Page 45 of The Thief Who Saved Christmas

“But how can you believe in the Grinch and not Santa Claus? What would he even steal if Santa hadn’t brought Christmas?”

His eyes seem to twinkle with the reflected lights from the Christmas tree when he says, “Everyone knows the grown-ups give the gifts. Before I met you, I never much cared about Christmas, but I like the way it lights you up from the inside. Like you’re full of Christmas lights. I could listen to you talk about Christmas for hours and not get bored.”

I find myself leaning toward him, wanting to suck up his words as if I’m dry stone. The only person who’s ever liked to listen to me monologue about Christmas is Jo. And no one has ever, ever told me I’m lit up from the inside. I’ve always just been Anabelle, the quiet girl. Or sometimes Anabelle, the girl who doesn’t know how to shut up when she should. “Tell me more, Ryan. I want more.”

He rubs his chin. “My brother and I are identical twins, and my mother left us when we were four. That’s something else I can tell you. We had a few nice foster parents, but their Christmas decorations were for their real kids. We were lucky if they remembered to pick up a couple of discount stockings and write our names on them with glitter glue.”

I feel that sadness blanket wrap around my shoulders again. It’s like this for me sometimes—other people’s emotions become my own. Especially when it’s someone I care about. It can be easier for me to feel their emotions than to know what’s going on within my own chest.

“I’m sorry,” I say, wrapping my hand around his wrist, feeling the way the muscle cords around it. I find myself tracing his tattoo and snatch my hand back. Struggling to compose myself, I add, “That must have been hard.”

“But I always had my brother.” He sounds even sadder now, probably because he doesn’t have him anymore. It must feel like a limb is missing. I wouldn’t know, because I’ve never had a brother or sister. My parents couldn’t have another child, much to their disappointment.

“You’ll have him again,” I insist. Wanting to move him away from his sadness, I continue, “And what did you do in New York?”

He brushes his mouth with his hand. “It’s part of that dark place, Anabelle. I don’t want you to judge me.”

Emotion catches in my throat. “I don’t want to judge you.”

“But you might anyway, right?”

I consider this seriously and then nod before I respond. I want to be honest with him. He’s not a murderer, so I wouldn’t throw him out. I know him too well to wonder if he’s a rapist or abuser. As for anything else…

I can forgive it, if it’s in the past, but will I be able to not judge him? I can’t say for sure.

I grew up believing in the rules—follow them and you’re good, break them and you’re bad. I’ve experienced enough of the world to know that metric is too simple for real life, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy to let go of it entirely.

“I…I don’t know,” I finally say, feeling a different kind of burn in my throat. “I’m sorry.”

He brushes his fingers lightly over my cheekbone. “Don’t be sorry. I like you exactly the way you are. Now, what do you say we go get that stocking you hung up earlier and see how many dick pics Cynthia stuffed into it?”

Seven. One of them is wearing a Santa hat. I can’t hang it up behind my desk for obvious reasons, but it’s definitely a keeper.

I wander through the rest of the day in a daze, fulfilling a few orders and checking the other guests’ suggestions for the inn.

Santa’s House.

The Red and Green Inn.

The Christmas Inn.

Santa’s Helpers.

I text them to Jo, who writes back,

Jo-Ho-Ho: What about The Gingerbread House?

And my heart lights with a new glow, because that’s the one. I can see the sign already in my mind’s eye, welcoming people inside.

Ryan is the first person I tell. I admit that I’m worried about disappointing Ben, and he points out that Ben also submitted a very good suggestion about hiding some of my Santa Clauses around the inn and having a scavenger hunt for kids.

I go to bed with a heart that’s both heavy and full. The Gingerbread House feels like it’s coming together, but in order to make this place mine, I will have to transform it into something other than my grandmother’s.

Life is always like this, a war between the past and the present, which the present always seems to win. Usually, I hate that. But tonight…

I’m excited for what the future might bring.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

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