Page 57 of The Thief Who Saved Christmas

Maybe the best thing to do would be to give her the sweetgum ornament and go. Hell, I don’t even need to give it to her. I could hang it up on the tree, all nice and pretty, and disappear in the night.

I seriously consider doing just that. I even take the little box out of the closet, twice, but both times I put it back. I tell myself it’s because one of Grandma Edith’s dying wishes was for me to help Anabelle and the inn, and I’d be a dick to ignore it. But there’s no denying I don’t want to leave her. I can still feel her mouth against mine and her hand tracing over my scar as if she could erase everything that put it there.

I get only a few hours of sleep, but I wake up on Saturday morning with bouncy feet. I leave before breakfast and stop by the gym where I’ve been working out at all week. The owner gave me a good deal because business is slow in December, before the rush brought in by New Year’s resolutions. Unfortunately, that also means he’s not looking for any new employees right now.

While I work out, I think about Anabelle and The Gingerbread House and everything we can do to help it succeed once we get Weston to mind his own business. And I think about my interview, trying to decide whether or not I should even go. It’s a ridiculous job. A temporary job. But I’m leaving, aren’t I? So maybe a temporary job would be best.

It doesn’t hurt that I know it’s a job that would please Anabelle…

So after I shower and change into the clothes I brought for the interview, I head over to Curio. It’s a huge toy store, and I’m not going to lie, I’m tempted to walk around and dance onthe huge musical keyboard, play the handheld video games, and press every button in the place.

I can practically hear Jake calling me Arrested Development, but I don’t know who he thinks he’s kidding—he’s always dived in right after me.

That’s the problem, a voice in my head reminds me.You’ve taken him to bad places, more than once. No wonder he wants nothing to do with you.

I meant what I said to Anabelle yesterday. I don’t want to be that person anymore. Maybe that’s the real reason I pulled away from her. Obviously, I wanted to do so much more than kiss her. If I’d had my way, I would have carried her up to her room and lost myself in her, but then I wouldn’t have been able to make myself leave. And there’s a good chance I would have dragged her into my next bad decision with me.

I head to the front and tell an elderly woman at the cash register that I’m there to see the manager. She’s wearing a pair of jeans paired with a button-up denim shirt and has bright-blue eyes and white hair cut into a short, shaggy style. Most of her wrinkles are around her mouth, so she either laughs a lot or frowns a lot.

She gives me a long look and blows an enormous bubble with her gum, which she lazily draws back into her mouth. The shop just opened, and the store’s not too busy yet.

“And you are?” she says.

“I’m Ryan. I’m here to audition for Santa Claus.”

She snorts. “I’m Ada. We spoke over email.” She shifts and gives me an up-and-down look, her mouth pursed. “There’s no jelly in your belly, kid. The last guy who came in here wanting the gig had at least a hundred pounds on you. That’s what the kids expect. I’d be a fool to hire you over him.”

“I can wear a pillow. One of my foster dads wore a pillow when he played Santa. Children believe what they see. Plus, Icould pick up the reindeer.” I lift my arm and flex. “Juggle some elves.”

She studies me for a moment, looking unamused, then continues to chew her gum. “Foster kid, huh?” She chews aggressively for another few seconds before saying, “What would you say to a kid who asked you for a moped?”

“You’ll shoot your eye out, kid,” I say, referencing my favorite Christmas movie. Maybe the only Christmas movie I’ve ever seen from start to finish, owing to the fact that it used to play constantly on every network around Christmas.

She gives me a half smile. “Or you could convince them what they really need is in this store.” She nods down an aisle. “We’ve got motorized scooters in aisle D.”

“I like the way you think,” I tell her with a grin. “I can handle that. I’ll take a stroll around, familiarize myself with the goods. I’ll be the best salesman Santa you ever had.”

She pops another bubble, then slowly draws the gum back into her mouth. Through it all, her eyes never leave mine, like we’re in a stare-off. Something tells me this broad would beat me, easy. “The pay’s not good,” she says after a moment. “Best I can offer you is fifteen bucks an hour. Four days a week, five-hour shifts.”

Doesn’t sound too bad to me. I could make a lot more as a bartender, but that lifestyle isn’t good for me. Too many loud-mouthed jerks aiming for a fight and women wanting to go home with the bartender.

“All right. It’s about what I’d expect for babysitting.”

She gives a dry chuckle. “Okay. I’m an idiot not to go with the big guy, but I used to be a foster mom. I’m going to give you a shot. Get yourself a Santa suit and a pillow, and come back at three p.m. on Wednesday.”

“Why Wednesday? Mustn’t be many people passing through on Wednesday.”

She pops her gum again, cackling. “Exactly. The days we have Santa are Wednesday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday.I found someone more seasoned to fill in this weekend. We’ll try you out nice and easy on Wednesday, see how you do. Don’t forget the beard and wig.”

“And where would you recommend that I find such things?”

She gives me a flat, unimpressed look. “If you can’t find a Santa suit and a wig in December, you don’t deserve to have a job anywhere, kid.”

“That’s fair,” I say with a grin. Then, because she basically told me to, I do a walkaround of the store, pausing to play Jingle Bells on the step-activated piano. I’m about to head out and go on a Santa-suit-finding mission when something in the stuffed animal section catches my eye—a striped orange cat like Saint Nick, dressed in a Santa suit.

There’s nothing for it. Anabelle has to have it. It’s totally normal for friends to buy gifts for each other, right? Especially after one of them has royally messed up? I grab a shopping basket and stick the cat inside.

I look around some more and notice a Christmas coloring book. Huh. Maybe Hot Chocolate Happy Hour will be more successful if there’s something for kids to do while their parents drink. The coloring book seems boring—or at least boring compared to drinking alcoholic hot chocolate—so I keep poking around until I find some colorforms and a Christmas-themed comic-book-creation kit. My brother’s an artist, self-taught. He’s the one who designed the tattoos we both have on our right forearms, and he’s working on a graphic novel. Maybe he’s finished it already. I feel a tug in my chest as I add both items to my basket.

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