Page 36 of Chloe

“Chloe.” she exclaims, her breath visible in the frosty air. “I’m so glad I caught you. I need a huge favor.”

I raise an eyebrow, already feeling myself being pulled into whatever scheme Rebecca has cooked up. “Rebecca, I’m leaving in a few hours. My flight—“

“I know, I know,” she interrupts, her eyes pleading. “But this won’t take long, I promise. We need help with the Last Day of School Christmas party at the elementary school. Mrs. Carson came down with the flu, and we’re short-handed. Please, Chloe? The kids will be so disappointed if we have to cancel.”

I open my mouth to refuse, but something in Rebecca’s expression stops me. Maybe it’s the sincerity in her eyes, or maybe it’s just that I’m tired of feeling angry and bitter. Whatever it is, I find myself nodding.

“Fine,” I say with a sigh. “But just for an hour or two. I can’t miss my flight.”

Rebecca’s face lights up like the Christmas tree behind me. “Thank you, Chloe. You’re a lifesaver. I promise you won’t regret this.”

As I grab my coat and follow Rebecca out into the snow-covered street, I can’t help but think that I’m probably going to regret this very much.

The elementary school is a whirlwind of activity when we arrive. The hallways are decked with paper chains and children’s artwork, the scent of sugar cookies and pine needles filling the air. It’s chaos, but there’s a joyful energy to it that even I can’t deny.

“Okay,” Rebecca says, steering me towards a classroom. “You’ll be helping in Ms. Carson’s second-grade class. Just keep the kids entertained, help with the gift exchange, that sort of thing. You’ll do great.”

Before I can protest, she’s gone, leaving me standing in front of a door decorated with construction paper reindeer and snowflakes. Taking a deep breath, I push it open.

Twenty pairs of eyes turn to look at me as I enter. The classroom is a riot of red and green, with twinkling lights strung across the ceiling and a small Christmas tree in the corner. The kids are seated at their desks, which are covered in glitter and half-finished crafts.

“Um, hello,” I say, feeling wildly out of my depth. “I’m Ms. Anderson. I’ll be helping with your party today.”

There’s a moment of silence, and then a little girl in the front row pipes up. “Are you a Christmas angel?”

I blink, taken aback. “What? No, I’m just... I’m a friend of Ms. Carson’s.” The lie feels strange on my tongue, but I figure it’s easier than explaining the truth.

“Oh,” the girl says, looking a bit disappointed. “Well, can you do magic?”

A chuckle escapes me before I can stop it. “Sorry, no magic. But I hear we have some fun activities planned. Shall we get started?”

The next hour passes in a blur of activity. We play “Pin the Nose on Rudolph,” decorate cookies, and sing carols. I’m surprised to find that I remember most of the words, memories of childhood Christmases with my grandmother surfacing unbidden.

As we’re cleaning up from the cookie decorating, a small hand tugs on my sleeve. I look down to see the same little girl from earlier, her big brown eyes serious.

“Ms. Anderson,” she says solemnly, “I made this for you.” She holds out a slightly misshapen cookie, covered in a mountain of sprinkles and icing.

For a moment, I’m speechless. “For me?” I finally manage. “But... why?”

She shrugs, a gap-toothed smile spreading across her face. “Because you looked sad when you came in. Mommy says cookies make everything better.”

I take the cookie carefully, something warm and unfamiliar blooming in my chest. “Thank you,” I say softly. “That’s very kind of you.”

The little girl beams at me before skipping off to join her friends. I stand there, holding the cookie, feeling like something fundamental has shifted inside me.

As the party winds down and the kids start to leave, their backpacks bulging with crafts and treats, I find myself lingering. The classroom is a mess of glitter and paper scraps, but there’s a cozy, lived-in feel to it that reminds me of my grandmother’s house during the holidays.

I tidy up, gathering scraps of wrapping paper and wiping down desks. As I work, my mind wanders back over the past few weeks in Benton Falls. The tree lighting ceremony, volunteering at the book fair, ice skating with Oliver...

Oliver. The thought of him sends a pang through my chest. But it’s not the sharp, angry pain of the past two days. It’s softer somehow, tinged with regret and a wistfulness I’m not quite ready to examine.

I pick up a crayon drawing left behind on one desk. It shows a stick figure family standing in front of a Christmas tree, surrounded by presents. “My Family” is scrawled across the top in wobbly letters.

Something about the simple drawing catches at my heart. I think about the little girl with the cookie, about how easily she offered kindness to a stranger. I think about Oliver, and how he puts his whole heart into everything he does, whether it’s running his store or organizing a toy drive.

And suddenly, with a clarity that takes my breath away, I realize I don’t want to go back to who I was before Benton Falls. The thought of returning to my cold, efficient life in Boston, where success is measured in dollars and cents rather than in smiles and acts of kindness, feels impossibly bleak.

I sink into one of the tiny chairs, the crayon drawing still in my hand. The past 48 hours have been miserable, yes, but not because of Benton Falls or Oliver or Christmas. They’ve been miserable because I’ve been fighting against the person I’ve become, trying to force myself back into a mold that no longer fits.

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