Page 23 of Fa-La La-La Land
“Go on…”
“Until I was nine, I really believed Nick was Santa. I’d see him around town and figured he was keeping tabs on all of us kids, but when I said as much to Seb, he laughed and told me Santa wasn’t real.”
“Not cool, Seb,” Rhys mutters.
“Right?”
I don’t care that he’s teasing. I love telling this story. “So that year, I asked Santa for an impossible challenge. Something only the real Santa could give me.”
“Which was…?” Rhys asks, completely invested in the story in a very un-grumpy way.
I lick my lips, pausing long enough to build suspense. “I asked for a letter from my dad in Heaven. I told Santa I wanted to get to know him.”
“That’s a big ask.”
“Yep.”
“Let me guess…you got that letter?” Rhys says with a half-grin.
I nod. “I got that letter.”
Rhys shifts uncomfortably, tipping his head back like he’s searching for a gentle way to break bad news to me. “You don’t think someone else could have written it? Maybe your mom or grandparents?”
I set the picture of my dad back on the end table. “Sure. It’s possible, but it wasn’t Mom. She writes like she speaks and cooks, with a sprinkle of Italian spice in everything. I don’t know who wrote it, but I’ve chosen to believe in Santa ever since.”
Rhys considers my flimsy evidence with a slow nod. “So, you believe in Santa because of this one letter?”
“Ichooseto believe,” I say firmly. “Not just because of that letter, but because of the letters I’ve received every Christmas since. My whole family looks forward to when it arrives. Nick always delivers it on Christmas Eve in his full Santa suit. I read it first, then read it again to my whole family, usually while ugly crying.”
Rhys shakes his head. “Not possible…” I tense, waiting for him to tell me I live in Fantasyland or something like that, but he finishes with, “for you to be ugly—crying or not.”
I blink back my surprise, debating how to take his compliment before landing on deflection. “Thanks…so, you don’t think I’m crazy?”
“Course I do. But at least you’re not ugly.” His face cracks into a smile, and I try not to laugh. It’s hard to think of Rhys as boring when he teases.
“You don’t get it.” I shake my head, ready to move on from funny Rhys to the safety of my boring client Rhys. “Whether Santa isrealisn’t the question. It’s whether Ibelievein Santa—and I do. And I will, as long as someone is invested enough in my still believing to give me a letter from Dad every year.”
I pause long enough to watch his face soften into understanding before I go on. “Whoever it is has given me my dad.The letters always include guidance tailored to the age I am when I get them. In junior high, I got advice about how to know if a boy was just immature or real trouble. In high school, he told me not to be afraid of dreaming big or trying everything to figure out what I really love. In college, I heard about his years in the military and meeting Mom. All of them, though boil down to him wanting me to be kind.”
“So that’s…” He ticks his fingers, counting. “Fourteen letters? Did he write all of them? Or…any of them?”
I lift my shoulders in a slow shrug. “He wrote at least three—maybe before I was born, or maybe right after. Mom says he knew when he was deployed, there was a chance he wouldn’t come home. I think, maybe, he wrote them in case I didn’t get the chance to know him.”
We both know how Dad’s story ends, and there’s no sense letting this lump in my throat get any bigger. I swallow hard, then continue my story.
“The handwriting in the letters changed slightly the year I turned thirteen. I knew Santa wasn’t real by then, but I wanted to see if I’d still get a letter. So, right after the Christmas parade, I waited in line to ask Santa—Nick…” I give Rhys a look so he knows I don’t still believe Nick is Santa. “For the same thing I’d asked for every year since I was nine. He asked me at least half a dozen times if I was sure that’s what I wanted, but I just nodded and said yes. Christmas Eve, Nick showed up with a new handwritten letter from Dad.”
“So it’s Nick who writes them?”
I shrug again. “I don’t think so, but I have no idea who does, so…maybe?”
“You’ve never tried to figure it out?” Rhys’s eyes narrow with wonder.
I shake my head. “That would be like opening a Christmas present before Christmas. The magic would be ruined. I get theletters, but my whole family feels like Dad’s there celebrating with us. When whoever writes them wants me to know, they’ll tell me. Until then, as far as I’m concerned, it’s Santa.”
Rhys cocks his head, studying me before giving my hand a quick squeeze. “That’s really…I don’t even know. Lovely? Sweet? I think I’d believe in Santa too if I were you.”
That’s literally the nicest thing Rhys has ever said to me, and I’m tempted to stay right here, trapped in his eyes. Which is a dangerous place to be.
