Page 6 of He Sees You

Last week, I received a poinsettia plant, delivered from Louise’s Florals. It had a business card so I knew who delivered it to the front desk of my apartment building, plus a note that simply said:from your secret Santa.

Growing up, my family always had at least one cat in the house. Because poinsettias are toxic to them, we never decorated with the Christmas-affiliated plants in their pretty pots and the red foil wrapper. That’s one downside to my apartment, though. It’s cheap enough for me to afford a one-bedroom on my own, but my lease is clear: no pets. So while I have plenty of stuffed cats to replace the living ones I was used to, that meant I could at least bring the poinsettia inside, decorating my small kitchen table with it.

I love Christmas. Sure, it’s lonely since I don’t have any plans to go home for the holidays. When all I’ll hear are questions from my extended family—and immediate, too, for that matter—about when I’m going to get married and have kids, I don’t mind skipping the holiday reunions at Christmas. I’ll fly out to Colorado in February, and by then my mom will be so happy to have her eldest child home for the week, she won’t risk running me off by reminding me that I haven’t been in a serious relationship in nearly four years…

My secret Santa followed up the poinsettia with a wreath that someone hung on the front door to my apartment. I asked both the front desk and the neighbors on my floor, but no one knew who did it—or how they got into the building to do it in the first place without signing in on the first floor.

I know, though. Santa did it.

Am I losing it? I think I might be. For months now, I keep getting this whiff of male cologne in my apartment when I know damn well that the only guy who comes in to my personal space is my super and that’s only when I call for an issue. Besides, just to set my mind at ease, I asked Andre to check the leaky sink inmy bathroom, surreptitiously sniffing him to see if he wore that cologne.

I’d be fucking pissed if he was using his master key to let himself in while I wasn’t home, but it wasn’t Andre. He didn’t wear any cologne at all, and I convinced myself it had to be seeping in from under the door or something. I live next door to a young gay couple. Maybe Todd or Jace like that scent.

The cologne was just the beginning, though. Sometimes… sometimes I get the feeling like someone has been through my shit. My remote is moved. My shoes aren’t where I left them. Snacks I don’t remember buying are in my cabinet.

I’m going through panties like crazy. The community washing machine must be chowing down on my private laundry because I’ve had to buy moretwicesince the end of summer.

And then, as though my secret Santaknowsthat, he left a discreet package just outside of my front door earlier this week. It was a lacy pair of red underwear that was my exact size, and for the first time, I felt a little…tinglewhen I thought about Santa stalking me.

If it was Jerry giving me underwear, I’d be on the phone with HR so fast, his head would spin. But some fantasy of a younger, fitter Santa wanting me to spend Christmas with him wearing nothing but those panties?

Yeah… I might just be losing it, after all.

It’s Christmas Eve,and apart from catching my Santa standing a block down the street from my apartment during a light snowfall last night, I haven’t heard from him at all.

Did he think he went too far with the panties? When I came to my senses and realized that it was inappropriate formy Christmas stalker to send me underwear, I hid them at the bottom of one of my dresser drawers. I tend to do that a lot, though I live alone, and it’s tucked out of sight just like my stash is.

It doesn’t matter. I’ve been too busy to spend time thinking about him. For all I know it was a sick prank. A joke, even. Someone who gets their kicks fucking with lonely women during the holidays. Besides, after Jerry gave up on Ally after she got back together with Scott, he’s been on my ass again to pay him a little attention outside of work hours. I already have one Santa who won’t leave me alone. Two’s pushing it.

I got through the last week by telling myself that, come Christmas Eve, Jerry’s contract with Waverly’s is over. I’ll go back to manning the photography studio in the store, and he’ll move on to sexually harass some other poor girl.

I usually enjoy being head elf in ‘Santa’s Village’. The costume is plus-size friendly, so I look as good in it as Nadine and Lisa do. I’ll admit, the prosthetic ears are a little annoying, but the kids love them so I don’t mind. Still, by the end of the season, I’m ready from a little break from holly and jolly and all things ending in -olly.

Management at Waverly’s do give us staff a tiny gift for the holiday: we get to shut up ‘Santa’s Village’ earlier than normal on Christmas Eve. After I dodged Jerry’s offer to spend the holiday with him, I’m looking forward to winding down, relaxing, and maybe watching a Christmas movie or two to put me in the holiday mood.

It’ll be sad, knowing that my meticulously decorated Christmas tree won’t have any gifts beneath it. That’s on me. I told my mom not to ship me any with how hectic the postal service is in December. I’m a big girl. I can wait until I fly out to celebrate Christmas with the fam after the new year, and that includes opening my presents.

Sure, she then pointed out that I shipped my wrapped gifts tothem, but my brothers are barely in their twenties. To me, they’re still kids. I wanted them to have their gifts.

Besides, there’s only one thing I really want this year. Well, two, if I count knowing who the hell my secret Santa is and why he’s been stalking me. But since I’m not holding my breath on that one, and there’s no way my parents could afford to give me what Ireallywant, I’ll practice my grateful expression for when I inevitably open up an oversized sweater, a new lens for my camera, another stuffed cat that looks like the ginger kitty I had to put down when I was twenty-two, and one of those digital picture frames that switch photos on a timer.

I get the same things every year. And Iamgrateful. It’s just… what I really want? I want to thank Mr. Waverly for the opportunity, then start my own portrait studio where I can be my own boss and use my hard-earned photography skills to make me money and not another department store.

I’ll never earn that on my paycheck. Neither will my mother—a high school teacher—and my dad—a janitor in the same school. They work hard, and they did everything to provide for me, Colin, and Brian, but buying the real estate in a city like Springfield to run my own business? That takes money.

Luckily for me, I’ve been earning some lately…

It’s a side hustle. That’s how I explained it when Mom was shocked at the amount of gifts I mailed out, and if she could sense I was being intentionally vague, allowing her to think I was taking head shots on the side like I did during college, that’s okay. She doesn’t need to know the truth. Not when it would only upset her.

I don’t have to do it all that often. Once or twice a week, maybe, and usually the exchanges take place near the delivery dock on the southside of Waverly’s. I take a break, do what I have to do, and walk out of work a couple of dollars richer. Afterfour months, I’ve already earned enough for a down payment. Give it a year, and I might even be able to leave Waverly’s before having to deal with Jerry again.

For now, I’m counting down the minutes until I can clock out, go home, and celebrate Christmasmyway.

And then, about twenty minutes until I can put out the sign that cuts off the Santa line, Nadine comes sidling up next to me.

FOUR

DON’T OPEN UNTIL XMAS

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