Page 56 of Clause & Effect
And now as a grown ass, flawed as hell adult, I’m standing in front of him. And he happens to be the dad of the guy I want to sleep with and do all sorts of dirty the moment I have alone time with him.
I couldn’t make this up if I tried.
I mean what the actual hell? This isn’t just a, hey maybe I should get something on the books with my therapist moment, it’s more like, might need to put you in full retainer for the next six months while we process this.
I’m actually staring at Santa Claus. I wonder if I should run back in the bathroom and hide, not that hiding will make any of this pan out differently, then I’d be a grown ass adult woman rocking in the dirty bathroom floor.
Rocking around the Christmas tree. Ha, not the time and now the song is stuck in my head along with every other Christmas carol that has to do with Santa.
Why is there no Wi-Fi in Santa’s Village?
“Charlie?” Stetson asks me in concern as I heave the ugly tears no woman wants to do in front of the man she’s trying to impress. It’s too much to take though, it’s not just the information, it’s the actual weight of it getting heavier and heavier the longer my brain cells process.
I swallow the lump in my throat and try to gain more control over my emotions but it’s useless as hot tears stream down my cheeks quickly turning into full-fledged sobs like my life just exploded in front of me.
“I-I-I’mmm o-o…k,” I’m barely coherent as my chest heaves up and down and I try to get a goddamn grip. “I j-just, need...” A minute. A year. Something.
I don’t know what’s come over me.
Lie.
Yes, I do.
Santa Claus just made me remember my childhood and not just the shitty memories—the ones with Ethan that made me happy and made it all kind of worth it. The ones I wanted to hold onto and never let go of—he reminded me of the joy.
“You don’t sound like it, sweetheart,” he says in that soft voice and just before I’m about to throw myself in his arms and relive every nostalgic moment in my life, Santa aka Stetson’s dad pulls me in his arms and pats me on the back like he’s done it a million times before, like he genuinely cares and wants me to know that in a sea of children—I matter.
“There, there, Charlie,” his voice is soothing, and I feel like I’m wrapped in some protective forcefield. “You made sure your brother only had light in his life and sometimes that’s all we can do; shield them from the darkness taking it on ourselves so all they see is the sliver of hope light brings.”
I feel seen. So seen for the first time in my life that I start to cry harder. Oh God, I wonder when these ugly tears are going to stop, at this rate I’m going to dehydrate myself and pass out.
“And now,” he says gently pulling away, placing his hand on the top of my head. “Everything is going to feel okay, like a lovely dream you’ve relived, own the happy, acknowledge the sad exists, and choose to think on the moments that bring you joy. It’s all going to be okay, Charlie.” As he says the last words and places his hand on my head the tears just stop like a reservoir gone completely dry, a dam to hold the water back no longer needed.
Even the shaky breaths and ugly chest heaving stops completely stop. My breathing evens out. I feel almost, normal if that was a word one could actually use in a situation like this.
Crap, Stetson’s going to think I’m a basket case and his dad had to probably work some sort of ancient Santa magic to make me sane again. Does he have this effect on everyone or am I the lucky unstable one? More importantly, do they at least send you away with a present and a cup of hot chocolate for your trauma?
Unfortunately for me, I’m not a pretty crier. When I cry my nose and cheeks turn bright red making me look like I belong next to Santa and stay like that for quite some time. It’s my complexion and it’s a curse, which is why I very rarely let myself indulge in the stupid emotion in the first place. I guess that means that I do have some vanity left in me, I don’t like looking weak and I don’t like looking ugly—least of all in front of Stetson.
He's been quiet this whole time, supporting me with his silence and his presence in a way I can’t really explain. Maybe he saw the freak out coming. Maybe, like I originally thought, this is a normal occurrence like when you meet someone powerful or famous or even meet your childhood hero you just lose all sense of normalcy. Either way, even if I couldn’t see Stetson, Iwould know he’s there like we have an invisible tether linking us together.
Stetson’s dad pulls away from me and smiles at what I know is a swollen face. His eyes are full of understanding and dare I say a bit of mischief now. I immediately feel better.
“Perfect,” he rubs his hands together and announces. “And now, we cook!”
He turns around and makes his way into the massive stainless-steel kitchen. It has a red range and subzero fridge and even though I don’t see any cookies it smells like they’ve just been pulled out of the oven. Everything is sleek while also feeling like a home and something tells me Santa doesn’t just make amazing toys—he knows his way around the pies and meats too. Silence washes over us as Santa moves around and starts grabbing some pots and pans humming Jingle Bells to himself and I almost laugh because really what else would you expect the man to sing? Megadeath? Though honestly, I’d probably join in. Stetson is silent by my side. I’m not sure if I should say something first or if it’s going to be him, so I simply tuck my hair behind my ear like a nervous coward and wait.
Vulnerability is not something I enjoy feeling, add the shyness that won’t stop prickling at the back of my neck and I’m so uncomfortable I nearly rip the band aid off and ask Stetson for a shot of whiskey and the exit. I don’t behave this way in front of men. I’m strong, I’m independent, I know how I am. I’ve worked my ass off to find my strength outside of LA, where I grew up, and everything it tried to tell me I am. Slowly, I look up and see Stetson take a step towards me. At least he’s not running for the gum drop hills and chasing after sugar plum fairies.
“Look at me.” It’s a command, a gentle one, one that pulls me into its orbit in a way I can’t explain.
Following his command is easier than breathing.
His smile is tender, his words hold no ulterior motives, it’s nice. He leans in with a grin. “You look like Rudolph.”
I gasp and put my hand to my nose in horror then give him a shove. “It’s my nose!” Embarassment slams into me. Shit! I knew it! I knew it! “It happens when I cry, okay? And I don’t cry often!”
“Lucky me that I get to be the one to catch your tears then.”
