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“Little,” he says with a grin.
I roll my eyes. Typical. “So then, little brother hoping to seal family memories by destroying your sister in a feat of gift giving, what reaches out to you? Think big. Think . . . the polar opposite of a gift card.”
“Polar opposite of a gift card,” he muses seriously, turning his attention to the row of toys.
He takes several minutes going over the aisle in admittedly far more detail than I did when I tipped the presents for my own niece and nephew into the cart (it was more of a spot, shoot, collect situation), and I’m just leaning against a stack of Nutcracker Barbies to give my feet a break when I hear him call out, “Hey, Chloe.” Gosh, my name sounds nice when he says it. “I got it.” There’s a masculine enthusiasm about his tone. He’s not squealing, but it’s the male equivalent.
I pop myself back to standing as he turns the corner.
Then laugh as he drags the largest doll known to man with him. I’m not even sure that’s a toy, really. It may be a literal mannequin.
I look closer.
Squint.
Reel back.
It is a literal mannequin. “Um, James?”
“They love dolls,” he announces enthusiastically. “This”—he holds out his hands like he’s the presenter on Wheel of Fortune—“is a doll.”
“That,” I counter, pointing at it, “is stealing off their displays.”
“It’s unique,” he shoots back.
“It’s like walking into a store and trying to buy the cash register.”
“Everything has a price tag.”
“Unless it quite literally doesn’t.”
He shrugs, completely undeterred. “One of the legs falls off. They can’t be sad about letting it go when it’s literally on its last leg.” Then, with a grin, he supplies the visual.
“Ha.” I pause. “Ha.”
“I’m going to ask.”
To be fair, Lincoln’s is the kind of mishmash clutterfest store where a can of beans could very well be sold directly next to a ride-along lawn mower. And to James’s credit, the “doll” is wearing the biggest, fattest, fanciest baby-blue Nutcracker tutu covered in jars of glitter that would make any child doll fanatic ab-so-lutely lose her mind on Christmas morning. It is unique. A doll lover’s dream come true. Sure, it’s so big it could basically sit at the dinner table and scare the living daylights out of anyone who wanders into the kitchen in the middle of the night for a glass of water, but those two little girls are going to be thrilled to pieces.
And that, I guess, was today’s lesson for James.
Lesson 1: Learn how to take time to do inconvenient things out of thoughtfulness for other people.
We can get to lesson 2—learn what never ever to buy for people who have kids or they will hate you forever—another day.
So, instead of criticizing, I bite my tongue and smile. “I’ll go with you.”
He drags the mannequin about five feet before asking if I can give him a lift at the feet.
No. Nope. I’d rather not be directly associated with this decision. “Or,” I say, “you could leave the mannequin where you found it and go ask.”
He shakes his head. “What if somebody else takes it?” Left unsaid, though clear in his tone, is the Duh, Chloe, this is a hot commodity here.
I purse my lips. This man, when he’s excited about something . . .
Everything within me specifically wants not to lift this mannequin. But then there’s James, looking at me.
And I cave.
