5. Frankie

5 /

frankie

The first week of the photo booth is usually slow. Kids are just getting out of school, parents are balancing holiday duties with work duties, and grandparents aren’t in town yet. Normally, our first customers are couples looking for cute holiday photos, or older couples reliving their youth and getting into the Christmas spirit.

But now that the booth has been around for a few years and word has spread, our opening day was one for the record books. I can’t tell whether Noah is exhausted or regretful that he signed up for a rigorous unpaid job during his break. Anthony told me that a few of the other guys they graduated high school with got home today, and they plan on watching the Bears game at McGinnie’s tonight with all-you-can-eat wings and pints. I’m sure Noah’s anxious to get out of here. He hasn’t let those cracks show to the kids, though. Not once.

“Ho ho ho!”

My cheeks ache as I smile. I can’t help it. From the first time Noah put on the voice and practiced his belly laugh, it’s sparked a massive grin on my face every time. I never would have guessed, but he’s really good at this.

“And what’s your name?”

It’s the last kid for the night. I hung the closed sign by the rink entrance. I think Noah’s really putting on a show for this kid since he waited for nearly an hour to see him.

“I’m Conner,” the kid answers, a faint whistle capping off his words thanks to the slight split between his two front teeth.

“And how old are you?” Noah asks, tilting his head to the side and giving Conner a good look. We came up with this trick about halfway through the night.

“Wait, don’t tell me. I remember you.” Noah runs his hand over his beard as a skeptical smirk inches up Conner’s face.

“Oh, yeah?” the boy says. He’s six. I know because I got the details from his dad and passed them on to Noah through the earbud I buried in his Santa hat.

“You’re Conner Graham. And you are pretty tall for a six-year-old,” Noah says.

Conner’s mouth falls open, and I hold my fist against my smiling lips. This will never get old.

“Thanks for that,” Conner’s dad says at my side.

“Of course! We like raising money for the community center, but we love making kids smile even more,” I say.

“I’m pretty thankful for both. That Christmas Eve dinner is going to be a bright spot for us this year.”

The man sinks his hands into his jean pockets as he hikes his shoulders in a shiver. The breeze has kicked up so much that I took Norris up on his offer to wear his bowling league jacket. I think it’s more than the cold eating at Conner’s dad, though. And since Noah has Conner talking up a storm right now, I breathe in a deep dose of courage to pry into things that aren’t my business.

“Things are tight?”

I keep my voice low so Conner can’t hear us talk. His father nods, his gaze dropping to the ground, and he kicks at the wet spots on the mat from our long night of customers.

“They furloughed at my company, and my wife is only part-time right now since our daughter just turned one.” His shoulders hike with a short, breathy laugh, the kind not meant for something funny.

“She earns just enough to cover the daycare some weeks. It all feels kind of pointless.”

I reach into my apron, retrieve the ten dollar bill he gave to me a few minutes ago, and move to hand it back. He shakes his head, however, taking a half step back and lodging his hands deeper in his pockets.

“No, ma’am, that donation is what I can afford. And we’ll eat plenty at the community dinner,” he says, his smile struggling to reach his eyes.

“It doesn’t feel right,” I say.

He shakes his head again.

“It wouldn’t feel right not to chip in.”

I draw in a deep breath, my chest tight. I understand his perspective. I just wish I could do more.

Conner’s laughter peels our attention back to him. Norris must have overheard our conversation because he snapped a few candid shots while Noah and Conner were high-fiving. I catch him printing the extras out beyond the father’s shoulder. I nod and smile when he slips them into the envelope.

“Well, did you ask Santa for anything special?” his dad asks, scooping his son up and hoisting him onto his hip.

“I told him about the hockey stick I saw and maybe a new jersey.” His words end with a whistle.

“Oh, well. Hopefully they can get that at the North Pole. If not, I’m sure he’ll get you something just as great,” the man says, his gaze catching mine.

“Yeah. Of course he will, because he’s Santa!” Conner’s fist jets in the air, and his dad pushes his tight smile a little higher.

“Thank you all,” the man says, taking the envelope from Norris and nodding a silent thanks to me before shaking Noah’s hand.

“Man, that kid was cool,” Noah says as the father and son walk along the red carpet that leads to the exit.

“Hockey fan, huh?” I assume.

“HUGE hockey fan!” Noah stretches his arms out for emphasis.

My heart sinks, and I must be wearing the dejection on my face because the second Noah’s eyes meet mine, he drops his arms to his sides. His brow pulls in tight.

“What’s wrong?”

I glance back toward the parking lot, checking to make sure Conner and his dad are well out of range.

“How expensive is that hockey stick he wants?” I’m honestly considering clearing out some of my summer job savings to buy it for him.

“I think it’s going for three hundred, maybe three-fifty. But it’s too big for him anyhow. I think the junior version is half that.”

Half that is still a lot.

“Oh,” I let slip out, my tone reflecting the lump of coal forming in my chest.

Noah’s gaze drifts beyond me to the lot where the man is cranking the engine on a minivan, turning it over three times before it catches into a steady idle. His jaw seesaws as the crease between his brows deepens. I reach for his wrist, circling it with my hand, and his eyes instantly rush back to me.

“You made Conner very happy, and seeing Conner happy made his dad happy.” My hand slides down until our palms connect, and our fingers weave together loosely. It doesn’t feel forbidden until Noah’s gaze drops to our touch. Then his hand is suddenly amazingly warm, and the feeling crawls up my arm into my chest, nearly exploding when his fingers flex between mine and his grasp grows tighter.

“We should close up. I’m sure my brother is waiting for you so he can hit the pub for the game. It’s probably the second quarter by now.”

I stretch my fingers and wriggle my hand from his hold. The way his fingertips rake along my skin as if he’s given up and decided to fall from the cliff he’s been clinging to makes my chest burn. Then he bites his bottom lip as his gaze lingers on mine. I should look away, but I don’t.

Our trance is finally broken by the sound of metal clanking against ice. We both turn to look at the now-dented light kit lying in two pieces about a foot off the mat.

“Shoot, that’s not good,” Norris says, his palm working at the grizzly beard on his chin.

“It’s my fault. I should have helped you,” I say, rushing over to skate onto the ice and grab the few screws that bounced out of reach.

“Ehh, I should know better than to try to do two things at once. I can patch it up before tomorrow. Should be fine.”

I hand Norris three screws and a bolt, and he drops them in his pocket. Noah packs the rest of the camera gear while Norris hands me the various pieces of the busted light and stand as he dismantles it carefully. After Noah and I pull our skates off, the three of us shuttle the pieces out to his car for the night.

“I feel bad about that. I think that’s his own equipment,” I say as Noah and I watch Norris’s taillights fade.

The air is crisp enough that I can see my breath. I form an O and puff out a cloud of white fog that glows under the new LED park lights. My lips tingle, but not from the chill. This vibration is from knowing Noah and I are completely alone. Our vehicles are the only two left. Skating rentals at the rink shut down thirty minutes ago, and a park ranger won’t be here to lock up the gates for at least an hour.

I swallow down the dry lump that is continuously reforming as Noah shifts his weight, digging the toes of his shoes into the frost-covered pavement. He draws a half circle with a sharp edge, like half a heart, and I hold my breath, hoping he’ll finish it. Instead, he erases it with his other foot, adjusts the weight of his duffel, and skates slung over his opposite shoulder.

“One down, eleven more shifts to go,” I say, mostly to break the awkward silence. My heart is thundering so loud, I fear Noah can hear it.

His lip tugs up on one side as he drops his chin and pivots his head until our eyes meet.

“It wasn’t so bad.”

I focus on his lips through the brief stream of fog that escapes with his words. No wonder he was the best kiss I ever had. Just look at that mouth.

“You ready?” I tilt my head to the side toward my car.

“Sure,” he hums, shifting the weight of his bag and dragging his slide shoes along the ground. His socks are Tiff University blue with a tiny yellow lightning bolt on the toes. Such a big man for such adorable socks. I smile to myself.

Noah tugs my backpack from my shoulder when we reach my car, opening the driver’s side door for me, then dumping my bag in the back seat. His massive body, draped in red velvet and white fur, hovers in the tight space between the open door and my left thigh, and I can’t stop envisioning what might happen if I were to simply step one foot out and touch his chest.

“Drive safe, okay? I can’t handle the line of irritable parents by myself,” he says. He takes a step back, and a rush of cool air fills the void. I glance to my arm and realize I’m still wearing Norris’s coat.

“Oh, no!”

I tug at the sleeve, staring at it while I chew at the inside of my cheek.

“I know where he lives. I can drop it off on my way home,” Noah offers.

I squint as I glare up at him.

“Are you sure?”

He nods, holding out his hand.

I shimmy the coat from my arms and slip it around my body before handing it to him. He folds it over his arm, then raps his fingers against the edge of the door.

“Same time tomorrow?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

It feels like we’re stalling. I’m willing to admit I’m stalling. And everything in my gut says Noah is too. I hate that it feels so good to be nervous in his presence. I chased this feeling for nearly half my life, clamoring for him to glance my way, or to honor me with a silly compliment about a new pair of shoes or the color of my prom dress.

“Good night, Noah.” I reach for the door myself and tug it shut. Because if I leave things to him, I have a feeling we would spend half the night floundering around a real conversation in the middle of a parking lot.

Unless, of course, he asked me to stand and face him. And then ran his palm along my cheek, brushing the small hairs from my skin with the pad of his thumb. Then leaned in and kissed me. Again. Just the way he did before.