Page 11 of The Santa of the Mountain

Now I’m not exactly an expert on eggnog. I never had a taste for it until I had Bert’s, but I’m almost certain that it shouldn’t be chewed. No liquid should. Especially liquid that has milk and eggs.

I swallow the bile rising in my throat, shove my gloved hands inside my coat pockets, and glance around the winter wonderland around me. I need to focus on something other than the sound of Evan chewing scrambled eggnog.

The sleigh ride has been surprisingly pleasant. We’ve navigated the well-tread tracks with relative ease. There hasn’t been a single Clydesdale-sized fart in the last five minutes, and the speaker thankfully ran out of batteries ten minutes ago, so I think I might make it out of this with my sanity intact.

“Is it legal to drink and sleigh drive?” He thinks I’m flirting, but I’m not. I’m wondering if I’ll have to take the reins at some point.

“I don’t think there are any elves to pull us over,” Evan says. “Anyways, it’s non-alcoholic.”

Another swig. More chewing. A little coughing and sputtering.

“How is it?” I ask tentatively.

“Different,” he says. “I had some of it a few days ago before boarding the plane and it tasted fantastic.”

He takes another drink, grimacing as he swallows, and for a brief moment, I think I’m going to be sick.

“It’s the same batch,” I mutter, less of a question than a statement of fact. A statement of complete disbelief. A statement that…Oh my god.

“It keeps, right?” he asks, glancing at the thermos. “I read that online.”

“Refrigerated, sure. With alcohol, even longer. But…”

I’m not sure what to say at this point because he’s still drinking the stuff, sighing and—ugh, I think I threw up in my mouth a little—burping.

“You know it gets better the more I have,” he says, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

“Are we almost to the pavilion?” I ask, hoping to redirect the conversation away from eggnog.

“Almost there,” he says before burping yet again. “Excuse me. It’s sitting a little heavy in my stomach.”

Then why are you still drinking it?! I turn my head, focusing again on the snowscape around me, thinking happy thoughts, wishing for all of this to come to an end. But my wishes seem to shatter as Rudolph lets out a foul fart that I can taste.

Whoever thought sleigh rides were romantic never went on one with Rudolph. He neighs and Evan coughs. When I glance at Evan I swear he’s turned a few shades lighter. A little greener and sweatier.

“Are you okay?”

“Fine,” he mutters quickly before closing his mouth, cheeks expanding as he cringes.

What do I do? Should I bail out?CanI bail out?

“Oh, god,” Evan moans, clutching his stomach as he lets go of the reins.

“How do we stop?” I ask. “We should stop.”

“Whoa,” he whimpers.

“Whoa, what?”

“Say it and pull the reins. Oh, god it’s happening again,” he whines curling into the fetal position next to me.

I leap into action, grabbing the reins and tugging at them as I yell, “Whoa, Rudolph. Whooooooa!”

And to my surprise, it works. And not a moment too soon. Evan leaps out of the sleigh, stumbling in the snow on all fours. I close my eyes because I don’t want to see what happens next. Too bad I can’t lop off my ears.

“Burns,” he cries. “In my nose-hurghleburbleurghhh.”

And for the first time this sleigh ride, I wish that the Bluetooth speaker worked. I’ll take Evan’s solo rendition ofBaby, It’s Cold Outsideover him emptying his stomach in the snow any day of the week.

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