Page 38 of Santa of the Creek
“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” I mutter.
“I never thought I’d do this again, for sure,” Echo agrees. “I’ll find an elf suit, and we’ll go to the store. I’m sure Georgia sells balloons. I can do balloons and magic. You give out presents and run two games.”
“What games?”
He grins at me. “By the time we face the kids, you’ll know exactly what you’re doing. Can you dance?”
“Dance? Are you high?” Then I sigh and admit the truth. “I can. My parents insisted we learned how to dance.”
“Then we’ll rock around the Christmas tree, and Santa will fall over. I’ll stay on my feet just in case.” Echo settles next to me and kisses me on my cheek.
“Why do you get to stay on your feet, and I don’t?” I protest.
“Because you’re a nice boyfriend, and you know I’ve got a dodgy ankle.”
I growl at him. “You know I expected to spend the day in bed with you.”
He sighs. “Me too, but I can’t let Randy down.”
“This is your day off.”
“You can always say no,” Echo points out.
I scowl at him. “You’re just mean.”
Echo kisses my cheek as he hands me the cup. “You’re welcome. Drink your coffee, and I’ll make a list of what we need.”
I take a deep breath. How bad can it be?
I regard the full cart in bemusement as Echo purses his lips at an astonishing number of packets of glitter tacked to the wall. I think we’ve been wandering around the store for an eternity. It’snot even that large. Georgia waves at us every time we go past the checkout.
“Please tell me we’re finished soon,” I whimper.
“Soon,” he promises, but I know he’s lying.
JoBeth told me that the only reason she and Danny stayed married was they didn’t go shopping together. Otherwise, they would have been divorced within the first six months. I used to laugh and agree, but I didn’t really understand it. After shopping with Echo, I understand.
I have a simple approach to shopping. Home delivery. And if I can’t get it delivered, I’m in the store and out in the shortest time possible. Echo now, he looks at everything, studies it, thinks about it, walks away to think some more, and then returns to it…maybe.
“I thought we were dancing, and you were making balloons,” I say weakly.
“Oh, honey, you have no idea how many props an entertainer needs.” He huffs as if I’m trying his patience.
I’m never going shopping with him again. Life is too short, and I’m too old to deal with ten-minute perusals of glitter.
“But I’m not gonna use glitter,” he decides. “It’s a nightmare to clean up, and I know Randy would make me do it.”
I give him a steady look. “I’m not cleaning the bar with you, okay? I’m not paid to do that.”
“You’re not paid to play Santa,” he points out, then gives me a speculative look. “Randy was gonna pay the entertainer.”
I hum. Maybe there was room for negotiation on this. “He pays for all the props and a small fee to go to an LGBTQ charity of our choice.”
Echo patted me on the butt. “Good idea.”
I flush at his proprietary action and glance around, but no one seems to be taking any notice of us.
He leans closer to me. “We’re okay, I promise.”
