11. Adventure Awaits

11

ADVENTURE AWAITS

PATRICK

Santa. Is. Real.

It doesn't matter at all that Quinn just sounded frustratingly like Calvin Carver when he said "Our room. Now ."

I'm too awestruck to care.

When we make it to our bedroom it's as if all my senses have sharpened past their peak. The world is candy-cane crisp. Everything from the framed photos of us in college displayed on the dresser to the overstuffed built-in bookshelves with Quinn's novels and my coffee table books is in high-definition. Like my glasses' prescription got an upgrade.

Normally, when I stumble into our room at this hour after a late night of working on some project or another, the queen-sized bed calls to me. Right now, I've never been more awake.

"We have to do it," I say. The warmth and lure of the enchanted cloak we've left in the foyer sizzles in my fingertips still.

Quinn is half-heartedly making the bed. "Pat, listen to yourself. You're out of your mind. The only things we have to do are fix up this house, cook a ham, and be ready for your parents to arrive by three P.M . tomorrow. Whatever else happens is not our business."

I empathize with Quinn in this moment because I know I threw us in the deep end by agreeing to host Christmas. And I know he's under immense stress at work. And I know he's unhappy with me for not telling him I lost my job. But… but…

"It's Santa ." The words ring in my own ears as childish. I suppose that makes sense. All my wildest childhood fantasies have been confirmed tonight. If Santa Claus and elves and the North Pole exist, what about the futuristic dream house I concocted in grade school? Is there magic in this world that could make that real? If not that, then what about the more realistic one I'd imagined for Quinn and me? The charming porch and the stone exterior and claw-foot tub?

What about what I wrote in that letter to Santa on my twenty-second birthday?

I wish to love Quinn Muller forever.

Maybe the universe is giving me a gift. A surefire solution to the problems we've been facing.

"What are the odds that we agree to host Christmas, and I get…" I stop myself short. No sense reminding him of my unemployment status right now. It deserves its own conversation. Once this is settled. "… All messed up with the lights, and I was awake for this to happen. Think of all the years we've slept through it. All the years we were convinced the other was eating the cookies. Doesn't this feel fated?"

"No, it feels outrageous."

"Think about your students." I didn't want to have to pull this card. But he's making this difficult. "What if that guy that just quit never made it to their houses and they wake up tomorrow present-less like those poor Who children in The Grinch ?"

"The moral of that story is the presents don't matter."

"Maybe in a perfect Seuss-world, but come on. If you were a child, how would you feel if you woke up on Christmas morning knowing Santa hadn't been there?"

Quinn's eyes cast downward. He blows out his cheeks. This is the same way he got when I proposed to him. Even the same way he got when I was trying to convince him to invest our money in this house that has a defunct clock built into the wood paneling and faucets that will, no matter how many plumbers come check on them, not stop leaking.

Maybe I hate this house, too.

"Didn't you just say we felt old and settled and boring?" I ask.

"No. I said bored . There's a difference." He retreats from me. "There's no way in hell I'm boarding a magical flying sleigh. Too many things could go wrong." Quinn lives in the present. You have to when you're a teacher. Balancing today's lessons with the various ailments and interruptions of seven-year-olds. I, as an architect, have to choose to live for the brighter future. Innovation. Pushing the envelope.

"I understand," I say. "If tonight, I can help make tomorrow a magical day for children all over the globe, then I have to put on that cloak and go." I reach out to grab his right hand. I run the pad of my thumb across his wedding band. "But I really want to go with you."

That's what I'd said in my vows. Which took me ages to write. When I stood up in front of our friends and family, on that day at sunset on the Jersey Shore, I told Quinn that in every adventure life brought me, I wanted to be able to look to my side and see him smiling there. This is no exception.

"I'm sorry, but this is all incredibly ridiculous, I'm so freakin' tired, and I just don't trust you right now," he says, taking his hand back.

My chest hitches. I'm hurt by his words. But I'm more pissed at myself for losing his trust. "I get it." I pause to consider what I say next. "I guess I'll, uh, see you when I get back?"

"Yeah, I guess." His voice is exasperated. He sits down on the bed and faces away from me.

I close the door as I exit the bedroom, so I'm not tempted to look back at him. Because if I do, I know I'll stay. I'll drop to my knees at his feet and ask him what I need to do to make this all okay again.

But there's a time-sensitive mission at hand that feels destined for me. I can't let that pass.

Back downstairs, the cloak is still there but Hobart isn't.

"Hobart?" I shout into the room. He probably has some kind of magical hearing. I'm proven right, even if I still jump from the shock when he materializes in front of me, surrounded by his bright cloud of gold.

"You called?" He's clutching his pocket watch like it might explode at any second.

"I'm in," I say.

He looks around. "Just you, then?"

My heart aches for Quinn. But what can I do? Christmas can't be canceled. "Just me."

"Okay then. It's time. Put on the cloak."

The moment I have permission, the tingling takes hold of me until I'm clutching the fabric of the cloak. I wrap it around myself and disappear into a haze of golden glitter. It feels as if, simply by my putting it on, it's changing my molecular makeup. The glitter is spiraling in between my cells.

My body grows fuller. And taller. Power surges through me.

Then, the gold dust stops swirling, falls, and shoots itself into the palms of my hands.

"That's it?" I ask. I guess I was expecting it to take longer.

"That's it. Transformation complete," Hobart says. "How do you feel?"

"Good. How do I look?" I ask.

His mouth shifts to one side. "Scared out of your mind. But! No time for that. To the roof we go!"