Page 55 of Her Secret Santa

“No, no, Brooke, I didn’t—Zadedid this,” I say. “I didn’t know about this.”

She looks at me disbelievingly, her brows peeking up over the rim of her circular glasses. I can see how little she thinks something like that is possible, even with there being no way I would have ever had the money for something like this. I can hardly believe it myself. But he’s the only one who could have been behind this.

He did this.

Did he do it forme?

I don’t have time to think about it before Steele rushes up, all wide green eyes and excited babble. He’s holding a Godzilla toy and telling me about all the lizard facts he learned in the fact book Santa got him, and it’s so much that I almost burst into tears. I force my own feelings to the back of my mind, allowing him to lead me into the fray of the kids. They’re all wearing new pajamas, some of them with the tags still on—warm, cozy cotton and flannel without holes or stains.

I spend the morning at the children’s home, bouncing between surprise and gratitude at every new revelation.

The pantries are fully stocked and the utilities have been paid through to next year, along with the lease. I can’t even fathomhow much stress this just took off Brooke, the amazing things this will do for the future of every kid living here. I still have no idea what to do with my feelings for Zade. Sure, he’s done a lot of good here, but does that mean that I can just trust him, especially after allowing the media to tear me apart? Can he really want someone likeme? Someone the public believes is clearly not good enough and nothing more than a gold digger?

Can I really make him change so much? I just don’t understand how someone like me could make a difference in a life like his.

I spend the morning and into the afternoon at the children’s home, relaxing with the kids and helping clean up dishes and put leftovers in containers. I can’t remember thereeverbeing leftovers from a meal here. We could always make enough to go around, make it stretch, but there wasn’t extra. If feeding the kids meant Brooke went hungry, she was happy to do it.

I head over to the nursing home as the sun starts to fall in the sky, warm golden rays catching the snowdrifts and sparkling against windowpanes.

The day feels so much different now than it did when I woke up this morning, but I still have no idea what to do. I turned my phone off last night in an attempt to escape Zade’s unending calls and texts, and I haven’t turned it back on. I know I’m being a coward. I know I shouldn’t care what the media thinks of me. Of him. Of our relationship. But I do. The truth of that only serves to make me feel worse. I wonder as I drive into Brooklyn what I’ll find when I turn my phone back on. Will there be apologies? Pleas? Explanations?

Will he be able to convince me that he meant it when he said he wanted a family with me? A life together?

I’m less surprised to find the nursing home in a state of luxury and excess after spending the day at the children’s home, but it’s still enough to bring tears to my eyes.

I worked hard to make sure my grandmother could stay in a nice place with around the clock care and creature comforts, somewhere in a good part of the city. She didn’t want for much here, and her life here is probably cushier than it was at the apartment, but walking through the doors this evening doesn’t feel like walking into a care center.

It feels like walking into ahome.

The front desk is empty, but music and laughter can be heard through the dining hall doors, so I make my way there. Scanning the crowd for my grandma, I notice how all the residents are all enjoying heaping plates of food that smell absolutely mouthwatering.

“She’s in her room,” Sarah says.

I jump in surprise at hearing her voice from behind me. When I turn, she’s helping Thelma section out yarn for her one of her many crochet projects.

“Her room?” My grandma is the most social person I know. It makes no sense for her to be in her room on Christmas while everyone else is eating dinner together. “Alone?”

“She asked me to send you in when you arrived,” Sarah says, an oddly mischievous twinkle in her eyes.

I thank her, confused, but head down the hallway anyway. I’m sure my grandma has heard something about what happened between Zade and me. She watches the news pretty much non-stop, and with the way the reporters swarmed the mall yesterday, I’m pretty sure I’ve been on it. I’ve refused to turn it on all day, and I asked Brooke and Allie not to as well when I was with them. She probably wants to give me a chance to vent in private. There are too many thoughts in my head, too much affection and worry in my chest to know what to do with.

She’s sitting in her wheelchair when I walk in, a tidy knit sweater draped over her frail form. She looks like she’s beenwaiting for me, her hands folded expectantly in her lap and a soft smile on her wrinkled face.

“Merry Christmas, Grandma,” I say, bending to envelop her in a warm hug. “Were you waiting?”

“Not for long,” she assures me, patting my arm. “Sit down a bit.”

I sit obediently, taking her usual armchair so I can be close enough to hold her hand. I have no idea what to say if she asks me about Zade, but she always has a sixth sense about the right thing to say, what to ask, and when to ask it.

“Your momma never realized what a gift she got when she had you,” she starts, startling me. This isn’t at all what I expected her to bring up—we almost never talk about my mom. “I think you go through life with the mindset that you’re worth less than everyone around you, and I think it’s gotten to the point where you don’t realize it either. It breaks my heart to watch you be everything for everyone around you and not get anything back.”

I open my mouth to argue, to tell her that I get so unspeakably much from everyone, that the kindness in the world around me is all I could ever ask for, but she doesn’t give me the chance.

“You deserve someone who wants to give you everything,” she says, staring into my eyes like she’s trying to get me to understand something—what that is, I have no idea. “You deserve someone who loves you just like you love the world, Clara.”

I blink at the certainty in her voice. She’s said this to me before, but it’s always been something of a plea, a reminder of something I don’t quite believe. This time feels different. It feels like she’s pointing me in one very obvious direction.

It’s not at all the direction I expect her to push me in.

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