Page 80 of Elf-ish

What the fuck? Christmas mouths at me over the shoulder of her sleepy boy’s head.

“He didn’t say Santa was a lie.” I try to reroute while smoothing my hand down my nephew’s little back. “He said Santa likes pie.”

I’m a terrible liar.

Christmas raises her brows, her expression once again saying, what the fuck?

I mouth, I’m sorry. I don’t think quickly on my feet, especially when I’m tired from standing on them all day. My back aches. Who knew making Christmas cookies could have such an effect?

Gran stands behind Christmas. “You know Santa doesn’t come to little boys who aren’t in bed when they are supposed to be.” Her intention to distract Devin works as he lifts his head, glancing at his great-grandmother with wild eyes, before he cups his mother’s cheeks.

“Mama, I need to get to bed. Quick, quick.” He wiggles in Christmas’s arm, like he isn’t the least bit tired.

“Alright, alright,” she says excitedly, playing along with her son’s sudden urge to race to bed.

Before she departs, she spares me one final glance. One that says, we’ll talk about this later. Like she’s my mother as well.

As they exit the dining room, Gertie speaks. “Think Santa will make me come if I go to bed when I’m supposed to?”

“Gertrude!” Gran turns on her sister.

I spin to face my great-aunt, who is lifting a bottle of wine to her lips and wiggling her brows. She takes a quick sip right out of the container.

“You’ve raised a bunch of horn dogs, Maggie,” she counters to her sister. “I deserve some fun as well.”

“Horn dogs?” I snort.

“I have proof,” she teases, lifting her phone with her other hand. Holding her screen face out is an image of me against the fridge with Jude in front of me. His hand is at my throat.

“Aunt Gertie,” I bark.

“Gertrude Marie, what did I tell you about taking photos of people?” Gran admonishes her sister.

“You said I could not take photos of random people.” After Gertie figured out the camera on her phone, she’d snap pictures of good-looking men walking down the street or in a restaurant, like most tourists take photos of the scenery. While she tried to play innocent old lady if men caught her, one time a man didn’t take too kindly to his image being captured without his permission, and Gran had to explain to Gertie, for the tenth time, it wasn’t legal to photograph someone without their consent.

“And this is family.” She jiggles the phone in her hand, like taking our photos without permission does not fall into the no-consent category. We might complain, but we aren’t going to file a lawsuit against her. Or so she thinks.

I snatch the phone from her, prepared to delete the image. But first, I pause to stare at it. Gertie’s angle is surprisingly good. While Jude blocks me for the most part, you still see a sliver of my face in reaction to his question.

Does this feel fake?

I’m staring up at him. My eyes are wide. My cheeks rosy. I look . . . turned on. Whenever he does that throat thing, I strangely am, and I don’t recognize my reaction.

I also don’t recognize me in this image. The way I’m looking at him. I wish Gertie had caught his face, so I had a second glance at Jude. A redo, for a second impression. Because somehow, I’ve misjudged Jude. I’ve hurt him.

He looked so wounded when he claimed I didn’t think he was good enough. Then he shut down. His expression grew hard, and his eyes closed off, like a red alert for a blizzard warning. He froze me out.

His Santa-is-a-lie comment was not intended for little ears. How many times have we, as adults in my family, had to double-check ourselves when talking about the white-bearded man around any of the kids? I don’t believe Jude is so cruel he’d ruin Christmas for children.

I brush my thumb over the image once, then seek the trash can icon to delete it from Gertie’s phone.

Without a word, I hand the phone back to her. My aged aunt stares at me.

“Keep up on that protective skin.” Her voice turns harder than her typically teasing tone. She winks. “You don’t want wrinkles.”

By wrinkles, she means a lapse in judgment. Falling in love again.

I love my aunt. She’s flirty and fun, and gives no fucks, but her reckless behavior hides a deeply scarred woman. One still aching from a decades-old betrayal.