Page 42 of The Grumpiest Elf

But once the waitress is gone, instead of looking at the menu, she sets it down and reaches across the table to cover my hand with hers. I flip my hand over, capturing her fingers, and she gives mine a squeeze. “That makes sense,” she says at last in a voice full of sympathy, only just loud enough to carry to me over the noise of the other customers.

I almost sigh in relief, but carefully modulate my breathing so I don’t seem ridiculous. “Thank you.” Despite my best intentions, it comes out more emphatically than I intended. I squeeze her fingers now. “I think you might be the first person to ever tell me that.” I’m downplaying it. Iknowshe’s theonlyperson to ever tell me that. I just don’t want to sound as pathetic as I feel. I give her a wry smile, deliberately self-deprecating. “I was beginning to think that maybe Iamthe ungrateful little shit my family sees.”

She twists up her mouth, narrowing her eyes and cocking her head to one side as she studies me. Then her face relaxes, and she shrugs one shoulder. “I can see how they might think that, especially given your general attitude about being at the ChristmasFest. IfI’vepicked up on it, I can’t imagine how much worse you are at home.”

That surprises a laugh out of me, and she grins.

Serious again, she studies me, propping her chin on her other hand. “It might help them see your point of view if you toned down the attitude a little. Even if you feel your behavior is justified, taking it out on your family doesn’t help your case.” She gives me a sunny smile. “Bitch to me all you want. Just tell yourself you only have a week left, suck it up, and paste on your best happy elf smile.”

I give her a deranged smile. “Like this?”

She bursts into a fit of laughter, leaning back in her chair, the light glinting off her glossy lips, her eyes merry, and if I could make her laugh like this all the time, I’d even be willing to work as an elf for years.

Okay, maybe not years. But longer than the short amount of time we have left.

God, I’ve wasted too much time being an asshole. “Maybe you’re right,” I say, laughter fading, but my smile still tugging at the corners of my mouth. I can’t help it when we’re together like this. She makes me want to smile. I adjust my grip on her hand, threading our fingers together. “Maybe I haven’t been fair to my family either.” I sigh, considering that.

Her thumb sweeps back and forth along the edge of mine in a small gesture of affection. “Family stuff can be challenging,” she says, and I know she’s thinking of her own issues. “We all get wrapped up in what we’re feeling and seeing and it can be difficult to see the other person’s side of things.”

I squeeze her hand. “And sometimes other peoplearejust being assholes. Just because you’re related to them doesn’t negate that possibility.”

“True.” Her smile’s a little wan now, and I know she’s thinking about her dad. “But in the end, I think we all want what’s best for each other, don’t you?”

“I guess so.” The words are grudging, because I know my parents want what’s best for me and don’t think asking me to help out at Christmas detracts from that—which, in reality, it doesn’t. I just don’t enjoy it. Maybe Lydia’s right and I need to stop being a whiny baby, suck it up, and help out regardless. I can’t say I think Lydia’s dad cares as much about what’s best for Lydia. If she needs to take a break for a semester, wouldn’t supporting her be a better option than threatening to cut her off? And while my parents point at finances from time to time as a reason for me helping, I think they’d be upset if I refused point blank to come home and work ChristmasFest, but I don’t think they’d cut me off completely. It would definitely hurt our relationship, though, which is why I’ve never considered it. And it would cut into my spending money, because whether I like it or not, being an elf pays decently well. Add in the extra parties where I get overtime plus big tips from wealthy out-of-towners?

That kind of thing makes taking Lydia out on a date pretty easy. And if she’s going to be here and I’m going to be in Seattle, it’ll help with gas money to come home and visit more often over the next few months.

Would it only be a few months, though?

Trying my best to keep my voice casual, I ask, “Do you think you’re only going to take one semester off? Or more than that?”

Her hand stiffens in mine, and she pulls away. “I don’t know,” she answers carefully. “Why?”

I shrug, leaving my hand on the table, hoping she’ll reach for it again. “Just curious.”

“Curious why?” she asks more forcefully. Not quite a demand, but definitely more than a polite request.

Blowing out a breath, I decide to lay all my cards on the table. “Because, I was thinking I probably won’t want to stop seeing you after Christmas break is over. And while I don’t mind coming back to visit, it’d be a lot easier to see you if you were in Seattle.”

“Oh.” That seems to mollify her, despite her monosyllabic response, because her cheeks turn pinker, and a small smile tugs at the corners of her mouth. Leaning forward, she sets her hand back on the table, though she doesn’t touch me. “So you’re asking for purely selfish reasons.” When all I do is shrug, she quirks an eyebrow. “You’re not trying to tell me what to do or why taking time off is bad or how I need to be careful not to wait too long to go back or whatever other reason I’ve heard more times than I can count by now?”

Chuckling, I shake my head. “Nope. None of that. Entirely selfish. One hundred percent wanting to know if I need to trade in my truck for a hybrid so I can afford gas for how often I’ll want to come back here.”

She laughs too, her hand turning palm up in offering. I take it without giving it a second thought. “Okay. But my answer’s still the same. I’m not sure how long I’ll need. At least one semester. I’ll have to find another job after next week.” Her brows pinch, her gaze drifting toward our hands.

“I’m sure you’ll find something,” I tell her with more confidence than I feel. The post-Christmas and pre-summer season isn’t exactly brimming with possibilities here. There’s lots of seasonal work during high tourism times, but between those times it’s a lot thinner. “Mom and Dad’ll give you a good reference. They have nothing but positive things to say about you, and the fact that you worked so late at the event last night, got trapped there withme”—I lay a dramatic hand on my chest, emphasizing that being trapped with me is likely to be the worst part of the whole ordeal and making her laugh again in the process—“and still showed up on time for work this afternoon? They’ll be singing your praises to anyone and everyone.”

The waitress hurries up to our table right then, out of breath, but beaming at us. “Sorry about the wait, guys! It’s hopping here tonight. Have you decided?”

She looks between us, and Lydia’s mouth is open like she totally forgot she was supposed to be picking out what to eat. Glancing down at the menu, she hurriedly picks something. “I’ll take the cheeseburger,” she says confidently, like that’s what she decided on ages ago, and our conversation was just to pass the time while we waited, rather than the distraction from considering our order that it really was.

I have no regrets, though, and from the look on Lydia’s face, neither does she. “Same for me,” I say, handing the menu to the waitress and answering her questions about how I want it cooked and fries or salad.

When she leaves, Lydia giggles. “I totally forgot I was supposed to decide what to eat,” she stage whispers.

“Their burgers are good here. I don’t think you’ll regret your choice.”

She looks at me, soft affection on her face. “I can’t imagine I will.”

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