14. Santa Saves the Day

14

SANTA SAVES THE DAY

PATRICK

Behind Quinn, there is an unfriendly-looking rottweiler with its teeth bared and its back arched. We have invaded his territory. He's making sure we know it.

"Quinn, don't move."

Quinn freezes on the spot.

The cloak gives me powers. It should keep us shielded. Hobart said as long as Quinn stayed close, he'd be protected, too. How can the dog see us now when it didn't even flinch as we passed it before?

Then again, how could I backhand the last guy with a frying pan?

Shaking away the question, I focus on my newfound night vision, which allows me to notice that one of the ceramic canisters on the counter to my right is labeled DOG TREATS .

"Distract him," I say.

Quinn widens his eyes at me. "First you tell me not to move. Now you tell me distract him. How do you expect me to do both?"

"Quinn, please listen." I hope I'm conveying the seriousness here. "When I say go, jump up onto the counter ledge there. I'm going to grab a T-R-E-A-T from the jar over here. I will rush to the sliding door over there and chuck it into the fenced-in yard."

Quinn shakes his head. Sticks to his spot.

"You have to trust me, okay?" I just don't trust you right now . Quinn's words from earlier pierce me again. The same way his terrified eyes do right now. I push through the hurt. He needs me too much. "Keep looking at me. I got you. I won't let anything happen to you. On the count of three. One. Two. Three ."

I lunge to the right. Thankfully, Quinn goes left. The dog predictably follows Quinn with a bark I hope doesn't wake the whole house. Then, the dog hears the clang of my hand in the familiar jar. At the back door, with a handful of biscuits, I struggle with the lock but get it open in enough time.

Whoosh.

Cold air invades the warm house. I chuck the treats onto the deck and shut the door behind the dog.

Quinn's still atop the counter. He watches me with wide eyes. I offer him help down. Through my thick mitten, I can feel Quinn's hand quaking. "You're okay."

"I was bitten as a kid," Quinn says, voice wavering.

"I remember." We had a lot of conversations about adopting a pet when we lived in our first apartment. Quinn would entertain a cat, but dogs were always out of the question. His skittishness was founded in real trauma that I'm seeing now in real time.

"It was a rottweiler."

That part I didn't know. How could I not know that? Did he tell me and I forgot? I guess it explains why he's avoidant of Veronica's astoundingly friendly black Lab, Luca, but he's never gone sheet-white stationary like that around him.

Quinn closes his eyes and sags against me. Closing the gap between our bodies.

The golden bubble around me glows brighter with the contact. I sense myself getting stronger. As if the magic is responding to our nearness. To the way Quinn smells and breathes and lets me support him.

"Do you want to go back up to the sleigh?" I ask him. He hasn't pulled his hand away from mine yet like he did earlier. It's strange to see how dwarfed his hand is, cradled in my black leather mitten. My hands, since the cloak transformation, feel more like massive, brawny bear claws. I'm not quite adept enough to maneuver them properly, but they're just the right size to comfort Quinn it seems.

"No." He snaps up straight. Takes his hand back. I wish he hadn't. I don't know how long it'll be until he trusts me enough to let me that close again. I swallow the upset as my golden aura dulls slightly. "Let's keep going," he says.

When I enter what must be this family's living room, I'm greeted by this gorgeous, real tree adorned with lights and ribbons, ornaments and candy canes. It brings me back to Christmases of my youth. Every year-round picture frame and trinket in my house had a Christmas counterpart. On the day after Thanksgiving, like clockwork, Mom would painstakingly transform our home into a winter wonderland. When she was finished, not a single decoration would be misaligned or out of place. The Hargrave brood runs on perfection. I wish I inherited that gene.

I move closer to this family's tree with the sack of gifts. I recall the sad fake tree Quinn put up in our house this year—Target's cheapest—decorated with basic, impersonal ornaments. None of the homemade, crafted-with-love creations littering the branches here.

Our starter house was meant to be a home. But maybe I wasn't putting in the work to make it anything more than four in-need-of-some-TLC walls and a shoddy roof.

"Why don't I set out the presents and you can go get a head start on those cookies?" Across the room, on a small end table, there is a decorative plate with three cookies on it. Beside the plate are a sweating glass of milk and, from this distance, what appears to be a white envelope.

Quinn nods. "Maybe the sugar rush will right me."

I set out the presents one at a time. I'm careful to arrange them in a way that is pleasing. I want the kids in this household to rush downstairs and for their eyes to immediately light up with joy.

Once I'm finished, I walk over to where Quinn is nursing a red-colored cookie with white chocolate chips in it.

The scrawl on the envelope on the table is childlike and in crayon. The note inside, this part written in pencil, reads:

Dear Santa,

Thank u for bringing me the rainbow unicorne stuffed animal for X-mas last year. It is my most favorite thing that I have. I know some kids at skool tease me about Pinkie, but I don't care. I think rainbows and unicornes are nice and 4 every1. They r pretty and magical. One day, I want 2 b pretty and magical 2.

Thank u for making my x-mas dream come tru.

Love,

Tyler

P.S. I don't need any gifts this year

P.P.S. but if u brought Pinkie a friend that would be kool 2. I'm pretty sure I was good. Thanks.

A little laugh hiccups out of Quinn.

"What is it?" I ask.

"Kids today are just cool." He smiles to himself. A mini surge ripples through me. Akin to the shock I got when I tripped the house breaker with the overload of lights.

"This is amazingly sweet," I say, getting a tad choked up. As a kid, I was plagued by the way Toys "R" Us stores and catalogues were bisected by pink and blue coloring. Other boys my age wanted action figures and sports equipment. I wanted the biggest Crayola pack possible and unlimited pieces of construction paper. "I'm glad I—Santa, I mean—could help this kid."

Hours ago, I would've considered Santa nothing more than a wish-granting fabrication. But this note is proof that Santa can provide more than just gifts. He can provide affirmation. Maybe even confidence. That's worth more than any toy in my book.

"You have to write him back," Quinn says.

I shrug. I wasn't daunted by flying a sleigh, but this feels insur mountable. "You know I'm better with drawing. Why don't you do it?"

Quinn picks up the pencil. From the furrow of his brow, I sense a swell of responsibility rising through him.

I observe as he writes:

You're very welcome, Tyler.

I think Pinkie will be thrilled by the new addition to your friend group, but always remember that loving what you love and being yourself are the greatest gifts there are.

Magically yours,

Quinn passes me the pencil. "This part's all you, Mr. C."

As if the pencil is possessed, I inscribe the Santa Claus signature onto the piece of construction paper. It's practically calligraphy. When I'm done admiring it, I fold the paper up and slip it back inside the envelope.

"I don't know how you do that. You always find just the right words for every situation," I say.

I can tell the compliment makes Quinn bristle a bit. We're having high-octane fun, but there's still tension between us. I pivot.

"One last bit of business to attend to." I pick up one cookie. The first bite is blissful. Chocolatey, gooey, and with a hint of peppermint. "Damn that's good."

Quinn washes his down with some milk from the glass. "Just think, we're basically about to embark on a cookie tour of the entire world." His tone is airier, as if the cookie has sedated him a bit.

"It's the honeymoon we never had. We always said we wanted to travel widely," I say, eyebrows going up when the faintest shadow of a second smile appears on his face.

"We're even getting to fly private!" Quinn says.

"Without pollution, I might add!" Hobart appears out of thin air. Breaks into our conversation. "What?" He grows defensive at my skeptical, shaken look. "Just because I live in the North Pole doesn't mean I don't read the news."

"I wasn't suggesting—"

Hobart holds up a hand. "Are we finished lollygagging? We've got whole continents left to hit! Unless you want to disappoint people all over the globe, let's go, go, go!"

Grabbing the baggie of oats for the reindeer fleet, I follow Hobart and Quinn back to the sleigh. Amped up for a long, exciting evening.