Page 6 of Spicy Nick

“I sure do not,” Lucy says, then smiles. “But if you’d like to explain the connection, I’m sure Nick would appreciate it.”

She’s not wrong. It sounded a little dire.

Dan shrugs. “Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? It means that sometimes evil disguises itself as good, right? But good’s still gonna look good all the same. Angels equate to Santa—sort of. Santa equates to Saint Nick. Saints equate to good. Hence anyone dressed as Santa is automatically going to look good, even if he’s not. Think about it. It makes perfect sense.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” I murmur. But if you want my opinion, I think the only thing that never makes any sense whatsoever is every single member of my family—Dan included.

“Omigod, Nick,” Lucy laughs. “He’s right. Itdoesmake sense. And that’s obviously why Good Saint Nick was never one of your nicknames.”

“Har-de-har-har,” I reply, still recording my son who’s seemingly having an animated and protracted conversation with Santa.

“Boy, that’s gotta be some long-ass list Cole’s got this year,” Lucy says. “What do you think he’s asking for?”

I shake my head. “I have no idea. But I think I’d better find out before Christmas so I’ll be prepared.”

“Hey, speaking of nicknames, whatwasthat they used to call you?” Dan asks, obviously following his own train of thought. “Spicy Nick? That was it, right?”

“Mm. Something like that,” I reply, in what I hope are quelling tones. A small lie, because of course I remember. And, yes, that’s exactly what it was. Which is idiotic, right? And all due to a now-forgotten TV commercial that I personally don’t recall ever even having seen— something to do with spicy meatballs, I believe? Apparently that, coupled with the fact that spaghetti and meatballs happens to be my signature dish, made for some sort of weird connection in some people’s minds.

“Speaking of spicy,” Dan murmurs as he pulls Lucy close once more, “You taste amazing right now. Is that a new lip gloss?”

“It’s the peppermint,” Lucy tells him. “But hold on a minute. I thought you didn’t like my annoying drink? Are you saying you’ve changed your mind?”

“Nope,” Dan replies. “Itisannoying. It’s in the way and we’ll pro’lly end up spilling it. But Ineversaid I didn’t like the flavor.”

And then they’re kissing. Again. Which, yeah, not exactly a surprise. They’re like this most of the time, but it’s definitely worse at Christmas.

On the other hand, maybe they have the right idea. Could beI’mthe one who’s totally screwing up his marriage by not kissing my wife more often. Maybe I need to take a leaf out of my cousins’ book and think of ways to spice up myownrelationship.

I’d ask them for tips, but that seems vaguely incestuous. Besides, I should be able to figure this out on my own—right? I am Spicy Nick, after all.

At long last, all the wishes and photos are done and Cole hops off Santa’s lap and comes running back over with a big smile on his face. After paying Santa’s Helper for a basic photo package, and saying goodbye to Lucy and Dan, I strap my son into his car seat and head home.

“So, what did you and Santa talk about?” I ask once we’re en route, wending our way across town, traveling through the same familiar neighborhoods and over the same quasi-rural roads that I’ve driven my entire life.

Cole’s eyes are enormous as he takes in all the decorations, house after house lit up for the holidays. And, despite the lateness of the hour, he’s uncharacteristically wide awake. “I asked Santa if he could help Mommy get home in time for Christmas,” he says at last, and I feel my heart sink.

“I see,” I reply, working hard to school my features and maintain a neutral expression because, more pressure—yay. “And…uh, what did Santa say about that?”

“He said that mommies aren’t the kind of thing he usually delibers. ’Cause they’re people and people should be free to make their own choices in life.”

“Okay. Well, you know, he does have a point.” Although one that probably flew over Cole’s young head by about three feet.

“But he said he’d do his best and that I shouldn’t worry about it.”

“Ah. Great.”

Since I’d fedCole dinner before we went downtown tonight—pizza, okay? Don’t judge me—there’s not much to do, once we’re home. Other than the usual, of course; I help him to brush his teeth and get into his pajamas and decide on which books he wants me to read to him. After a couple of stories and a last drink of water, I’m ready to turn off the light. Which, of course, is when he asks, “Can we call Mommy? I need to tell her goodnight.”

Shit. I was forgetting about that—and hoping he would, too. Usually, either Scout or I will call each other in the evening. And yes, mostly it’s her who’s doing the extra emotional labor of dialing. Tonight, however, neither of us remembered. Which shouldn’t be cause to worry—right? It’s rare for us to be out this late in the evening or for Cole to be up this far past his usual bedtime, so probably it’s nothing more than that.

“We’ll give it a try,” I say as I punch in her digits for a video call. “But it’s late, and I don’t know what she’s doing tonight, so she might not answer.”

To my relief, however, she does. “Hey,” she says, looking distracted as she moves through a crowd of flashily dressed people in what appears to be a glittery house party. “How’s it going? I didn’t think I’d hear from you tonight.”

“It’s going okay,” I tell her. “We just got back from seeing Santa.”

“I know. Lucy texted me some pictures. That’s why I didn’t bother calling. I figured Cole would’ve fallen asleep on the drive home.”

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