Page 64 of The Grumpiest Elf

Merry Christmas to you too! How’s your morning so far?

We chat for a few minutes, comparing notes about our traditional Christmas breakfast foods and whether we open presents before or after eating—before on both counts—and make plans to get together after Christmas dinner is over, though I’m sure I’ll face objections about me leaving early. They can all deal with it, though.

* * *

When the time comes for me to head to Lydia’s, I only face a small number of half-hearted objections. “You could invite them here, you know,” Mom says as I kiss her cheek. She’s at the kitchen table with Sarah, Sophie, Shane, and Nora playing Skip-Bo.

“Maybe another time,” I tell her, and Mom pats my cheek without another word.

Dad says something similar when I head into the living room to grab my keys and jacket. “The more the merrier!” he booms. “Tell them to come here!”

“They’re already expecting me,” I answer, and he nods.

“I guess you’re right. Bring the extra pie at least.”

I gesture at the box bearing an apple crumb pie Mom set aside for me earlier. “Already got it.” Mom makes more pies than we can ever actually eat in one day. She says it’s because she never knows which type of pie everyone will be in the mood for, so she makes two of each, but I think it’s really for this type of situation. You never know when you’ll invite someone over or need something to bring with you last minute, and if that doesn’t happen, well, then you just get to eat more pie later on. Who could be upset by that?

It’s evening and the sun’s long since down, the night clear and dark as I walk out to my car, the silence outside nearly as shocking as the cold. But braving the cold and dark is well worth it when I know Lydia’s waiting at the other end.

She answers the door when I get to her place, smiling and greeting me with a brief kiss before taking the box from my hands, a wide smile on her face. “What’s this?”

“Merry Christmas,” I tell her and nod to her mom. “It’s an apple crumb pie my mom insisted I bring.”

Lydia’s mom takes the box from Lydia and carries it to the kitchen. “That’s so kind of her. I have some extra fudge I’ll send back with you.”

Not that I doubted she would, but that just confirms how well Lydia’s mom will fit in around here. Anyone that understands and participates in this kind of reciprocity will do well with the locals.

Every once in a while a new family moves in and they don’t send back their own cookies or treats after receiving them from others, and it leaves a bad taste in everyone’s mouth, making their ability to integrate into town more difficult. I don’t know if it’s just the way Lydia’s mom is, if she intuited the situation, or if one of her coworkers informed her of the normally unspoken expectations, but this will cement her place as a “good egg” in my mom’s world.

“We’re just about to watch a movie,” Lydia’s mom says as she serves up slices of pie for each of us. Passing my plate to me, she meets my eyes with a smile. “I hope you don’t mind Hallmark Christmas movies.”

She and Lydia both watch me closely as I respond. “Sounds festive.” I can’t say I enjoy those kinds of movies, but if it means I get to spend the evening curled up on the couch with my girlfriend, I’m not going to complain at all.

It turns out to be more entertaining to watch Lydia and her mom watch the movie than the movie itself. They get very wrapped up in the stories, even tearing up a little at the emotional parts, and while I don’t have the same reaction to the cheesy dialogue or contrived situations, I keep my opinions to myself.

Nora had commented that being with Lydia had already changed me for the better, and I guess this is just further proof of that. Historically, I spend the whole time heckling these types of movies, at least with my sisters. To the point that they won’t watch one with me around anymore, and if I walk in while they’re watching one, they pause it and throw pillows at me until I leave. So the fact that I’m not only willing but also capable of keeping those thoughts to myself is just further proof that Lydia’s good for me. I’m being less of an asshole in all areas of life.

When the movie’s over and it’s time for me to leave, Lydia walks me to the door while her mom busies herself with the dishes in the kitchen. “It’s weird to think we won’t be working together anymore,” Lydia says quietly, her hand on the doorknob as I put on my jacket.

“It just means we’ll have even more time together, though,” I tell her, gathering up the small gift bag holding the fudge I’m to take back to my mom.

“At least for now,” Lydia says, giving voice to the other half of that statement I’d left unspoken.

“At least for now,” I agree. “When are you going to start looking for a new job?”

She pulls her sweater sleeves over her hands and twists her mouth to one side. I hold my breath waiting for her answer. Is it wrong that I hope she doesn’t find something right away? Because then she’d be more open to my suggestion of joining me in Seattle and getting a job there. At least that’s my hope. I still haven’t brought up the idea. I have about a week and a half before I leave, so I need to broach the subject soonish. But if I do it too soon, I’m confident it’ll all go wrong.

“Probably not until after New Year’s,” she says. “No one’s likely to hire me before then anyway. And having a week off sounds really nice after the busy week we just finished.”

I grin at the patent exhaustion in her voice. “No kidding. Let’s spend that week together, okay?”

She nods, smiling back at me. “Sounds perfect.”

CHAPTERTHIRTY-FOUR

Lydia

The weekbetween Christmas and New Year’s that I spend with Dylan is bliss. No responsibilities, no expectations, just us. We spend as much time in his sister’s empty house as we do anywhere else, relishing in each other’s company, each other’s bodies. I can confidently say I’ve never felt like this before. It’s exhilarating and restorative at the same time. He lets me talk through all my feelings about my parents’ divorce, letting me vent and offering support and sympathy instead of words that are supposed to be supportive but actually aren’t. The kinds of statements that start with, “Well, at least …” that so many people want to offer, as though that makes my pain less valid, less real, less problematic.

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