Page 37 of Texting My Secret Santa

She strongly suspects I’m her Secret Santa. That’s the only reason she’d have for speaking like this and not-so-subtly dancing around these issues. That means I’ve got a choice. Tell her the truth, mislead her, or stop texting her as her Secret Santa.

Instead, I take the coward’s option and commit to resolving the issue later.

She gazes around the large hall as we enter, a look of wonder on her face. Before I returned home, I never thought any holiday warmth would have filled me. Seeing Holly look around withso much glee has me rethinking that. Her happiness makes me happy.

“Isn’t this amazing?” she says.

Being here with her, I have to admit it is.

Strings of fairy lights twist up the climbing walls, creating a constellation effect.

They’ve dusted artificial snow around the reception desk and bouldering mats. Oversized ornaments dangle from ropes and harness racks.

A Christmas tree stands near the lounge area, decorated with mini climbing ropes instead of the traditional fare. Seasonal music plays in the background, mixing with the sounds of laughter. All the staff members I see sport Santa hats and elf shoes. A chalk station labeled “Santa’s Magic Dust” draws giggles from children. Candy cane-shaped holds mark holiday routes, challenging climbers to “scale the North Pole” or “conquer the Gingerbread Mountain.”

Holly skips to me, beaming. “There’s so much more here than they advertised online. Do you think I can get some footage before we climb?”

I smile. “You can do whatever you want, Snowflake. I’ll go check us in and see what the procedure is. In the meantime, have at it.”

I walk to the front desk and speak quickly with the receptionist. She explains we need to be fitted with safety harnesses and watch the video safety briefing. Each climbing wall is self-service. We clip ourselves on, clip out, and it’s an automatically slack system, meaning we’ll fall like snow if we descend.

“That’s great, thank you.”

“The next briefing is in five minutes. You can get fitted with your harnesses then, too,” the receptionist says.

“Thanks again.”

I find Holly kneeling on the floor, angling her camera up at a gingerbread man. I watch her, a smile on my face. Her passion is apparent in her furrowed eyebrows, her tongue sticking out the corner of her mouth in concentration.

She turns, laughing. “Sorry. I think that’ll be great for B-roll.”

“I forgot to ask. What’s this video for?”

“For?” she says.

“Yeah. Is it for a competition or work or—What?” I laugh. “You’re looking at me like I’ve just grown a set of antlers.”

She giggles. “My Christmas terminologyisrubbing off on you, isn’t it?”

“Guilty as charged. Why are you looking at me like I’ve lost my mind?”

“The video isn’tforanything,” she says. “I saw this place advertised and fell in love with it, so I wanted to make a video. I guess I’ve never grown out of that desire to film for filming’s sake.”

“Like when you were a kid, little Tarantino, skipping around the place with a smile on your face and a camera in your hand.”

“I keep them in a file on my computer,” she says.

“You’ve got more of these passion projects?”

She nods. “Yeah, maybe around ten. Just little fun things for myself, not for the world to see.”

“Why not let the world see them?” I say. “You’re so talented. Your talent shines through in every video marketing campaign you do for the company. If you made a website to showcase your work, I bet people would be interested. I knowI’dbe interested.”

Her smile is a gift I never want to stop earning. “Maybe. Maybe not. I’ve never really thought about it.”

“That’s why you need me.”

“Need you,” she repeats.

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