Santa Hunk (5 page)

SAVANNAH

Of course I didn’t believe a word of it.

Would
you
?

Be honest.

A.
   
Your
best friend and roommate, who should have gotten home from work before you, is
late.

B.
    
You
start to feel a bit concerned.

C.
    
You
text her, but she’s not answering her texts. And it’s gotten dark and now
you’re starting to get seriously worried.

D.
   
You
call her work number and they say she left at the end of her shift, over two
hours ago.

And then, right as you’re starting to think it’s
time to call her family and maybe the police, she shows up.

She is a MESS. Her face is all red, her eyes are all
red. She’s been crying.

You ask her what’s wrong. She doesn’t answer. She just
looks at you with these eyes that are
stricken
. Like she’s been
through hell.

You ask her again and she says she can’t explain it,
she can’t talk about it. Of course that answer doesn’t fly, so you tell her
Clare you have GOT to tell me what’s going on—you’re getting frantic at this
point—and she finally comes out with it.

It’s some absolutely bizarre story about going into
the woods and a tree with a door in it and a guy inviting her in and she wanted
to go but she was afraid and—

Wha?????

You realize this is the same guy she claimed to see
the day she got hit by a bus—who by the way isn’t in any of the photos taken by
other people who were there on the scene.

I’m thinking, O.M.G. Clare’s off her rocker. She’s
completely off her rocker. I’m thinking, okay, she’s got insurance. Insurance
will cover this. She will probably need to see her primary care physician,
first. Then she can get a referral for a counselor or perhaps a psychiatrist.

But of course we couldn’t take those steps that very
minute.

I helped her out of her coat and wrapped her in a
blanket and made her a cup of tea. She was shivering. She was freezing cold.
Her hands were like ice.

I handed her the cup and told her not to think about
it—because obviously whatever is going on in that poor head of hers, it’s way
too upsetting. I had to distract her. I turned on the TV and put my arm around
her. She snuggled up to me and finally, after about a half hour, she stopped
shivering.

And then I realized she was asleep.

But even later, even when I woke her up and helped her
into bed, there’s no way I could sleep.

Because I was thinking, she’s snapped. My sweet
Clare, my best friend Clare, she’s lost her mind.

I’ve lost my best friend, Clare.

CLARE: December 10, con’t

Nothing like this had ever happened to me before.

And I don’t mean the obvious. Meeting a man who says
he’s not mortal, who says he’s Santa for crying out loud—who appears to live in
a tree in the woods and claims to love me and when he kissed me it was pretty
much over, how could I ever kiss another man after feeling a kiss like that?

That was all bad enough.

What was worse was the turmoil.

The mental turmoil, and the turmoil in my heart.

I couldn’t make sense of it.

And of course, Savannah was freaked out.

I completely understand. In fact, if I’d been able to
hide it from her, I would have. I would have kept it all secret to keep her from
freaking her out.

But I was so cold and so confused—I had to go home
and I must have looked half wild.

So I couldn’t hide from her that something terrible
had happened, that I’d been thrown for the loop of a lifetime.

But her reaction only made it worse. Because it
scared her. It
scared
her. She didn’t have to tell me—and she didn’t,
she didn’t say any of it out loud. But I could tell. She thought I was losing
my mind. She thought the entire thing was a hallucination. She thought that
when I’d been hit by the bus it did something to my brain and I was now a nut
case.

And you know, fear is contagious. If I’d been able
to process the whole experience calmly and privately maybe I’d have handled it
a little better. But instead I was kind of splitting myself into two. Part of
me was trying to figure out what had really happened that afternoon in the oak
grove, and the other part was trying to deal with poor Savannah.

Starting with the next day, when I’m getting ready
for work and she knocks on the bathroom door and says she’s fixed scrambled
eggs, and then when I sit down at the kitchen she sits down across me and says,
“Clare, about last night.”

And I’m immediately all tense again waiting for
something new to hit me, you know?

And she says, “I think maybe you should see
somebody. A doctor.”

So then of course I tell her no no NO. Because I
can’t imagine it. I cannot imagine sitting down with a shrink and telling him
that Santa kissed me, and it was the most amazing kiss, and that now I’m
kicking myself because I could have gone away with him but I didn’t because I’m
the biggest coward to ever walk the face of the Earth.

A shrink, hearing that, would lock me up. A door in
a tree trunk. Right. He’d lock me up in the loony bin.

And she tries to argue with me but I won’t budge,
and she tells me it’s just that she’s worried about me and so of course I tell
her I am FINE. I’m fine. “I know it sounds like the most bizarre thing ever,” I
told her, “but it
has
to make sense somehow. I promise I’ll deal with
it somehow.”

And I can see by how she looks at me that my words
aren’t reassuring her at all.

“You look awful, you know,” she said.

I don’t tell her that I woke up at like three in the
morning and all I could think about was that kiss and what a coward I was and I
never got back to sleep.

“I’m fine,” I told her.

So then I see she wants to say something else, and
sure enough she strikes a bargain. Okay, so I don’t need to see a “doctor” a.k.a.
shrink. But I have to promise, no more going off into the woods by myself like
that.

“It’s not exactly ‘the woods,’” I said. “It’s right
next to the golf course. You can see Lakeshore Boulevard from his tree.”

But of course that doesn’t make her feel any better.

She insists that I promise to her: under no
circumstances do I go back there.

“What if you go with me?” I said.

And a funny look crossed her face. Fear.

Fear.

And I thought:
she says she doesn’t believe me,
but maybe she does. A little.

“I don’t see any reason to go anywhere near the
place,” she said.

“Well, it’s a beautiful spot.” I was feeling a bit
angry, now. As you would, if you were in my place. Being told, more or less,
that you were crazy in the head. “And you know, the way you’re reacting? I wish
I hadn’t told you about
any
of it. About seeing Santa—about seeing him
that first time even. Let alone that I saw him again yesterday. I mean, this is
confusing to me, you know? It’s upsetting. And you’re my friend—and I wish I’d
kept it all a secret away from you.”

“Clare,” she said, and I looked at her and I could
see she felt so sorry, and her tone of voice made me instantly sorry that I’d
gotten angry at her.

She loves me.

She’s only trying to protect me.

“I didn’t mean to—I’m just worried about you, is
all.”

I sighed. “Then let’s just drop it, okay?”

She didn’t answer right away and I guessed why. She
didn’t really want to drop it. She wanted to get me to somehow promise that I’d
… I don’t know. That I’d never bring it up again. She wanted it to be over. For
good.

“Look,” I said. “I promise I won’t go back to the
oak grove.”

And ugh.

Just UGH.

Have you ever made a promise with your lips that
your heart knows violates a deeper promise?

That’s what I felt, as I spoke those words to my
friend.

But she looked so relieved.

“I’m so glad you said that,” she said. “Because
Clare. We really need to put this behind you.”

I nodded.

“And Clare?”

“Yeah?”

“If you don’t want to see someone about this—a
professional—I understand, really I do. But maybe—why don’t you write it all
down.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know. Like a journal.”

I considered her suggestion. “Why?”

She shrugged. And I realized I knew the answer to
that question. She figured that maybe writing about my experience would help me
to get over it.

I sighed. What could I do?

I needed to keep Savannah calmed down about all of
this. Otherwise I’d never figure it out.

And besides, it wasn’t such a bad idea. Maybe
writing it down
would
help. Maybe it would help me feel calmer.

“Okay,” I said, “that’s a good idea, Savannah. I’ll
do that. I’ll keep a journal.”

And so that’s why I started writing all this down.

That was a two days ago.

And now—tonight—I have a date with Josh Martin.

So.

Dear Journal.

How am I going to handle a date with Josh Martin
after all that’s happened to me in the past ten days?

SAVANNAH

Clare told me all about her first date with Josh, of
course.

It was a marvelous date. I knew it would be.

He took her to this chic restaurant on University
called The Revelry. It’s one of the hippest places in the city. When you walk
in the floor is a sheet of Plexiglas. You look down and you’re looking into the
wine cellar.

He was trying to impress her, that’s for sure.

She said the food was good and the wine was good.

I said, “how about the company?”

And she smiled.

I know a fake smile when I see it.

But by then I was in a state of major denial. I
honestly could not deal with it. I could not deal with the idea that my best
friend had somehow caught Josh Martin’s eye, and instead of appreciating how
lucky she was, she was all weirded out—and over what?

Over a fantasy that had somehow taken over her mind.

But what could I do? When I suggested she see a
doctor—well, I can tell you, there was no way we were getting anywhere on that
topic. Clare can be
very
stubborn when she wants to be. And—I’m not
proud of this—but I’d Googled it to see if maybe I could force her to get help.
But that wasn’t an option at all. Not as long as she wasn’t posing a threat to
herself or others.

Yeah, I know. But I was trying to take care of her.

In the end, I did the right thing.

I waited it out.

I decided: just act like this date she’s going on is
what you know it is—a first date with a guy any girl would be happy to catch.
Act like
that’s
what’s going on. Eventually Clare will become her old
self again. Right? She’d realize she was holding a treasure, right there in the
palm of her hand.

Our lives would get back to normal.

Normal, plus Josh Martin.

CLARE: December 12

Dear Journal … What’s real? What isn’t real?

Especially when it comes to love?

You could say Josh Martin is real. I mean, if I
asked Savannah, right now: who’s real?

Josh Martin?

Or Santa?

You know what she’d answer! She’s say Josh. Josh
Martin.

So Savannah, why is it that I have butterflies in my
stomach now?

We’re on our way, Dear Journal! On our way to see my
sweet blue-eyed man again … Savannah has agreed to go with me to see my
blue-eyed man!

She’s in the shower … I wish she’d hurry …

CLARE, December 12, con’t

Still waiting for Savannah to get out of the shower
…

I should probably write all that’s happened since my
date with Josh.

He called the next morning. I hadn’t left for work
yet and Savannah was already up, so she saw me answer my cell and she guessed
who it was.

She mouthed his name at me,
Josh
, while I
was talking, with a big question in her eyes, and I nodded, and she looked all
excited.

Really, I can’t blame her. The guy looks so good, on
paper. Cute, smart, successful—he’d make a great husband.

And he was into me. That was clear.

He called to tell me that he remembered the name of
a movie he’d told me about over dinner the night before.

“I found out what that movie’s called,” he said.
“Sliding Doors.”

I’ve never seen it.

What happened was: we were talking about movies and Josh
said that he likes romcoms—I told you he was cute!—and we started listing our
favorite romcoms, and after we got past the usual suspects (you know, like Sleepless
in Seattle and Nick and Nora’s Infinite Playlist) he mentioned seeing a romcom
on cable that had two separate story lines.

“In one of them,” he said, “A girl misses a train,
and the movie shows what happens to her afterward. But then it also shows what
happens to her when she catches the train.”

“It sounds interesting,” I said.

But he couldn’t remember the name of it.

“Do you think there really are parallel worlds?” I’d
asked him.

I’d had a couple glasses of wine.

But I was also thinking about my blue-eyed Santa.

Was he from a parallel world?

Josh kind of laughed at my question. “Naw,” he said.
“But it was kinda different, for a movie.”

So then he called me. And he told me he’d remembered
the name of the movie. And then he said, what he really wanted to know was if I
was free next Friday.

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “I have to work.”

Then after I ended the call I saw Savannah looking
at me funny.

“I thought your shift was done at 3 on Friday,” she
said.

So, I’d lied.

“They might need me to work late,” I told her. “You
never know. We’re getting really, really busy.”

She opened her mouth, then shut it again. I knew
what she wanted to say. She wanted to say, “this is about that Santa fantasy,
isn’t it.”

And she was right.

But she didn’t dare say it because she didn’t want
me to even talk about it.

I started to feel a little mad at her.

It would be
so
much easier if she
believed
me.

If she
met
this guy Santa, and saw what he
was like—
then
she’d understand why I was so torn up inside.

I
like
Josh. I really do! And I can see how
odd it looks to Savannah, to have me go out on a date with this terrific guy
and instead of falling for him I’m, like, being all weird about it.

So I don’t blame her for being kind of angry with me.

“Look,” she said. “If you don’t like the guy—fine. I
get it. But tell me, Clare. Seriously. What is there not to like?”

I couldn’t hold her gaze. I looked away.

“If you’d only seen what I saw,” I said. I kind of
muttered it though. Because I knew it was better if we didn’t even discuss the
topic at all.

“Clare.”

I looked at her again.

“The reason I didn’t see it, is that there’s nothing
to see.”

And I’m sorry, it wasn’t very Christmas spirit of
me, but I lost my temper.

“That’s it,” I said. “That’s it. I’m tired of this.
I’m tired of you thinking that I’m some kind of nut case.”

“Clare—”

But I cut her off. “No,” I said. “No more, Savannah.
You can either come with me to meet him, right now, or I’m going myself.”

“You said you wouldn’t go back there.”

“Well I’ve changed my mind.” I put my jacket on. “Are
you coming?”

She sighed. “Lemme shower first.”

So I said sure, I’d wait.

So that’s what I’m doing, now. Waiting for her to
get out of the shower.

And I’ve got butterflies like crazy.

Because this is it. I’ll show her—she’s going to see
this guy and meet this guy, and then she’ll know that I’m not nuts.

She’ll know why I’m acting like I’m acting—she’ll
know why I think I’ve fallen in love.