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“You are a terrible cook,” I say.
He looks up, gentle features set in alarm. “Have there been complaints?”
“You haven’t followed any of the standard recipes. I’ve worked here long enough—I can tell.” The mashed potatoes are creamier. The fries are crispier. And his rolls are golden, buttery-topped miracles instead of the straight-from-the-bag variety we normally serve.
For a moment, he looks distressed. And then the agitation melts away as his eyebrows lift, disappearing beneath his mop of brown hair. He is the definition of merry. “But has anyone complained?”
I blow my bangs away from my eyes. “No. They’re just being nice because you’re new.”
That’s not true. The regulars like their familiar terrible food, and if anything is ever different, I get yelled at. They’re not nice.
Except … tonight, they are. Steve and Bernie, who always get a steak after their shifts and don’t say a word to anyone, are laughing and swapping stories at the counter. Lorna, who after my entire life of never ever stealing anything still follows me suspiciously around her gas station, complimented me on her way out. And I swear, Angel, the mine’s two-hundred-fifty-pound truck driver, he of the aura of constant menace, he of the incredibly inaccurate name—Angel actually smiled at me.
I think. It might have been indigestion.
But then he tipped me. Ten whole percent, which is a one hundred percent increase over his previous tips.
Ben hums as he dusts the cookies with powdered sugar. “I had to make them circles. What kind of Christmas-themed diner doesn’t have cookie cutters?”
“The kind that doesn’t offer gingerbread on the menu.”
“Right, which, again: how does that make any sense?”
“None of this makes any—oh, no, what time is it?” I dart to the bathroom and shake Candy awake. “Ten minutes until your shift is over.”
She sits with a start, the blood draining from her face.
“It’s okay. You have time. Get cleaned up.”
I clear the tables, and Candy emerges right as Jerry walks in. His eyes, gray and dull as sharkskin, take in the abnormally busy diner. I can see him calculating.
Candy lifts a trembling hand. “Hi, I—there’s a reason—”
“You dropped your pad.” I stand in front of her. “Here.” I dig out my tips from my jeans and shove them into her apron pocket. She can’t even look at me, but she squeezes my arm as she passes. And then I watch, Frank Sinatra crooning at me to have myself a merry little Christmas, as my tips go directly from her pocket into Jerry’s hand.
Merry effing Christmas yourself, Frank.
* * *
I make it through the next hour until closing time. Everyone wants to linger, huddling around the old television playing a repeating loop of a log-burning fireplace. They’re laughing, talking, acting like friends. Like people who are happy to be in Christmas.
“Feliz Navidad” stabs into my ears from the speakers, and I can’t handle it anymore. I took a shift that wasn’t mine, and I didn’t even get my stupid tips. Ben emerges just as I’m about to scream for everyone to leave.
He’s carrying a tray of gingerbread cookies. There’s a near-visible trail of scent, which reaches out and tugs the customers after him. He holds the door open and gives each person a soft, warm cookie, and an even softer, warmer smile as they leave. And then they’re gone. I flip the sign from “Merry and Bright” to “Closed for the Night” and deadbolt the door.
I turn, fists on hips, and direct my anger at the only person left.
“I’m not sharing my tips with you.”
Ben holds out a cookie. “Okay.”
“Usually we share tips with the cook. But I’m not sharing mine with you tonight.”
“That’s fine.” He pushes the cookie at me, but I swat it away.
“That’s all you’re go
He looks down at the cookie like I’ve hurt its feelings. “Yeah, I mean, they’re your tips. You can decide what to do with them.”
“Of course I can. But we’re supposed to cut you in.”
“If you don’t think that’s fair, I understand.”
I throw my hands in the air. “You’re supposed to get mad at me. Then I can yell at you and feel better about everything.”
He laughs. “How would that make you feel better?”
“Because I want to yell at someone!” I slump into a booth and pick at a chipped spot in the Formica table. Ben slides in across from me, setting the cookies between us. Whether as an offering or a barrier, I can’t say.
“Who do you really want to yell at?”
“Ugh. I don’t know. Candy, maybe. Her dumb, creepy boyfriend, definitely. My mom and Rick, sometimes. And I’d share my tips with you, but I don’t have any, which means I worked all afternoon for nothing.” I rest my head on the tabletop.
“No one tipped you?” He finally sounds outraged.
“Everyone tipped me. But I gave it all to Candy.”
“Well, you earned a cookie.”
“I don’t like gingerbread.”
“That’s because you’ve never had my gingerbread.”
I narrow my eyes. “Is that some sort of chef pickup line?”
He blushes. The way the red blooms in his cheeks as he struggles for an answer is almost too sweet to handle, so I grab a cookie to let him off the hook.
“Díos mío. What did you put in these? Are they laced with crack? Gingerbread cookies are supposed to be hard and crunchy. Not good. These aren’t normal.” They’re soft, not quite cakelike, more like the consistency of a perfect sugar cookie. The spices zing my taste buds without overwhelming them—a dusting of powdered sugar counteracts the fresh ginger—and the whole thing is warm and wonderful and tastes like Christmas used to feel. How did he do that?
“See?” he says. “Not a pickup line.”
“Good, because that would’ve been super lame.” I take another cookie and lean back into the cushioned booth. Usually at the end of a shift I feel heavy, leaden, and ready for bed. But right now I feel light and soft. Like these cookies.
So I take a third. And, feeling generous, I decide to be nice to Ben. It’s not a hard decision. He’s kind, and even if he weren’t the only guy around my age in Christmas, he’d still probably be the prettiest one. “Everyone loved your food.”
His voice is shyly delighted. “I’m glad.”
I’m glad, too. He’ll make the time until I get out of here far more bearable. Maybe even exciting. “So, where’d you learn to cook?”
“Juvie.”
I sit up. “Juvie? As in juvenile detention?”
His face loses none of its pleasant ope
“When were you in juvie? What for? Did my mom hire you straight out of their kitchen or something? I knew there was a reason why you were willing to work here.”
He laughs. “I’ve been out for six months. I applied for this job because I love Christmas, and it felt like … fate. Or serendipity. Or something. And I don’t like thinking about the person I used to be, so if it’s okay, I’d rather not talk about it except to say that I wasn’t violent.”
I wilt under the weight of my curiosity. “Fine. But it’s go
“It’s not, and neither am I, because again, not violent.”
I flick some crumbs at him. “I gotta get cleaning.” I stand, stretching, and remove my apron. Ben is staring at me. I raise my eyebrows. He looks away quickly, embarrassed, but I’m more than a little glad I’m not wearing my uniform tonight.
I survey the damage. Not too bad. Mostly it’ll be dishes, but I’ll mop up and wipe down the tables first.
I switch off the sound system in the middle of “Baby, It’s Cold Outside.”
“Thank you!” Ben shouts from the kitchen. “That song is the worst.”
“I know, right?”
“Also terrible? ‘Santa Claus Is Coming to Town.’”
“Santa as Big Brother. Just imagine his posters, staring at you from every wall. SANTA IS WATCHING.”
“I love Christmas, but Santa is creepy.”
“Thank you, yes! No one understands. If someone is watching me sleep, it had better be a hot vampire, otherwise I’m calling the cops.”