12. Taking Chances

12

TAKING CHANCES

QUINN

My husband, an elf, and eight flying reindeer are on my roof right now.

I haven't moved from my spot on the bed since Patrick left the room, and their footsteps pound forcefully right above my head. Whispers of their voices creep in. Hobart is instructing Patrick on flight patterns, rein usage, and which buttons on the dashboard do what. He's even introducing the reindeer to Patrick one by one.

I can't believe I'm missing this.

No, scratch that. What am I thinking? This is all so outlandish that I'm shaking.

Patrick is the openly trusting one in our relationship. The kind of guy who floats off on ideas, chases whims. No wonder he's taken this all as fact.

When we first started dating, he showed me this wacky drawing of a futuristic house that won him first prize in some elementary school competition. His mom kept it preserved in a plastic sleeve. His design ran on technology we're light-years away from and, presumably, magic. I don't think he ever outgrew the desire to live inside a fantasy, so it makes sense he wants to go off and get himself bonded to an enchanted cloak.

I must be losing my mind.

I adore Patrick's trust in a brighter tomorrow, but sometimes I feel like I have to be practical about today for both of us, which means even if I'm upset with him, I can't stop looking out for him. That part of me doesn't have an off switch.

I'd be a wreck if anything happened to him tonight and I wasn't there. His parents would certainly never forgive me for it. How would I even explain it? Oh, I'm sorry, your son disappeared into the night with someone who claimed to be an elf. They'd have me medically examined!

For that alone, I refuse to stay here stewing while my husband goes off on a world-spanning, once-in-a-lifetime adventure. He can have his head in the clouds all he wants, but somebody has to keep his feet on the ground.

Well, as on-the-ground as they can be while in a freakin' flying sleigh!

"Here we go again," I mutter to myself, wiggling into a pair of underwear, jeans, and a puffer coat.

Without Hobart's magic, to get to the roof, I have to pull down the ladder to the attic, which I'm barely tall enough to reach. It takes me three jumps before I hook the string with my left middle finger and the grate comes sliding at me with unwieldy force.

The rungs on the ladder are wobbly, so I grip the sides as best I can and hold on for dear life.

The attic is a spooky place that we never go in so it's full of cobwebs and smells pungently of disuse. I power through with my sleeve over my nose, crank open the nearest window, and attempt to climb out.

That's when I hear hooves all moving in unison above me.

"Wait!" I shout, but I know they can't hear me over all the noise. "Wait for me!"

I try to haul myself out headfirst, but my glove can't get a good grip on the edge of the roof. The reindeer are kicking snow that's rolling toward me, hitting me square in the face. I spit it out, about to give up completely when a hand clasps my forearm and tugs me upward with impressive strength.

Once I'm on the roof, I'm being stared at by a confused Hobart and—

"Patrick?" I ask, mostly to myself. He's at least a foot taller and 150 pounds bulkier since I saw him in the bedroom. He dons the iconic red suit and hat. Patrick always wanted to grow facial hair, but I'm certain he didn't want it the color of freshly fallen snow, unfurling all the way down to his knees, blowing to the left with the wind.

When Patrick steps closer and I get all this blasted snow out of my eyes, I can, if I really stare, see him beneath the spectacles and the round cheeks, beneath the red velvet and white trim. It's the baby-blue eyes, mostly. They say the eyes are the window to the soul. In this case, they're the last remnants of my husband. At least the husband I had an hour ago.

That cloak casts one hell of an illusion.

"What's going on? We're on a tight schedule. We don't have time for delays!" Hobart says, giving me a rankled look.

"I'm coming with you," I say confidently.

"You are?" Patrick asks, beaming.

"I don't want you to go alone," I say.

"Okay. That's fine. Right, Hobart? That's fine?"

"Whatever gets us in the air fastest is fine by me. Get in!" Hobart is already boarding the sleigh again, impatience ricocheting off him.

Hobart's keeping company with the giant sack of presents that, despite the laws of physics, is not weighing this machine down. Patrick and I file into the front seat. I did not get the safety briefing, so I fasten my seat belt, say a silent prayer, and let Patrick take the wheel.

Patrick flips switches and pushes buttons, but at the end of his little routine we're not moving. "What's happening?" I ask.

"You have to say it," Hobart says to Patrick.

"Again?"

"Yes. Every time or they won't move."

Patrick sighs and clears his throat. In full voice, he shouts into the night, "On, Dasher! On, Dancer! On, Prancer! On, Vixen!" When each reindeer's name is called, it goes from standing motionless on four legs to floating in the air. "On, Comet! On, Cupid! On, Donner! On, Blitzen!"

"What about Rudo—" The rest of my words get sucked back into my mouth as we shoot off at hyper speed into the sky.