My True Love Gave to Me: Twelve Holiday Stories(89)

I stammer, grasping for some response other than The moment I saw your face. Is it that obvious?

Ben answers for me. “When I made you the gingerbread cookies. That’s when you decided to be my friend.”

“Right! Exactly. Yes, gingerbread.”

He gives me a look that makes me think maybe he was saying more. Maybe he wants me to. But I don’t know what to say, so he turns away again. “I like using something I’m good at to help other people. Even if it’s something silly like cooking.”

“That’s not silly. You know what you love, and you’re good at it. I wish I had something like that.” The moment stretches between us, too honest, and that sore-muscle feeling wells up in my heart again. I clear my throat. “Besides, as long as you keep making cookies, I don’t care if it’s magic or not.”

He balances a cookie on the tips of his long fingers. His ring finger is bent at an odd angle. Like his nose, it’s a testament of broken bones in his past. “If you were a food, you’d be a gingerbread cookie. Spicy enough to keep life interesting, but with just enough sweetness to balance it out.”

I laugh. “I’m not sweet.”

“You gave your tips to Candy.”

I dig my shoe under a strip of tarpaper. I don’t want to talk about her, so I say, “What would you be if you were a food? No, better! What food would you use your sixth sense to feed yourself?”

He puts a hand on the edge of his chair, holding it palm up, almost as an offering. It would be so easy to slip mine into his. I nearly do, but … it’d be an anchor. I can’t be anchored.

“I haven’t found it yet.” He flexes his long fingers, opening his hand even more. “I like it here. I’m renting a room for almost nothing, so I save what I earn. And small towns are cozy. Familiar. You can slip into other people’s routines, become a part of them. I’m staying here until I have enough money saved for culinary school.”

“I’m getting out of here as fast as I possibly can,” I blurt.

His fingers curl up. “Why?”

“Why not? There’s nothing for me.”

“But … it’s your home.”

“I live in my mom’s boyfriend’s duplex. Nothing here is mine. I hate it here. The minute I graduate I’m leaving.”

“Where?”

“Don’t know. Don’t care. I’m hopping on a bus and going until I can’t go any farther. Until I find a place that feels like home.”

He’s quiet for a long time. “How will you know what home feels like?”

It hangs in the air between us, as frozen as our breaths. I don’t have an answer.

*

Ben pokes his head out of the kitchen window. “How were the waffles?”

Candy barely glances at him. “Fine. Thanks.”

He looks lost as he stares at her untouched plate. The waffles were crisp on the outside, fluffy on the inside, with a Nutella filling and sliced strawberries on top. Unlike Candy’s, mine are gone.

“They were fantastic,” I offer, but he disappears, muttering to himself.

It’s three days until Christmas. The diner has never been busier. Locals come in whenever they can now. We’re also getting a holiday bump in freeway travelers, lured by the seasonal coincidence of our exit’s name. For once in my career, I don’t pity their optimism. The Christmas Café is—dare I say it—worth stopping for.

Ben whips out holiday-themed plate after plate. Every shift, he makes something new for Candy. And when she inevitably throws it up or rejects it in her zombie-like demeanor, he looks even more discouraged.

I grab Candy’s plate and turn toward the kitchen, looking up at my elf out of habit. Only he’s not holding a knife anymore. He’s holding a tiny glass vial with a skull-and-crossbones symbol on it.

I cackle so loudly that Candy jumps. She’s actually trembling.

“Sorry!” I say. She flees, straight to the bathroom.

I find Ben leaning over the counter, furiously crossing off items on a list. “Benedict! Are you the one who messed with my elf?”

He looks up, distracted, and then shakes his head as though clearing it. A smile crinkles his eyes as he pushes his hair away from his forehead. His goofy chef’s hat sits on the counter next to the paper and pen. “Not short for Benedict. But yes. I thought he ought to mix things up a bit.”

I laugh again, delighted. “Nobody even notices him except me.”

“I notice everything.” His eyes linger on my face before he blushes. He clears his throat a few times, toying with the pen. “This Christmas menu isn’t working. I don’t know what to do.”

I nudge him with my shoulder. “You always know what to do.”

A deep line has formed between his eyebrows. “I thought so, but nothing’s working.”

“Everything’s working! People have never been so happy to eat here. It’s like they actually enjoy living in Christmas.”

He looks back down at his paper. “Not you.”

I hover, torn between leaning into him and backing away. I can’t commit to this place or anyone in it. I have to be able to leave.

“And not Candy.” He drops the pen. “I haven’t made a single thing she’s liked.”