Page 89 of Santa Baby

“Fia, what are you still doing up? It’s almost midnight?” Mom hiked down the stairs in her favorite Christmas pajamas, a flannel set with stars and ornaments all over them in looping, swirling patterns. Her hair was in curlers and she had eye patches stuck under her eyes as she squinted into the soft lamplight in the living room. “Santa won’t come if you stay up.”

“I’m twenty-five,” I said, trying to work my voice into something less forlorn, but failed. “I stopped believing in Santa ten years ago.”

“Yeah, I remember. You were, in fact, fifteen.” She sat on the couch beside me. “Between you and me, I still believe in him.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I do. How else can you explain that feeling in the air around Christmas? The magic?”

“It doesn’t feel so magical right now,” I said.

Her lips thinned. With a soft groan, she rose and padded over to the Christmas tree. “I have something for you.”

“I can wait until tomorrow morning,” I said. “It’s fine.”

“No, I want you to open it now.” She sat back down and handed me a surprisingly heavy present in the shape of a shoe box.

I cautiously unwrapped the gift and stared down in shock. “Mom?” There was no way they could afford this. I opened the lid and lifted out a Nikon Z9, the camera I’d been lusting over for the past two years.

“It’s the one you wanted, right?” she asked.

“You can’t—Mom⁠—”

“I know it’s expensive, honey. We wanted to buy it for you. Look, there’s some extra lenses, too. For whatever you need.”

“You shouldn’t have.” I found myself about to burst into tears.

“Colin helped.”

Now I was feeling worse. “I don’t know if I can forgive him for what he did.”

“I understand.” She nodded, her lips a thin line. “I’m upset too.”

“I’m not taking that job.”

“It’s okay⁠—”

“But I don’t even care about that. I just—I just want Mason and now he’s gone, and I don’t know what to do.”

“Sleep on it, Fia. See how you feel in the morning. But first, take my picture.” She grinned, giving me a silly pose in her curlers and eye patches.

I giggled through tears, and then there it was. The Christmas magic I’d lost a few hours ago.

I woke to snowy gray sunlight drifting through the blinds in my childhood bedroom. I stretched in the sheets, sighing heavily as I opened my puffy eyes and blinked. My back cracked from sleeping on an even worse mattress than the one stuffed in my loft, but as I peeked through the blinds, I saw nothing but snow. It was a true winter wonderland out there. All of the cars and buildings were covered in it.

I loved a white Christmas.

The reality of the day before didn’t hit me until I walked into the bathroom and saw my expression in the mirror. My cheeks were red and raw and my eyes were puffy with dark circles beneath them. I rubbed at them, tasting salty tears on my lips, and tried my best not to break down. I’d left my phone charging in the kitchen last night, so I padded downstairs, met by the scent of coffee spiked with eggnog thick in the air.

Dad was in the kitchen flipping pancakes as his ancient radio on the counter spouted news about road closures and late trains. He grinned at me. “Baby girl. Merry Christmas.”

“Burn mine a bit,” I told him. I liked my pancakes well done, but he was two steps ahead of me and had a plate already waiting at the dining-room table.

Mom came downstairs a few minutes later. “Where’s Colin? Is he not home yet?”

“He came home at around four a.m. I was already up.”

“Why were you up so early?” I asked around a bite of pancakes with extra syrup.