Page 9 of He Sees You

A dildo. Someone gave me a dildo—and I think I know who.

I already own more than a few models just like this. Between my recent dry spell, plus living on my own for the first time without my family next door or any nosy roommates, I’ve spent countless nights pleasuring myself with one of my toys. This is actually a perfect gift for me, but as I look closer at it, it’s easy to tell that this isn’t a run-of-the-mill, mass-produced toy.

This looks like it was custom-made—and I don’t just mean because someone purposely glued five tiny silver bells around the base or attached a suction cup to it.

It’s a nice length. A pretty good-sized girth, too, but not more than I can handle. And while a nice girl might not see a red silicone cock in a gift box and think, ‘Merry Christmas’, that’s exactly whatI’m thinking…

No. It wouldn’t be right. Accept a sex toy from my secret stalker—oh. I’m sorry. SecretSanta… I can’t do it.

I start to drop the dildo back in the box—and then I pause when I see the suction cop sticking out of the top.

Okay. It has me smiling a little as I know exactly where I could stick it to make the best use of my new Christmas gift…

Just as I start to think it wouldn’t be so bad, that I shouldn’twastesuch a thoughtful gift, I notice the notecard again. Picking it up, I flick it open, and read what it says:

I’m busy gearing up for my Christmas ride, but until then, this should be the perfect replacement for my naughty girl.

Signed,

Santa

I knew it had to be from my secret Santa. Who else? It was in the same spot as the other presents, propped just outside of my door as if it’s spent all Christmas Eve waiting for me, and now I’m home, ready to relax.

Well. I did say I wanted to celebrate Christmasmyway.

What better way than to have fun with such a thoughtful present from my secret Santa?

FIVE

JINGLE BELLS

DEREK

When I was a boy and my mom was still alive, my dad was a huge deadbeat, only worse than he is now because he didn’t just take off back then.

Growing up, the bastard pretended like he still gave a shit, but he was never there when it counted. He was either ‘working’—getting drunk at the bar—or ‘working’—fucking his floozy of the hour in some cheap motel—or ‘working’—running with the losers and lowlifes who weren’t even smart enough to get in with organized crime, choosing to screw up all on their own. I can count the Christmas Eves I spent with Jack Coleman on one hand, and since they usually ended up with my mom in tears, I hate remembering them now.

Instead, I think of the traditions we had together, just the two of us. How we watched our favorite Christmas classics—Mom always pickedThe Year Without a Santa Claus,while I insisted onThe Santa Clause—and made chocolate chip cookies to leave out for a Santa that, no matter how my old man gambled or drank the household money away, always had something for little Derek in his sack.

I haven’t celebrated Christmas since she died when I was twenty-four. That was six Decembers ago now, and if it wasn’t for Dove’s obvious enthusiasm for the season, this would’ve been my sixth Christmas sleepwalking through the jingle bells, the tinsel, and the blinking lights.

In my living room, I have a foot-tall tabletop tree that I’ve covered in glittering white dove ornaments I bought online. Silver garland is tacked a little haphazardly beneath my mounted television. Following her lead, I trimmed my windows in white lights. It’s nowhere near as impressive as her decorating skills, but it’s something at least.

Just knowing Dove Yarrow exists in this world makes it a little brighter after Maggie Coleman left it far too soon.

It’s Christmas Eve. As a nod to my mom, I bought some Tollhouse cookie dough and baked up a few more cookies while I watched Tim Allen fall off the roof. I scarfed them down with a glass of milk, and by the timeThe Santa Clauseis over, and I’m all the way up to the Snow Miser’s part in my mom’s pick, I’m dozing on my couch.

I spent three hours at Dove’s last night, sitting on the edge of her bed, running my fingers through her curls as she slumbered away. The night before, we had another snow storm. I didn’t know when it would end, and sneaking out of her window only to leave my boot prints down her fire escape would be more proof that her secret Santa’s been visiting her than I was prepared to leave behind at this point.

To make up for it—and because I knew that I was off today—I stayed with her until her snuffles went from deep to shallow and I could tell she would be waking up soon. I had enough time to leave the best of the first batch of cookies I baked on a platter in her fridge. My Dove is a little forgetful. Sometimes she’s so consumed by a photo project, she’s too distracted to remember to eat. If cookies showed up in her apartment, she’djust convince herself that she tucked them in the fridge and forgot about them.

What’s the alternative? That a cop dressed up as Santa was drooling over her while she slept, tidying up the apartment for her, and leaving her Christmas cookies?

It’s true, but she’d never believe it.

At least, notyet.

It was the same back in October. Her pretty face might’ve gotten a little pinched the first time she saw the candy I set out in a bowl for her to snack on, or was curious when I pointedly left a pumpkin outside of her front door, but before long, she just went with the flow.

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