Landon steps away from me holding Abby’s hand. Before he disappears into the crowd, I memorize his long strides, the way his shoulders dip as he walks, his broad back leaving me to wonder if he plays hockey. I wish he’d turn around one more time so he could pull me in with those muted green eyes. My wish comes true as he turns to offer a wave. I wave back, and he smiles, his arched brows weakening me. My smile softens as I realize I’m still holding a bucket of puke in my hand.

I’m glad I could help Abby so she didn’t throw up all over Santa’s Village, and I’m especially thankful none landed on me. This happens at least once to twice a season. Since the season has only begun, I’m sure I’m in for another round like this.

“Sugar Plum!” The portly man with the white beard calls out. “I could use help over here.”

Santa interrupts my daydream about Landon, and I race back to him, handing the bucket off to another elf. Besides, I can’t think about Landon. He was at the mall with his daughter. He probably has a wife and maybe a dog—a Labrador, I bet—and a white picket fence. All the good ones are taken. That’s half the reason I never bother to look.

The other reason is why I despise the holiday season.

“I don’t want to, Mom!” A boy around six or seven-years-old pushes against his mother as he tries to escape the photographic memory she’s trying to create.

“Parker, please. Sit on Santa’s lap and tell him what you want.” The mom is famished, her hair pulled into a messy bun, dressed in yoga pants and a jacket that is much too big for her body. “This will only take a second.”

“I don’t want to!”

With his feet planted on the ground, his teeth gritted, he jams his hands into his armpits, determined to win this. It’s clear he has issues with either Santa, or strangers in general (which is not a bad thing), but this mom isn’t giving up until her kid is on Santa’s lap and she’s snapping a picture with her smartphone.

Why is capturing this moment so important to parents? Not only are they forcing their children to sit on the lap of someone created out of old traditions, but they’re also encouraging them to talk to strangers. I don’t understand it. Every day this is an issue—multiple times—and the parents almost always win. I excuse myself, allowing another elf to take over, and sneak into Santa’s little house we have set up. I bring back my trusty basket of bribes.

Parker is no longer yelling, but through his crossed arms and puffed out chest, I can tell he’s still not happy. His poor mother looks to be on the verge of a breakdown.

“Parker. That’s your name, right?” The boy tilts his head toward me. I’ve never seen so many freckles in my life. “I think all your mom wants is a picture of you with the big guy. Can you sit on his lap for one minute? Not even a minute. Thirty seconds. Maybe even less than that.”

He loses eye contact with me. This will be a tough one. Time to call in the bribe.

“If you sit on Santa’s lap for your mom, I’ll let you pick something out of the prize basket. Would you like that?”

His eyes sparkle as his arms fall to their sides. I’ve almost got him. He’s hooked, and now I need to reel him in.

“Parker, could you do what the nice lady asks and sit on Santa’s lap?”

He grimaces at his mother, and when his gaze returns to me he’s all smiles. The bribe wins out. His mom thinks she won, but my basket is the real winner. Santa’s face drops as he stomps toward him. I’ve never had a kid plop down so hard he’s hurt Santa, but Santa isn’t so sure. Santa’s eyes are closed as Parker takes a seat, and he opens them when he realizes he’s safe.

“A skateboard,” Parker says loud enough the people at the back of the line can hear him. He jumps off his lap, walks over to me, and puts his hand out. Payment is expected now, and he will not ask for it. He demands it.

I’ve learned in these situations not to get caught up in manners. Parker did this because his mom wanted him to, not because he wanted to. She should thank me, which she doesn’t as I hand over the few pieces of candy. They never do thank me. I’ve learned not to expect it.

If you expect nothing, no one will ever disappoint you.

* * *

Ugh. What an evening! I’m glad I’m home, curled up on the couch, binge-watching Big Little Lies. I loved the book and comparing the book with the series is so much fun. Sure, the series came out the beginning of this year, and I’m only sitting down to watch it now, but now that I am, I’m hooked.

With the popcorn popped, a beer on the table, and a blanket wrapped around me, I’m ready to veg out. My phone rings the second I hit play. Figures. I unwrap myself from the burrito-like state I’m in expecting Carly’s name to appear on my caller ID, but it’s my mom attempting to FaceTime me.

My mom and FaceTime are a ridiculous combination. She prefers the facial interaction because she wants proof I’m rolling my eyes. I hate I can’t do that or stick my tongue out at something I don’t like. I mean, kudos to her for being sixty-three and well-versed on social media. My Aunt Lorraine is almost seventy and won’t touch a smartphone to save her soul—and trust me, it could use a little saving. But why can’t she FaceTime with some of her friends instead of me?

I press the accept button with a groan, and her face takes over my screen. “Mom! Back up! I can see your nose hairs, for goodness sake.” She hasn’t quite gotten the hang of how far to hold her phone away from her face.

“What?” Her nose wiggles, and I glimpse a few of her nose hairs. Gross. She pulls the phone back a tad, but not enough for me to see her entire face.

“Remember, you can see what I’m seeing by looking in the right-hand corner.” I wave, and she waves back, her full face viewable along with some of her tan sweater. “Much better.”

“Oh, dear, you look tired.” Her sympathetic frown is one she gives me much too often. “How was your first day in your new position?”

“Fine. I spent most of the day setting up my office.” I couldn’t wait to take on more clients but I couldn’t do that until my office was presentable.

“That’s wonderful!” She presses her lips together as the curl to the right. This isn’t why she called. She doesn’t care about my first day. When my mom smiles, she really smiles, like a Mr. Ed smile. I can’t see any of her teeth. “Any new, big clients?”

By her emphasizing the word big, I already know what she’s trying to ask. “No. I promise to inform you right away if Aaron Rodgers comes to see me.”

This is the dream she won’t let go. I’ve never known another person to love football as much as my mother. I find it odd, actually. She thinks if Aaron Rodgers needs a new financial consultant, he’ll come to me like my name is floating around the financial industry as the one to contact. It’s not. I’ve explained how unlikely a high-profile football star such as Rodgers coming to me is, but she keeps dreaming. I’ve learned to let dreams die a long time ago.

“You better.” She blows her long, white locks out of her face. One thing I will say about my mother is she pulls off her sixties like nobody’s business. Her hair may be as white as Egyptian cotton sheets, but she’s aging so well it’s hard to believe she’s in her sixties. I hope in the future I look as good as she does.

“The reason I’m calling…” The sentence fades, and I’m not surprised there’s a different reason for her call. There always is. I’m afraid to ask. What now? What could it possibly be? Something with Dad? Hunter? Aunt Lorraine? I’ve been waiting for my mom to tell me she’s taking a cruise with her sister because Aunt Lorraine won’t stop begging her to go. My uncle wants to spend his retirement sitting on the couch watching Judge Judy and other judicial shows while my aunt wants to travel. She often goes alone and has been nagging my mom for years to take a trip with her.

“So, I told you Hunter is out soon.”

“Yes, I’m well aware.” She mentions this every opportunity she can. She calls, texts, emails, updates her Facebook status. I can’t seem to get away from it.

“I want all of us to spend the holidays together.”

“What do you mean by all of us?” I know what she means but part of me hopes she’ll say me, her, Aunt Lorraine, and Uncle Don. No such luck. Luck doesn’t exist for me.

She disappears for a moment, giving me a view of her jeans. I’m not sure what she’s doing. She’s probably prepping to give me the news. Her face appears again. “All of us. Me, you, and Hunter.”

Mom has always had a soft spot for Hunter. Even with him spending the past two years in jail, she still can’t find anything wrong with him, even as the victim.

“Sweetheart, don’t you think you’re too old to be rolling your eyes at me?”

“Sorry.” This is why I hate FaceTime with her. My eyes say too much, sometimes involuntarily, mostly on purpose.

“I know how you feel about what he did—”

“And I can’t believe you don’t feel the same. He didn’t steal thousands of dollars from me. He didn’t forge my name on my checks to live a lavish lifestyle he couldn’t afford. He did this to you. I can’t believe you forgave him so easily.”

“I can’t believe you haven’t.” She presses her finger and thumb to the bridge of her nose. “Hunter understands he wronged me. He served his time. We should find it within ourselves to forgive him. I want both my children in my life.”

“And you can have us both. Just not in the same room.” I last saw my brother almost two years ago right before he went to prison. I didn’t visit him once during his incarceration. Not once. Any letters he sent me made their way to the recycle bin. I didn’t open one of them. If I ever do see him again, I’m not doing it on Christmas. I love my mom, but she’s a fool to believe he’s changed.

“This isn’t really fair.”

“You’re the one who told me life isn’t fair.” Words to live by, she once said. Once Dad left, saying that made it easier for her to cope. “What does Dad say about this?” Hunter is his son, too, after all.

The red in her face is a startling contrast to her white hair. “I have no idea.”

My mom can claim ignorance all she wants, but she’s lying. She pretends she doesn’t talk to my dad. She tries to hide all attempts to text him. Part of her thinks with some time she may win him back, I think. I don’t know why she would even want that. I love my dad—he’s my dad!—but I don’t agree with the path he’s chosen in his life. And Mom could never live up to his new lifestyle.

“He’s still shacking up with Autumn, isn’t he?”

Autumn is his late-life crisis. She’s almost half my age and expects him to shower her with expensive gifts. My dad isn’t dumb about her being a gold digger. He doesn’t care. She’s young, pretty, and a nice accessory on his arm. Sometimes I can’t believe this is the man he’s become.

“Yep. She’ll be there until the day he dies. I hope he doesn’t marry her. She’s waiting for it. I just know it. She wants to take all his money.”

It’s not a secret my dad won’t leave anything to Hunter or me, and I don’t care. I’m successful by my own standards and can stand on my own two feet without daddy’s money.

“Honey, I want to plan something. This is the first Christmas in a few years he’ll be with us. This is important to me. He’s staying with me, and—”

“He’s staying with you?” I pinch my face together as I tense up, every inch of my body tight. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “How can you let him stay with you?”

“He has nowhere to go, Juliette.”

“How is that your problem? Mom, he stole from you. He’ll do it again.”

“You don’t know that.”

I throw my hands up in the air, my phone going with them. I cringe as it crashes to the floor. Last month I upgraded my phone and didn’t opt for the insurance. Once it’s back in my hands, I give it a once over to make sure everything is fine before apologizing to my mom. “Sorry. I dropped my phone.”

“Juliette, Hunter is my son. He will always be my son. So that means I’m there for him when he needs me. He’s done his time, and he’s rehabilitated. He deserves a chance. I’m planning this, and I expect you to be there. My house, the fifteenth, at seven.”

She disconnects without another word, leaving her stern demand with me.