Page 11 of Of Magic and Reindeer
I paced the length of my kitchen, running through my options. Hospital? They’d think I was on drugs or that it was anxiety. Parents? They would worry. Therapist? I’d fired my last one for suggesting I find my joy.
Mia, my college roommate, was always down for a visit from me. She never questioned my hatred of Christmas, always thought my cynicism was refreshing, and lived in a sleek downtown loft that probably had zero holiday decorations.
Perfect.
I snatched my phone off the charger and fired off a text.
Me: Hey, is your couch available this weekend? It’s been a crazy week, and I need to escape. I can bring wine and zero Christmas cheer.
Mia: I have a gallery exhibition opening tonight, but yes, please come immediately! Couch is yours. The door code is 2425.
The tension in my chest eased. I pressed my palm against the cool kitchen counter to steady myself, watching as the faintest shimmer of frost appeared beneath my fingertips before quickly fading away. I pulled my hand back, pretending I hadn’t seen it. One problem at a time.
I turned back toward the counter and almost dropped my phone. The cookies, hot chocolate, and milk were gone like they had never existed. The counter was clean, empty except for my usual coffee setup waiting to be used.
I reached out, running my fingers across the cool marble surface. Not a crumb, not a drop, not a trace of evidence that anything had been there.
I didn’t want to analyze what was happening. I didn’t want to process the fact that my reality was unraveling faster than a cheap sweater. I especially didn’t want to acknowledge how much I’d enjoyed that single bite of a cookie that technically never existed.
What I wanted was normality. Distance. Perspective.
I practically sprinted to my bedroom, yanking out my overnight bag and throwing in clothes for two days.
Los Angeles was calling, where my friend would roll her eyes at my stories and convince me I was working too hard, was stressed, and needed a girls’ weekend of good food and overpriced cocktails.
I just needed to get away. Just for a weekend. Just long enough to forget.
I’d told Mia everything over a bottle of Cabernet and a platter of overpriced cheese. She’d nodded in all the right places, asked reasonable questions, and then systematically dismantled each supernatural element with frustratingly rational explanations.
The reindeer was obviously someone’s escaped exotic pet, and the disappearing men at Sinclair’s were normal guys who’d left while I wasn’t looking. My glowing skin was probably some kind of allergic reaction to Serena’s spray tan chemicals. And the cookies that appear and vanish? Classic sleep deprivation.
It all made perfect sense, except for the odd looks she gave me when she thought I wasn’t paying attention. They were the kind of sideways glances you give someone who you’re worried might be one cheese cube away from a spiral.
“Ready to spend the evening projecting all your unprocessed emotions onto other people’s creative work?” Mia adjusted her chunky statement necklace as we approached the glass doors of Prismatic, the gallery where she worked as a curator.
I smoothed down the front of my black dress. “Lead the way to the free therapy and alcohol.”
Mia pushed open the door, and my stomach immediately dropped to my knees. The gallery had been transformed into a winter wonderland. Not the tacky mall Santa variety. This was high-end Martha Stewart on steroids winter perfection.
Delicate crystal snowflakes hung from nearly invisiblethreads, catching the light and sending rainbow reflections dancing across the white walls. Silver birch branches stretched toward the ceiling, dripping with thousands of fairy lights that mimicked falling snow.
“Isn’t it horrendous?” Mia whispered, sweeping her arm dramatically. “The artists insisted on an immersive winter experience, like we’re not in Los Angeles where it’s sixty-five degrees outside. I think it’s too much and detracts from the actual art, but what do I know?”
I couldn’t respond because my lungs felt like they were filling with actual snow.
“The theme is Winter’s Memory,” Mia murmured as we moved deeper into the gallery. “The three artists had absolutely zero restraint. I love Christmas, but even I started turning into you after the third snow-drenched installation. They went absolutely wild with the concept, but the pieces will sell for thousands. Nostalgia plus a frosty color palette? Rich people eat that up.”
We drifted past photographs of snow-covered landscapes so crisp I could practically feel my face getting frostbite. Sculptures of pine trees made with glass, metal, and resin glinted under the gallery lights. And the paintings? Every shade of sad, snowy blue you could think of.
My fingertips tingled, and I shoved them into my pockets, grateful that dress pockets were a thing.
Mia snagged two flutes of champagne from a passing server and pressed one into my hand. “You look like you need this. Already channeling your Christmas hatred?”
I took a deep swallow, barely tasting the expensive bubbles. “It’s beautiful. That’s the problem.”
“Beautiful?” Mia’s eyes widened. “Who are you, and what have you done with my holiday-hating friend?”
A memory flickered at the edge of my consciousness. Something about a night sky filled with dancing lights, my small hands reaching upward, trying to catch the colors...
