi like I’d planned, instead ducking down the hallway that leads to the Christmas Emporium. Sarah’s busy too, which shouldn’t be surprising. Christmas is just over a week away, and it’s a Friday night, so everyone’s swarming here after work, feeling festive before their Christmas parties and other family traditions.

But Sarah sees me, holding up a hand and beckoning me over as she finishes helping a customer at the cash register. “Hey, little bro!” she says enthusiastically when I get close. “What are you doing here?”

She looks me over before greeting the next customer, taking in the dark gray button down shirt peeking out from beneath my half-zipped coat, and her brows lift. But she doesn’t comment, instead smiling warmly at the next customer and greeting the older woman by name.

Drifting away, I walk slowly down the aisles, straightening out of place boxes and rehanging ornaments in the right place as I go. I have time to spare, so I might as well help out, right?

When I start down the next aisle, Sarah appears at my elbow, surprise stamped on her face. “Look at you, all dressed up and showing up to help me, unasked?” She puts a hand on my forehead, and I jerk away, giving her a quelling look that has no effect. “You feeling alright, Dylan?”

“Ha ha. You’re hilarious,” I grumble.

“There he is,” she says, her voice warm with affection as she bumps me with her shoulder. “But seriously.” She waves a hand at where I’m straightening a shelf display. “What gives?”

Shrugging, I try to act nonchalant. “I had a few minutes to kill.”

“Before?” she prompts, placing a hand on my arm to get me to stop what I’m doing and pay attention to her.

I stuff my hands in my pockets and face her, a surge of self-consciousness washing over me, a relic of our shared childhood when Sarah would laugh about my crushes, singing that dumb sitting in a tree rhyme. But I’m not ten anymore, and Sarah’s married now. She was supportive of Ty and Olivia when they got together—though her relationship with our older brother is far different from her relationship with me. Still, I’m pretty sure she’s outgrown chanting playground rhymes at me.

Pretty sure.

Closing my eyes, I suck in a breath, then spit it out. “I’m picking up Lydia for dinner. ChristmasFest is still busy, so I thought I’d come in here while I wait.”And now I’m rethinking the wisdom of that choice. But I don’t say that last part out loud.

Sarah’s dark eyes grow wide, lighting up with glee, her mouth rounding in an O that she covers with her hands. Then she smacks me on the arm. “Why am I just now hearing about this?” she demands, though she’s grinning.

I give her my best quelling look, though as usual it has no effect on my big sister. “Why would I have told you? And besides”—I turn back to the display and finish straightening it—“I only asked her this morning.”

“Not wasting time, I see,” Sarah says, her voice thoughtful as she moves to my other side, working ahead of me to set things to rights.

“Don’t you have customers?” I ask.

She waves a hand. “No one serious, I don’t think. Browsers. If anyone decides to buy something, they’ll ring the bell.” She spears me with a look. “Now. Tell me everything.”

Chuckling, I shake my head. “A—I’d never tell youeverything, Sarah, and I don’t think you’d really want that.”

“Gross!” she interjects. “No.Thosedetails you can keep to yourself. But I’massumingyou don’t have those kinds of details yet.” She gasps, stopping and facing me. “Or do you?” She smacks my arm again. “You dirty whore!” That last is the kind of whisper-yell that parents everywhere have perfected when needing to get their children to behave in public places.

I make a show of glancing around. “Shh, Sarah. This is a place of business. And anyway, I thought slut shaming was bad.”

“Not when you’re the slut,” she mutters.

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