Page 61 of The Thief Who Saved Christmas

She turns and goes, leaving me in the kitchen with the whirring dishwasher. I take my phone out of my pocket and tap into it. I want to talk to Ryan, and I also don’t, but I one hundred percent want to talk to Joe.

I open the chatroom messaging app.

Ana-bell: Ryan told me.

Ana-bell: I’d like to talk. Where are you?

Jo-Ho-Ho: I’m on my fourth gingerbread latte at Aromas. You know how I get with my comfort drinks, and I figured it was kind of an homage to The Gingerbread House.

Jo-Ho-Ho: I’m so sorry.

Jo-Ho-Ho: When my parents found out I was gay, they turned me out of the house.

Jo-Ho-Ho: I was worried you might feel differently about me once you knew.

Ana-bell: That’s horrible, Joe.

Ana-bell: Wait. Is that how you spell your name?

Jo-Ho-Ho: Ugh. Yes. I’m sorry.

Ana-bell: Well. You know I would never turn someone away because of something like that.

Jo-Ho-Ho: Logically, I understood that. But tell that to my anxiety.

Ana-bell: I get it. Of course I get it.

Jo-Ho-Ho: I’m a mess. If you don’t want to meet me, I totally understand.

I pause, my fingers poised over the keys. Aromas is just around the corner. I could be sitting across from Joe in five minutes.Five minutesafter all this time.

I’m tempted to defer our meeting. To tell him that he can come to happy hour tonight, which will give me more time to process everything that’s changed and changing, but Joe has been my number one confidant for a long time now. Iwantto meet him, even if he’s not the person I’d envisioned him to be.

Besides, what good has waiting done for me lately?

I’d sensed something was off in my relationship with Weston for months, and I’d let it go because I was too upset over Grandma Edith to even think about making a change. If I’d been proactive then, neither of us would have needed to experience that awful proposal.

Ana-bell: I’ll be right there.

It’s chilly outside, and as I walk down the cobbles, my head tucked, I feel butterflies and snakes uneasily coexisting in my stomach. I almost turn back twice, but I steel myself and continue on.

It’s Saturday morning, and even though Colonial Williamsburg hasn’t opened yet and most of the college students probably won’t roll out of bed for hours, several people are still milling around, pointing to the red bows adorning gates, one of Williamsburg’s notoriously bold squirrels, or a distant sheep in a pen. The air smells like winter—crisp and with an edge of cinnamon and campfire. I love the smell of winter air. It’s something I yearn for in the middle of summer when Williamsburg is a swamp and everything smells like sweat and suntan lotion.

I try to soak it in now as I get closer to the coffee shop.

A few more steps, past a group of tourists with a small blonde child and a dog, around a college student so sucked into their phone they don’t seem to notice the world around them. Then the door is in front of me. Then I’m opening it. The scents of the shop meld with the winter scent of the air, and I try to let that steady me.

It’s only now, standing in the doorway of the coffee shop, that I realize I have no idea what Joe looks like. The snakes are starting to overpower the butterflies, but as my gaze sweeps around the shop, I see him.

I know it’s him in my chest.

Not because of his dark hair and glasses or even because of his amazing Santa water-skiing sweater, but because he’s Joe. He radiates Joe.

I take a deep breath, release it, and approach his table. He turns to look at me as I approach, his eyes rounding, and suddenly I feel tears pressing at my eyes. Joe’s here, after all of this time, and it doesn’t matter that he’s a man or that I didn’t have enough time to plan for this meeting. I’m happy he’s here.

He gets to his feet, and I’m hugging him before he can even say anything. He starts laughing, and then we’re both laughing, practically dancing on our feet.

“It’s you,” I say. “It’s you.”

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