Page 10 of Make You Mine This Christmas
“We’re going to Wally World, right? And of course I didn’t leave. I said I’d take you, and I’m taking you.”
There’s no bite behind the words, but I hear the underlying meaning.I keep my word, unlike someone we both know.But he’s over it.
We ride in uncomfortable silence as Austin navigates us out of downtown Holly Ridge and onto the State Route toward the box store. Wally World technically exists within Winterberry Glen limits, a fact Holly Ridge never forgot in their shop small promotions when I lived here.
“What happened to the feud between Holly Ridge and Winterberry Glen?”
“So, Santa doesn’t shop small?” Austin asks his question at the same time I ask mine.
“You first,” we both say in unison again, before our chuckles finally slice the tension.
“It ended with the Christmas festival five years ago, really. It’s how Blaire and Cole met. Holly Ridge would have lost their town charter and become part of Winterberry Glen if the festival hadn’t been so successful that year.”
Each passing streetlight allows me a glimpse of Austin’s handsome face for a second every few hundred feet. “Cole had the assignment of overseeing Blaire’s work. During the planning, they did some digging on the origins of the feud, and from what they learned, Blaire led changes to bring the towns together to plan the holiday festival and helped end some of the bad blood. The week leading up to the football game between the high schools can get pretty ugly, but things are a lot better now.”
He’d always been such a good storyteller. I want to ask him to tell me more, just to watch him talk about his hometown and listen to his voice.
“So, why doesn’t Santa shop small?” Austin’s question breaks me out of my trance, and I’m glad his eyes are on the road, not watching how sappily I’ve been staring at him.
“The beard and hair coloring is semi-permanent, especially when I’m wearing it daily. Sort of ruins the illusion if you see Santa in the next aisle over, carrying deodorant and condoms, doesn’t it?” I curse internally, blaming the Austin-trance for scrambling my brain and using condoms as an example. Toothpaste, toilet paper, hell, even athlete’s foot spray. All such better examples to say to your ex than the word condom.
“Ha.” Austin’s tone goes flat. “I can see your point. Well, I can’t promise you won’t run into any kids up past their bedtime here, but you can borrow some sunglasses if you need to borrow the tried-and-true, under-the-radar look of the rich and famous. You’ve already got the hat.”
I pulled down on the hunter-green knit beanie self-consciously. Would he remember it as the one he gave me for the one Christmas we spent together? Surely not.
We finish the rest of the ride in silence, and the few moments left of the trip drag out forever. We finally pull into a parking spot and I’m surprised to find myself wanting to get away from Austin. It’s depressing to think about, but maybe we’re too broken. Maybe we need the buffer of other people for us to spend time together without it feeling like we’re forcing down fruitcake. The weeks between now and Christmas stretch out ahead of me at the thought.
“Okay, well, I’ll only be a minute.”
Austin doesn’t answer me, but instead climbs out of the car and waits for me at the back. I scramble to unbuckle myself, having to slow down and carefully open the door so I don’t hit the car parked too close, squeezing to fit between Austin’s SUV and their door.
Any impatience I expect to find on his face isn’t there. Instead, his eyes bounce from me back to the too-close car, like he’s recalibrating his expectations. “Sorry, I didn’t realize how close they were on your side.”
“And my body’s a bit more traditional Santa-like than when you saw me last.” I chance a glance in his direction as we walk to the door. Austin bites his lip and shoves his hands in his pockets, seeming to use all of his energy not to take the bait I’m dangling. It’s fair—questions about the change in my body shape would lead to why I’m not a lawyer anymore, and to why I’m a professional Santa. I want to share it all with Austin. More than anything. But he needs to be ready to hear it.
“So, what all did you say you needed? Deodorant and condoms?” Leave it to Austin to put me right back in the hot seat.
“I don’t need... I don’t even know why I said that. I don’t buy condoms that often. Not that I don’t use them. Safe sex and all. Not that I have a lot of sex. I mean, some. A normal amount.” Sticking my foot further and further into my mouth, I realize Austin isn’t beside me anymore. I whirl around, hoping I can blame part of the cherry redness of my cheeks on the bitter cold. He’s leaning against a candy cane sleeved bollard in front of the automatic door, laughing his head off. After what seems to be an excessively long laugh break, he straightens up and wipes underneath his eyes.
“Was it reallythatfunny?”
“It was pretty funny,” he says, walking past me and grabbing a waiting cart. I consider letting him get a head start but quicken my steps to catch up with him. “But, I dunno. You’re... you’re different, Brody. It catches me off guard, and sometimes, makes me laugh.” His eyes widen with surprise at admitting so much. He shrugs and tries to play it off as he starts walking toward the pharmacy section.
“You’re different too, you know,” I say quietly. A hitch in Austin’s step is the only indication I get he’s heard me.
After I’ve gathered the essentials I need, and Austin’s added his twelve-pack of toilet paper and four-pack of Red Bull to the cart, we head to the checkout. Too late in the day for the self-checkouts to be open, we take our place in line behind a few other groups.
Somewhere between Austin teasing me for sniffing the deodorant I’ve used since I left for college to be sure it smells the same and being fake-horrified I need to buy more underwear, because it means I didn’t pack enough, our silence becomes comfortable, not awkward. We wait in silence now, both exhausted from the day. Well, I’m exhausted. Austin cracked one of his energy drinks halfway through our shopping excursion and is currently bouncing on the balls of his feet.
The bright yellow writing on the cover of one of the magazines lining the checkout aisle catches my eye. “Go old school. Play 20 Questions to rekindle the spark with your man.” I’m trying to imagine the look on Austin’s face if I suggest we play Twenty Questions on the way home, when his voice breaks through my brain fog.
“Brody.” His tone makes it clear it’s not the first time he’s said my name. “We’re next. Wanna start loading the belt?” His toilet paper and Red Bull, with the box open, are already there, waiting for the cashier to move them forward. I shake my head, trying to physically remove the notion of Austin agreeing to rekindle anything with me, and step up to the cart. Austin and I work together to pile everything onto the waiting space, and I’m surprised by how much I grabbed. Maybe I didn’tneedall this tonight, but it’ll save me another trip later to have it. And, as exhausted as I am, maybe I didn’t want our shopping trip to be over.
“Youse guys together?” the cashier asks as she starts moving the belt toward her.
“No!” I exclaim while Austin responds, “Separate, please” in a much calmer tone. My cheeks start to warm again, but the cashier couldn’t care less, shrugging before saying, “Youse shared a carriage and didn’t put up a divider. Remember, we were the first state to legalize gay marriage. Just because I could be your grandmother doesn’t mean I’m going to assume heteronormative bullshit.”
Austin and I exchange a glance, and I bite my lip to keep from giggling. “Thanks for your support, ma’am,” Austin says with a straight face while he taps his card to the reader. Progressive grandma starts scanning my things, and Austin swings around to the end to start bagging.
