“What an idiot,” Frank murmurs. “My idiot.” The card goes in what has steadily become an overflowing drawer of Norman letters before Frank opens what I can only assume is alesserdrawer ofnotNorman letters and pulls out a post-it note. “Here.”
“Um.”
“My letter to ‘Santa’.”
Upon the hot pink paper, a barely discernible list is scrawled.A million dollarstakes up first place.
I adjust my Santa hat. “Brian provided everyone with special envelopes for their Christmas lists.”
“Yeah.”
Anxiety knots in my chest. “This…isn’t that special envelope?”
“My special envelope got lost.”
I glance behind her, at a stack of papers, including the special red envelope Brian made sure to provide to every single person who wanted one in the building. Something in my head saysjust tell herandwhat’s the worst that could happen?But something in my heart is playing boss music very loudly and reminding me that respect means silence.
But silence isn’t very character arc of me…
Taking a deep breath, I situate my pillow stomach, march past Frank, and retrieve the envelope. Unreasonably terrified, I say, “Tada…”
“Was that actually there the whole time?” Frank asks, brows lifted above her glasses.
“I…think so.”
She takes it from my hand and slips her post-it note inside, murmuring, “And that’s what happens when you have the object permanence of a newborn…” as she closes it. With a smile, she offers me the envelope. “It’s a Christmas miracle, Santa.”
I offer an awkward laugh as I tuck the letter in with the others I’ve been collecting. “Ho, ho, ho! Have a merry day!”
Unreasonably exhausted, I make my way out of Frank’s office, through the graphics department, and into the hall.
It shouldn’t be this hard.
I know it.
I shouldn’t feel like my arms and legs weigh thirty extra pounds after doing nothing wrong. I was only trying to behelpful. Without an envelope, Frank’s list may have gotten crumpled in the bottom of my bag, and then she wouldn’t be able to participate in whatever Brian’s planning.
It’s not bad to try and help someone. It’s also not bad to mention the rules kindly.
I guess I’m just used to people who insist that the rules don’t apply to them and who take offense that they would ever need help.
“Santa?” Brian’s voice makes me tense, but I turn to face him. The bells on his hat ring as he stops and salutes. “This floor is cleared, sir. All incoming mail to the North Pole has been intercepted and is ready for processing. Awaiting further jolly orders. Or, perhaps, it’s time for a milk and cookies break?” Losing all his militant airs, Brian grins, pinching his fingers together as the corners of his eyes crinkle. “Maybe just a little milk and cookies break, hm?”
My shoulders ease. My heart quiets.
“Come on,” he says, so warmly, ushering me toward the elevator. “Sweet & Salty has Christmas cookies this month.”
Christmas cookies. In July. As the silver doors close, I ask, “How did you manage that one?”
“I have excellent powers of persuasion, and an entire office building next door hyped up on Christmas fumes. It’s hot. Even the people who aren’t entirely participating are enjoying pretending it’s not the dead of summer this month. Everyone’sa little happier to walk into work, see a stuffed snowman by reception, and munch on their breakfast snowflake cookie from everyone’s favorite cafe.” He plants a finger beneath his nose like a mustache. “That’s elementary, my dear St. Nick!”
I laugh.
He drops his hand and switches our hats before he leans against the wall. “What happened, A-mail-ia?”
My head shakes, and I find myself toying with a tiny bell on his elf hat. “Nothing. So genuinely nothing.”
“It’s okay fornothingto feel likesomething.”