Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 29018 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 145(@200wpm)___ 116(@250wpm)___ 97(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 29018 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 145(@200wpm)___ 116(@250wpm)___ 97(@300wpm)
I shoot him one last text the second I’m in our family SUV on a heavy sigh.
Me: Where. Are. You?
No, it’s not fucking subtle. Subtle was me two hours ago when he should’ve been getting ready for work. Subtle has since been roasted over an open fire like the chestnuts in the song Henz adorably screws up every time she sings it.
The drive from the hotel in the Cloud District back home is one taken on the edge of irritation. Between terrible traffic and my music app glitching, I’m left to further marinate on the worst-case scenarios regarding the missing Christmas gift.
What if he got hurt? He doesn’t have insurance. Not yet. He has to be an employee for longer than a week for that shit to kick in. What if he needs to be in the ER right now and is looking for cost efficient alternatives in back alleys?
The cars on the highway come to another abrupt stop for no reason.
What if he was in a car accident? What if they have no idea who to contact? What if he…suffered a similar fate as Chris except unlike Mr. Billionaire that the department loved they weren’t sure anyone would fucking care that Jedd was dead? What if I have to tell my girls Santa tried to give him a better life but some other unexplained entity took his life instead? How the fuck do I follow that shit up with Ho Ho Ho, Merry Christmas?!
My ability to see flashing lights up ahead in the distance has me merging left like everyone else to get out the way.
To hopefully get home to their loved ones sooner as opposed to much later.
More worst-case options for the man I should be taking to work continue to flood my mind until the very moment I pull into my driveway. Swallowing the knot of anxiety in my throat as I cross the threshold inside is difficult yet being immediately assaulted by two pairs of sticky hands makes it exponentially easier.
“Dad!!!” my girls shout in tandem, frosting coated faces becoming tightly pressed against my pant legs.
“Angels!” I enthusiastically coo back on a tight squeeze.
“Wait ‘til you see what Pop Pop is making for the reindeer!” Rainne exclaims at the same time she peers up at me. “It’s in the backyard! On the patio! Can we paint it blue?”
“Pink!” her sister objects.
“Purple?” Rainne smoothly negotiates. “You know that’s Mom’s favorite color.”
My youngest begins nodding, clearly sold on the idea.
Rainne returns to the subject at hand. “So, can we paint it purple, Dad?!”
“Can we paint it with our hands?!”
There’s no opportunity to respond to the chatter.
“Can we put extra food in it?” Rainne begins a new line of pondering. “Do you think reindeer like muffins?”
“Those are moose,” Henz sassily references a children’s book they both love prior to squeaking new information at me. “They can drink now too, Dad!” Henz squeals on jumps of glee. “Eat and drink! Pop Pop gave them a drinky thingy! A drinky thingy!”
“Have you two had enough to drink?” It’s impossible not to smirk. “In the form of water not hot chocolate or chocolate milk.”
Less than innocent stares suddenly appear.
“How about we all go get some water and then I can check out what Pop Pop is building and we can discuss color options and how to apply them?”
Roars of agreement are accompanied by both of my hands being grabbed to drag me into the kitchen where Jaye is diligently decorating a batch of cookies while her mother gingerly packages them.
Among the cookies that get made for Santa – and now evidently the elves – we always make a few batches for different organizations, including the one Danny Reyes frequents the most for assistance. Sadly, he hasn’t quite gotten his life back on a better path. And we tried to help him on a couple different occasions, but addiction wouldn’t let him take it. It’s what makes it one of the more ruthless combatants out there.
My wife doesn’t bother looking up when she asks, “How was work that couldn’t wait?”
Frosty would feel quite at home in this kitchen right about now.
“Didn’t go as I expected,” I answer honestly at the same time I retrieve bottles of water for the girls. “How’s the cookie making going?”
“Slow thanks to three sets of hands digging into all the toppings.”
Our children each take the beverage being offered as I retort, “But we only have two daughters.”
“And one Charles,” Maggie slyly reminds under her breath.
The urge to snicker is instantly severed by the displeased stare I’m shot.
Anyone else starting to think I’m getting coal from the love of my life instead of a new watch?
In spite of the daggers being thrown, I cheerfully volunteer, “What can I do to help?”
“Nothing,” Jaye snips prior to placing the finished cookie on the sheet. “The last thing I need is you starting something then having to stop because something more important came up at work.”