Page 59 of The Thief Who Saved Christmas

I’ve had plenty of people be kind to me out of obligation, starting with my “best friend” in middle school, a girl who was forced by her mother to spend time with me because she thought it would be good for her to learn to be accepting of “differences.”

It wasn’t the first time someone spent time with me because I was a curiosity, an oddity they wished to observe up close. It probably won’t be the last.

I want no part of it.

I come downstairs late, because I don’t want to have to eat breakfast across from Ryan with his wet hair and the knowledge that he was just in the shower,naked. But he’s not in the dining room, and I feel five seconds’ relief, which fizzles into disappointment.

No one is in the dining room, actually, so I head into the kitchen and find Cynthia stooped over the dishwasher. Guilt dances across the small hairs at the bottom of my neck. I should be helping her with this. No, I should be doing it myself.

She looks up at me and drops the dish, but it’s plastic and bounces. “Jesus. What happened? You look like you just saw the Ghost of Christmas Past.”

I almost smile, but I don’t have it in me. Instead, I pick up the plastic dish and fit it into the dishwasher. She rinses another dish and hands it to me, probably because she’s aware having a task will help anchor me—and make it more likely she’ll get information out of me.

“Yesterday was quite a day,” I say, pausing as I look for the perfect placement for the spatula she handed me.

“Jeremy told me about the pipes. He was adamant that he got you the best deal possible, but it’s hard to tell with him. He’s at least fifty percent bullshit.” Her mouth scrunches to the side as she rinses a plate. “But he did call me up and ask me about my audition, so I guess that’s something.”

Oh snap. I forgot to ask her about the audition. More guilt dances at the bottom of my neck. “Cynthia,” I say, taking the dish from her and setting it in the rack, “how was your audition? I’m sorry I didn’t ask.”

I’m guessing it didn’t go well, because Cynthia would certainly have said something as soon as she saw me if it had. In fact, she probably would have offered a champagne toast to all of the guests, including six-year-old Ben, if she’d gotten a movie role.

“I’m too old,” she says gruffly as she hands me a fork.

I drop the fork, caught off-guard, and then pick it up. “They didn’t say that!”

“Actually, they did.”

“Oh,” I say, at a bit of a loss. All I can do is offer the truth, so that’s what I give her. “You don’t look old at all. Besides, life was brutal back then, and no one brushed their teeth. You probably look like a twenty-year-old from the 1600s would have.”

She laughs, showing off her notably white teeth. “They still want everyone to be a perky blond teenager without any body hair. I almost bleached my hair last night, but Jeremy talked me out of it.”

The way she says it ignites a suspicion that’s been forming over the past few days.

“Do you like him?” I ask. “You know…likelike?” Now, I feel like a teenager, but I’m not sure how else to ask.

She gives me anOh Anabellesmile. It fades away, though, as she hands me the final fork from the sink. I stow it away and get the dishwater started.

When I look at her, she still has a far-off expression, but her eyes slowly focus on me. “He’s only twenty-nine, you know.”

“How old are you? I’ve never asked.”

“Too old for him.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“Thirty-six.” She arches her eyebrows. “I could have been his babysitter.”

“Were you, though?”

“No.”

“Good, because that probably would have been weird. But you weren’t, so who cares if you couldn’t have dated ten years ago. He’s perfectly adult now. He’s a year older than me, and you and I are friends.”

I marvel over the ease with which I say it, and the conviction behind it, because it’s perfectly true. We’re friends. I value her, and she values me.

“You think he’s mature?” She gives a harsh laugh and shakes her head. “He spends half his day on social media looking at that stupid video with his bulge.”

Maybe this is where over-honesty will get me in trouble, but I like Cynthia, and I want her to be happy. I want her to be happy more than I don’t want her to be upset with me. “I feel like you would also watch a viral video of yourself over and over again. Maybe that’s something you two have in common.”

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