by Tawna Fenske
I look at Bree as my gut churns. “I do remember Jade.”
Only it’s not the same Jade I know now. Or maybe it is. Maybe I’ve been so stuck in my own head that I’ve failed to see the whole picture of Jade. I saw the heart, but not the hurt. I saw the toughness, but not the things that made her that way.
“Your friends,” Bree says. “Your football buddies or cheerleaders or whatever. Were those the kids who made her life hell?”
I nod, though I’m not totally sure. I remember Matthew Lerten, his smug face sneering down at the girl as he held the pig overhead.
Or as he held the stupid paperwork over her head this morning.
“I’m such an asshole.”
Bree doesn’t argue, but she does pat my hand. “Kids are fucking mean,” she says softly. “They’ll crucify anyone who’s different. I know guys like you don’t always see it. Nice guys at the top of the food chain rarely look down. You’re too busy clinging to your own rungs on the ladder. But girls like me, like Jade—that shit lives with us for a long damn time.”
I fist my hands on the bar as her words sink in. Why didn’t I do more to help? To notice what others were going through. I’m not sure whether to feel more protective of Bree or Jade right now, but I know I want to punch anyone who ever made either of them feel bad about themselves.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“Why?” she asks. “Were you a bully?”
I shake my head, but the denial does nothing to alleviate my guilt. “I wasn’t, but I could have done more to notice it. To jump in and help if that shit was going on.”
“Pity is the worst thing you can offer up now,” she says. “Respect. That’s what we want. What we need.”
I stare at my hands, replaying this morning’s interaction with Jade. The way she stood up to Matthew, to me. How long did it take her to get strong enough to do that?
“There’s no one I respect more than Jade,” I murmur. “She’s smart and kind and clever and strong and beautiful and—”
“So tell her all that,” Bree says. “Tell her now, before she finds another Santa.” She lifts her chin as she reaches across me to grab a cherry. “Or another man to warm her bed.”
Those words make my chest ache so badly I can’t breathe. God. The thought of Jade with anyone else is like an icicle slipped between my ribs. Bree’s right. I have to talk to Jade. I have to make this right.
I snatch my phone and dial her number, surprised to discover my hands are shaking. It rings once, twice, then goes straight to voicemail.
“This is Jade King at Jinglebell Reindeer Ranch—”
“The reindeer calf,” I say, hitting the button to end the call. “She’s taking him to the vet.”
Bree frowns. “Which vet?”
“I don’t know.” I set my phone on the bar. My heart is racing as my brain reels with different scenarios. Different ways to win her back, to say I’m sorry.
None of them play quite right in the exam room of a veterinary clinic.
A decade.
Maybe more.
That’s how long Jade has carried this burden. How long she’s felt the sting of hurtful words and held the knowledge of how shitty people can be to each other.
How long have I done the same thing?
I swallow hard, and look at my cousin. Bree’s eyes are clear and calm, and I know she’d approve of what I’m going to do next. What I need to do, before I can make things right with Jade.
“I need to see my dad.”
The smell of antiseptic and tapioca pudding rush me like linebackers as I push through the doors of the Central Oregon Dementia Care Unit. The commingled scent is as familiar as the ugly green and white tiles on the floor, and I focus on keeping my breathing steady as I head toward my father’s room.
Making my way down the hall, I shift the duffel bag I’m carrying from one hand to the other. I’m greeted by two nurses whose names I’ve forgotten, but whose faces are vaguely familiar. I’m pretty sure I dated at least one of them in high school, though never more than twice.
I hope I wasn’t an asshole. I hope I was kinder to them than other guys were to Jade or Bree.
“Hi, uh—Jean,” I try when a third nurse gives me a flirty little finger wave.
“It’s Jen,” she says. “But nice try. Your dad’s awake; you can go on in.”
“Thanks. And, uh—sorry.”
She hesitates, but doesn’t ask what for. “Don’t mention it.” Her eyes are filled with more kindness than I deserve, and I make a mental note to pick up Christmas cookies for the staff.
I move through the doorframe of my dad’s room, feeling gangly and awkward in my own skin. He’s sitting in the corner by the window like always, staring out into the dull afternoon light. There’s something in his hand, and it takes me a moment to realize it’s the Santa hat.
“Hey,” I say softly.
He doesn’t look up, which is normal. But I notice his fingers working the white fur on the edge of the hat, stroking and petting like it’s an animal he’s soothing.
I step into the room and pull a chair up beside him. Setting my duffel bag at my feet, I sit down next to him and hesitate a moment before putting a hand on his knee. “Pop?”
Again, he doesn’t look. But his hands go still on the red velvet edge of the Santa hat.
“There’s something I want to tell you,” I say. “Something I should have said a long time ago.”
Silence. Outside, a flutter of snowflakes swirl in a wind gust.
“I know it’s too late now, but I want you to know I don’t blame you,” I say softly. “That it wasn’t your fault Mom left.”
His palm moves again, stroking the length of red velvet all the way to the white fur trim. He doesn’t look at me, and his eyes are cloudy as he stares out over the snow-crusted lawn.
“Anyway, I wanted you to know that,” I say. “I don’t blame you, and I don’t blame Mom, and I don’t even blame—” my throat clogs again, and I fight to swallow back the lump. “I don’t blame Christmas.”
This time, his eyes flicker. I’m sure of it. Slowly, so very, very slowly, he turns to face me. His eyes are rheumy, but they lock with mine and hold for a few breathless seconds. He blinks once—acknowledgement of something, or just a biological function?
His fingers stroke the fur trim again, petting and pulling at it. I point to the hat.
“You want to wear it?” I ask. “Would you like me to put it on you?”
No response, not verbal anyway. But his hands go still again.
“I have one just like it,” I tell him. “A beard, too. Want to see?”
I don’t wait for a response this time. I just slide my hand into the black duffel bag at my feet. I sit up and fix the snowy-white facial hair to my chin, then don the hat.
When I meet my dad’s eyes again, one corner of his mouth is tilted up. It’s faint, but it’s there. I wouldn’t call it a smile, exactly, but it’s the closest I’ve seen years.
“Here.” I slide the Santa hat off his lap, ready to stop if he grabs hold of it or seems upset. But he doesn’t.
Carefully, I arrange the hat on his head. It’s lopsided and the tassel bops against his forehead, so I straighten it out before sitting back to admire the effect. He stares at me. I stare back, my chest tight and sore.
“You look great, Pop.” My voice is gravelly, and my eyes are stinging.
The edge of his mouth tugs again, even closer to a smile. Then he gives an almost infinitesimal nod.
He’s the first to break eye contact. His gaze skids sideways, and for a moment I think I’ve lost him. That he’s gone back to staring sightlessly at the frosty garden outside.
But, no, he’s staring at a book. It’s sitting on the edge of his dresser, so I reach out and pick it up. As I study the tattered cover, recognition washes over me like a salty wave.
“How the Grinch Stole Christmas,” I read before glancing at my father. His expression is neutral, but my heart is pounding in my ch
est. “Where did you get this?”
No response, but I’m used to that by now.
“I had this when I was a kid,” I say. “I recognize the cover. And this little dent on the corner from when I dropped it on the floor. You used to read this to me.”
My father’s hands twitch in his lap as he stares back. There’s something in his eyes—a question? A request?
“You want me to read it to you?” I ask softly.
His head barely moves, but I swear it’s a nod. Even if it’s not, I know what to do. I reach out and squeeze his hand. We sit there for a few silent moments like that. Just two broken guys in Santa hats, doing our best to put the past behind us.
Then I draw my hand back, open the book, and begin the story.
It’s growing dark by the time I finally drive back to Jingle Bell Reindeer Ranch. The sky has the purplish cast of a bruise, and stars are just starting to prick through the ink.
I’m not sure yet what I’ll say to Jade, but I’m hoping the words come to me. I know one of them will be “sorry.” Another might be “love,” though I’m not sure she’ll want to hear it. She may well hate me for all I know.
I cut my lights as I pull into the parking area, but not before a dark shape catches my eye. At first, I think it’s a reindeer. One of the bigger ones like Donner or Cupid, whose real names I can never keep straight.
It is a reindeer, I realize as I step out of the truck.
But it’s more than that.
I grab my Maglite from the truck and flick it on, then start up the path toward the barn. The image gets clearer as I approach, and I train my beam on the two figures up against the barn.
One of them is Tammy, whose name I recall is Dasher. She’s facing the side of the barn, her massive, branchlike antlers pressed against the building like toppled coatracks.
Pinned between them is a man. A man holding a gas can, looking helplessly toward me as I approach.
I quicken my pace, though it’s clear the guy isn’t going anywhere. Tammy is making damn sure of that. Her eyes roll to glance at me, but she doesn’t move her head. I stare at the man for a moment, taking it all in.
“Evening,” I say at last.
His throat moves as he swallows. “It’s not what it looks li—”
“Shut up.”
I pull out my phone and snap two photos. Then I dial Jade’s number. It rings once, twice, three times, and I’m afraid it will go to voicemail again.
When she picks up, her voice is calm, but breathless. “Yes?”
“Jade,” I say.
Saying her name feels wonderful, so I say it again, nearly forgetting why I’ve called. It’s so good to hear her voice. “Jade, there’s something you need to see.”
She pauses, and I wonder if I’ve caught her in the middle of something. Watching Christmas specials or stringing popcorn garland or, hell, interviewing a replacement Santa.
The thought makes my gut churn, or maybe that’s the scene in front of me. I still can’t fucking believe what I’m looking at.
“Brandon, I don’t think it’s a good idea to—”
“Come outside,” I tell her. “Please. And bring Amber.”
Chapter 13
JADE
I approach the barn with my heart thudding like a jackhammer and an apology ringing in my ears. I don’t know why Brandon wants to talk out here, but I’m game for meeting him anywhere. I’d join him at a slaughterhouse if it meant I got the chance to say I’m sorry.
“Why are you bringing me?” Amber whispers. She blows on her gloved hands as she trudges beside me, boots crunching in the snow. “Shouldn’t you do this alone?”
“He asked for you,” I tell her. “Maybe he wants a witness in case I flip out again. Or maybe he wants to talk about—oh.”
All my words, all my theories vanish as my eyes land on the scene beside the barn. Brandon stands with a flashlight beam trained on Tammy. She’s facing away from him, the outside tines of her massive antlers pressed against the barn to form a sort of makeshift prison cell.
A cell that currently contains one miserable-looking photographer.
“Zak?” Amber steps forward, brow furrowed in confusion. “What’s going on here?”
Brandon toes a gas can on the ground at Zak’s feet. “Want me to take a guess?” he asks. “Or you want me to just tell you what my cop buddy shared a second ago when I texted him a photo of this?”
“A police officer was out here taking fingerprints off the south gate this morning.” I stare at Zak, who has the good sense to stare at his feet. “I have a hunch I know whose they are.”
Amber takes two more steps forward and rests a hand on Tammy’s neck. That makes two furious-looking females with their eyes trained right on Zak. “What the hell is going on here?”
“Babe,” he says. “I can explain.”
“No, you can’t.” Amber shakes her head. “Not to me, anyway. To the police, maybe.”
Zak shoots a pleading look at Brandon. “Help me out here, man,” he says. “You know what it’s like to do stupid shit over a woman.”
“You’re right there,” Brandon says, and my heart does a funny little lurch. “But you passed stupid a few miles back and headed down the road to certifiably nuts.”
“What the hell are you talking about, anyway?” Amber demands. “How does screwing up our farm—”
“—and their website,” Brandon adds.
“—and our ODFW paperwork,” I add. It’s a guess, but I can tell from the flush in Zak’s cheeks it’s the right one. How many times has he ducked into my office to recharge camera batteries? And I’m ninety-five percent sure he has a sister who works for the post office.
“All of that is beside the point,” Amber says. “How on earth would any of that help you out?”
Zak tries to move, but Tammy stomps a hoof in the dirt at his feet. She shifts her head a few inches, bringing her sharper eye-guard tines within inches of Zak’s throat. Her antlers are much too long for him to reach out and grab her halter, but one of us could do it.
We could, but we choose not to. The reindeer headlock is working just fine.
“Did you do all of that, Zak?” I demand.
He doesn’t answer right away, which is fine. I’ll leave it to the cops to question him properly.
“Look, Amber and I were supposed to get married,” he mutters.
My sister stares at him. “We were?”
Zak gives an exasperated snort. “Well, we would have,” he snaps. “We were on our way to that point before you got this crazy idea to open a reindeer ranch. If it weren’t for this stupid farm and these stupid reindeer and—gah!”
Tammy shifts again, all four-hundred pounds of her pressing forward. I don’t know if she’s pissed about Zak’s words or the role he played in harming her calf. Could be that dinner’s a little late.
“Look,” Zak gasps. “I wasn’t trying to hurt anyone. I just thought if Amber realized this whole thing was a bad idea, she’d come back, and we could pick things up where we left off.”
“I can’t believe you did this.” Amber shakes her head, and I can tell she’s in that zone between hurt and fury. That place where you’re too damn angry to cry. “I trusted you,” she chokes out. “And you risked my family, my livelihood, my animals—”
Tammy moves again, and it’s enough for Zak to see an opportunity. He ducks between the tines of her antlers and takes off running, his boots slipping in the snow as he tears across the paddock toward the gate.
“Stop!” Brandon takes off after him, more sure-footed in the slush than Zak is. Zak bobs left, then right, zig-zagging across the pen. But he’s no match for Brandon’s speed and power, and definitely no match for a guy who knows how to tackle.
Down they go, a tumble of limbs and curse words, with Brandon landing on top of Zak in an undignified heap.
“Get off me!” Zak grunts.
“No way.”
The two men flail as Amber and I hurry toward them with
Tammy right behind us. While there’s no longer any question what sort of guy Zak is, I’m still dismayed to see he fights dirty. Turning his head to the side, he bites Brandon’s arm.
“Son of a bitch!” Brandon yelps.
Zak struggles again, nearly tipping Brandon off his body.
A gunshot cracks the inky night. Everyone freezes.
I turn to see my sister holding the .357 overhead, its snub nose aimed at the sky. She draws it down like a goddamn gangster, and I half expect her to blow smoke from the barrel. She turns and looks at me.
“I grabbed the right gun this time,” she says.
I nod and stare at her. “Yeah, you did.”
“Jesus,” Zak sputters, and I turn to see him spit dirt out of his mouth. “You’re all fucking crazy.”
“Ha!” Amber stomps through the slushy bark until her boots are inches from his face. Tammy follows behind like a bodyguard with antlers. “That’s rich, coming from the asshole who thought he could win a woman by ruining her life.”
She’s not pointing the gun at him, but she’s still holding it. Zak’s gaze stays fixed on the muzzle, and he seems to rethink the idea of saying anything else.
Brandon looks at me, then at Zak, then Amber. “I don’t think he’s going anywhere.”
He heaves himself off Zak and stands up, brushing dirt off his jeans.
“Fucking rent-a-cop,” Zak mutters. “Running around here like a ‘roided out security guard.”
“Good, since that’s what I hired him to do,” Amber snaps. “And I wouldn’t have had to if it weren’t for you and your bullshit, Zak.” She turns to me and frowns. “Um, sorry.”
I look at my sister and wonder why I’m not more surprised. “You asked Brandon to be Security Santa?”
She nods, looking sheepish. “Are you mad?”
I shake my head, flooded with a hundred different emotions, but none of them anger. “It’s okay,” I tell her. “We needed help. And I needed to pull my head out of my butt.”
