Page 63 of The Grumpiest Elf

“Thanks, Mom. They’re perfect.”

She gushes over the framed print I bought her, then stands and retrieves the stockings sitting in front of the gas fireplace, handing me one. “I haven’t had time to get the new ones personalized yet, but I will by next year.”

Waving away her explanation—as though I care that much about having my name on my stocking as an adult—I open the top and peer inside. She’s tucked in a paperback—another cozy mystery by the author of the one I’ve been reading—a small notebook with a fancy pen, a bag of chocolate truffles from the candy shop downtown, and some sheet masks she knows I like doing when I want to pamper myself. “Perfect stocking stuffers too. But now I feel bad I didn’t fill your stocking!” I protest.

She shakes her head and flips her hand at me. “I’ve always filled my own stocking anyway,” she tells me, pulling out the book and chocolates she got for herself, plus a couple of face serums that I know she uses already.

Next year, I’m going to get her stocking stuffers. I didn’t realize she’d planned on us doing stockings at all, since it’s not like I’m a kid anymore who expects Santa to come down the chimney and fill my stocking. The fact that she’s always filled her own stocking, though, makes me unbearably sad. Dad didn’t even do it for her? What an ass.

The timer goes off, and I stand, grinning happily in anticipation of Mom’s coffee cake. It was always a special occasion breakfast food growing up—Christmas, the first Saturday of summer break, sometimes on birthdays, especially if one fell on a weekend when Mom would proclaim that a birthday girl deserves cake twice on a Saturday, and occasionally for no discernible reason other than Mom wanted to make coffee cake on a day off. A handful of times a year at the most. Just the smell of it makes me happy, and when she dishes it up, warm and steaming, the cinnamon flavor bursts on my tongue, carrying with it all the fond memories I associate with coffee cake.

I’m glad we’re keeping as many of our family traditions as possible, even if they’re smaller. And introducing new twists, like the cookie stamps and someone else filling Mom’s stocking in the future.

When Brooke calls, I watch Mom talking to her, animated and happy, and I once again realize she’s happier than I’ve seen her my whole life. Maybe it’s just because of Dylan, but it suddenly hits me that I hope Mom finds someone again. Someone who makes her happy like this, someone who keeps her from getting lonely when I eventually move out—because even if I’m not sure when that’ll be, I know it will happen at some point. I’m going to figure out what I want to do and then I’ll go after it, once I’ve regrouped and recovered from my people pleaser burnout. Or Dad pleaser burnout, anyway.

No more business degree. No more pre-law. The thought of going to law school makes my stomach churn. I just … don’t know what I want to do instead.

I like reading, but I hate the analysis and criticism portion that always goes with English classes, and what would I do with a degree in English anyway? Become a teacher? No thanks.

And while I enjoy things like music and art, I’m not good enough or dedicated enough to make a career out of either of those things. I’ve always enjoyed science, but I don’t want to be a doctor.

Mom gets off the phone and turns to look at me. “What’s with that face?” she asks. “It’s Christmas! It’s your duty to be happy today of all days.”

Laughing, I give her a hug. “I am happy,” I reassure her. “I’m happy I’m here with you.”

She hugs me back and kisses the top of my head. “Oh, sweetheart. I’m happy you’re here with me too.”

CHAPTERTHIRTY-THREE

Dylan

Christmas morning isall hustle and bustle like normal around here. Sarah and Shane come in a little after seven, yawning and bleary eyed with a hyper Sophie hopping all around asking, “Can we open presentsnow?”

“In a few minutes, Bug,” Shane tells her, calling her by the affectionate nickname that we’ve all adopted for her by now. “We just got here, and I’m not sure everyone’s up and out here yet.”

“We’re all awake,” I say around a yawn, coming into the living room from the kitchen, a mug of coffee in hand. “Ty and Olivia should be out in a few minutes. Mom and Dad are in the kitchen getting coffee and breakfast ready for everyone.”

Sarah comes close and gives me a hug. “Merry Christmas, Dylan.”

“Merry Christmas. Did you guys get much sleep last night?”

Laughing, she rolls her eyes, and Shane shakes his head.

“Santa came last night!” Sophie squeaks, jumping up and down.

I raise an eyebrow at her, then look at Shane, because I thought by now Sophie’d figured out that Santa wasn’t really real. He shrugs. “They did aPolar Expressparty at school,” he says. “All the kids got bells like in the movie, and you know, you can only hear the bell if you believe. Sophie can hear the bell …” He shrugs again, leaving me to fill in the blanks.

I nod like it all makes perfect sense, though I can’t say it really does. “Cool. Gotcha.” Whether or not I really get it doesn’t matter so much as my ability to play along, and I can do that.

Christmas morning passes in our family’s usual traditions of hot cocoa, presents, Christmas carols, and cinnamon rolls. There’s laughter and smiles on all sides until we separate briefly for showers and naps. Sarah, Shane, and Sophie head back to their place for a little while before they’ll come back for dinner. This year Shane and Sophie’s other siblings are spending their Christmas elsewhere, so it’s just our family and additions this time instead of the extended family that includes all the Elliott siblings plus Shane’s brother Brad’s long-term boyfriend. I guess Brad’s at said boyfriend’s family’s for Christmas this year, and Mallory, Shane’s other sister, must be with her boyfriend’s family, though I didn’t realize she was dating anyone seriously enough for that to be a thing. Not that I keep up with Mallory’s dating life that closely.

The only thing that would make today more perfect is if Lydia could be here. I know she’s with her mom, and they’re probably having a great morning together, though I’m sure it’s quieter than mine. And that’s good. I think she needs the opportunity to connect with her mom more after everything that’s happened over the last few months. But I still wish she could be here.

After my turn in the shower, I pull on jeans and one of my many Christmas sweaters—this one white with a large reindeer in profile stitched the front of it and a fuzzy red pom pom for his nose—and pick up my phone.

Merry Christmas

Lydia:

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