How My Neighbor Stole Christmas

Snow from the night before glistens across the bitter ground,

while news of the sisters’ arrival spreads all throughout town.

The gossip is crisp, the excitement oh so thick,

while Cole stomps around as a very unhappy dick.

“Did you know they were coming?” I say to my best friend Max.

Max pauses from where he’s sharpening his axe and quirks a brow in my direction.

“Did I know who was coming?” he asks.

I sit on one of the old farm chairs that’s one large man away from its wood crushing into sawdust—I like to take risks—and lean my forearms on my thighs. “The Taylor sisters.”

“Who are the Taylor sisters?” he asks before wiping down his axe and inspecting it.

A chilly wind blows through the open gap of the barn door, reminding me once again that fall has ended and winter is here. The cold has never bothered me. I’m accustomed to the blistering Colorado mountain winters, hence why I’m only wearing a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved flannel shirt. That’s what happens when you spend your entire life in a mountain town. You adapt to the weather conditions, expecting the unpredictable, but confident the sun will shine at least once during the day.

“You know who the Taylor sisters are,” I say. “Cindy Louis’s great-grandnieces Taran and Storee.”

“Ohhh,” Max says with a nod and a wink. “Storee Taylor.”

“Can you not?” I say, shaking my head, seeing exactly where he wants to take this.

“She’s back in town, huh? Are you going to try to ask her out again?”

“I didn’t ask her out in the first place,” I say, hating that I brought up the topic.

“That’s right, you didn’t—you didn’t get the chance to before she blew you off.”

“She didn’t blow me off,” I say, irritated. “She changed the subject and then had to leave, simple as that.” There’s so much more to the story, but it’s not something I want to relive.

“Weren’t you seventeen and she was fifteen?”

I drag my hand over my face. “Uh, no, we were both eighteen.” I shake my head because he’s not getting it. “Never mind,” I say as bells jingle nearby, sounding off that another ride through the evergreens is about to start.

Evergreen Farm is Kringletown’s pride and joy. Well…one of them. Known as the highest incorporated town in the country, sitting at 10,522 feet, Kringle is a year-round Christmas town.

Yup, we celebrate Christmas…year…round.

The holly jolly music never ceases.

The twinkle lights never turn off.

And Santa—aka Bob Krampus—never stops ho-ho-hoing from his house at the top of Ornament Park—also known as the town park, which is in the shape of a bulb ornament.

The Bavarian-style buildings that line Ornament Avenue, Krampus Court, and Route 25 are continuously adorned with wreaths, lights, and freshly fluffed garland. The Christmas stalls behind the Myrrh-cantile are always open, offering the latest in homemade crafts for those looking for that unique gift for the holiday season.

And Evergreen Farm, owned by the Maxheimers—Max’s family—is always running. During the summer, there’s tree planting, paintball, live bands, and an animal farm that teaches respect for all animals. During the holiday season, there’s tree cutting, ice skating, sleigh rides—powered by electric snowmobiles—s’mores around the many campfires, gingerbread baking classes, and every vendor this side of the Rocky Mountains looking to grow their business.

As for me, I hide out in here, the reindeer barn, where I take care of the Maxheimers’ precious and very famous reindeer. I don’t mind the smell. I don’t mind the snorts or the shaking of antlers or even the wet snouts looking for snacks in my pockets. I like the solitude, I like the hard labor of shoveling reindeer shit into a wheelbarrow, and if I’m going to be truly honest, I like the sound of their clomping hooves.

No one bothers me—besides Max—and no one dares try to take my job, because between the three Maxheimer siblings, none of them want to do what I do. And since I’m an honorary Maxheimer, I take on the tasks with pride.

Max lifts his axe over his shoulder and rests his hand on his hip as he stares down at me. Standing at six foot four, one inch taller than me, Max—or Atlas, his real name—has been my best friend since we were babies. Otto and Ida, Max’s parents, were best friends with my parents. When my parents passed away ten years ago, they took me under their wing. Which means Max treats me like a brother. In other words, he pulls no punches and takes no shit.

“You really think I’m going to drop the fact that the girl you used to dream about all the time is back in town after how many years and act like it doesn’t mean anything to you?” he asks.

“First of all, I didn’t dream about her. Jesus, I’m not a pathetic, lovesick asshole. I just thought she was hot.” I shrug nonchalantly. “That’s it. Secondly, we don’t need that kind of disturbance at the start of December.”

“Why not?” he asks.

“Because you know how this town is. They’re already starting to talk about it. I overheard Sherry Conrad talking to Thachary down by the Polar Freeze about the Taylor sisters coming into town and what kind of shenanigans they might get up to.”

“Shenanigans?” Max raises a brow. “What kind of shenanigans did they ever get up to?”

I study him for a prolonged moment, blinking a few times to see if he was kidding. “Max, we grew up in the same town. You were here for the year of Bob Krampus’s Santa reveal, the hot cocoa shortage of 2012, and the year the signature tree in Baubles and Wrappings tipped over. They caused all those misfortunes.”

He scratches the side of his cheek. “Huh. I guess I never thought about it, but hey, they’re older now. They’re probably here to take care of Cindy. Martha and Mae can only play nurse for so long before they start erupting from the inside out. You know better than me that the twins are a nuclear bomb waiting to explode.”

Martha and Mae Bawhovier are twin sisters. They’ve lived together ever since I’ve known them, and they are very hot-headed, a source of strife in the town with their constant jabbering. They also stick their noses in everyone’s business. Luckily for me, or rather unluckily, they live on my cul-de-sac.

“I think you’re internally freaking out because you like Storee,” Max adds.

“I don’t like her, and I’m not internally freaking out,” I say. “Trust me, she’s the last person I want to fucking see…especially now.”

“Why especially now?”

I didn’t mean to say that last part out loud.

Normally I tell Max everything. Like I said, he’s basically a brother, but there’s one conversation I never shared with him because, well, it hurt just a bit too much.

“Because we’re so busy,” I say.

“Says the guy sitting on a chair from the 1800s, gossiping about out-of-towners settling into the house next to his.”

“Am I not allowed to have a conversation with my best friend while he sharpens his axe? According to your dad, I’m required to take breaks.”

Max shakes his head. “Whatever makes you feel better, man.” He heads toward the barn door and then turns to me. “So, what are you going to do about the Taylor sisters being in town? Knock on Cindy’s door and see if they need help? Offer to shovel snow? Perhaps show them a few ways to warm themselves up?”

“I’m not going to do anything,” I say with a stern expression. “I have no intention of even speaking to them.”

“So then why bring it up?” Max asks, seeing right through me.

I have no idea why I brought it up, except that ever since I saw them unloading their car, I haven’t been able to free my mind from the image of Storee’s deep red hair blowing in the breeze.

“To warn you,” I say.

“Warn me of what?” he asks. “I’m not scared of the Taylor sisters. I’ve never even met them, since they always stuck close to their aunt. I only know them through what you’ve told me.”

“Not warning you about them,” I reply. “I’m warning you about me, because now that they’re in town I’m going to be unpleasant to be around until they leave.”

“How is that any different from how you are regularly?”

My expression flattens, unamused.

He chuckles. “You know, your self-reflection and emotional intelligence have truly grown over the years.”

That’s better.

“Thank you. And don’t worry, I know you’re shivering over there from the thought of having to deal with me in my rawest and rarest form of grumpiness—”

“Dude, you say that as if it’s not an everyday occurrence.”

I’m not a grump all the time…there are moments when one of the reindeer makes me smile. They’re few and far between, but they’re there.

“Either way, I have no intention of going near either of the Taylor sisters. It’s going to be a Storee-free Christmas. Mark my words.”

“Hold the door,” a female voice says as I step into Kringle Krampus, the local deli and meat shop owned by the one and only Bob Krampus.

I prop the door open, the wind whooshing around outside, upturning some of the powdery snow that hasn’t packed itself in for the long haul of the season just yet.

“Oh my God, it’s cold,” says the woman as she steps in behind me, her long black parka jacket falling past her knees, the hood encased in faux fur nearly covering her entire head.

“Yeah, that’s the elevation for you,” I say as she lowers her hood—

Motherfucker.

Lo and behold, a cloud of red hair floats around her face and shoulders. When she looks up, I’m nearly shocked by her stunningly beautiful gray eyes, just as I was all those years ago.

Storee Taylor.

I knew it was wishful thinking that I wasn’t going to have an interaction with her given the size of this town, but on the first fucking day? What kind of universe would create such chaos?

If it were me controlling this scenario, I would have given it at least a week of built-up tension and anticipation. Seems like the person in charge doesn’t know what the hell they’re doing.

When her eyes meet mine, she smiles softly, and then, for a brief moment, she tilts her head to the side, recognition crossing her features.

Now, it’s been about ten years, and I’ve matured…to put it modestly. No longer am I the idiot with the long, flipped-out hair that would cover my eyes if I didn’t flick it to the side just right. I’ve grown into my own skin, I’ve filled out in the proper places, and I now have a thick coat of facial hair that can’t be defined as a hefty beard. Nor can it be described as just scruff, so it’s a healthy in-between that keeps my face warm without becoming itchy.

And yet she recognizes me. Hate to admit it, but I’m kind of impress—

“Conner, right?” she says. “It’s so good to see you.”

Never mind, scratch that last thought.

“Cole,” I say.

“Coal?” she asks with a crinkle in her nose.

“Yes, Cole.”

“Coal what?” she says, looking around, confusion deep on her brow.

“Uh, Cole Black.”

She glances to the side, to the person behind me, and then back to me. “Umm…yes, coal is black.” She nervously laughs. “Are you okay, Connor?”

“Cole,” I repeat, my hands turning into fists at my sides.

I can see the polite smile cross her face, her expression morphing into a veil of fakeness, ready to put on a show to not hurt my feelings. “That’s…that’s nice.” She points to the menu above the counter. “You know, I’m just going to figure out what to get everyone, if you’ll excuse me.”

I should leave it at that, just let her think that I’ve hit my head over the years and now mutter things like “coal black,” but the prideful ass inside of me can’t let it go.

“My name,” I say, “is Cole Black.”

She brings her attention back to me and tilts her head again, this time to the right as she studies me, tapping her chin with her finger. “Are you sure?”

“Am I sure if my name is Cole Black?”

“Yes, I mean…I could have sworn it was Connor.” She wags her finger at me. “Is this a Kringle thing? Mess with the newbies?”

“No. Why would I do that?”

“I don’t know, Connor, why does this town play ‘Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer’ year-round?”

Classic Storee. Sweet persona. Charismatic. Beautiful smile that masks the person she is on the inside.

She questions.

She challenges.

She drives me fucking mad.

“Because they like the song,” I answer. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“It is when poor grandma is getting massacred every day of the year. Maybe we could give her a break.”

I cross my arms over my chest, turning fully toward her now while we wait in line to be called up. It feels like we’re eighteen all over again. “Maybe Grandma is into it, ever think about that?”

“I’m no newbie when it comes to kink, but getting run over by a reindeer is by no means a kink anyone wants to entertain. Because that’s called death.”

“Maybe she wandered out into the snow because she wanted to be run over. Grandpa didn’t even mourn for a second. He went back to watching football and playing cards with Cousin Belle, so it seems a bit suspicious if you ask me.”

“Are you saying an elderly lady wanted to be hoofed in the forehead?” she asks, crossing her arms as well.

“The evidence is there.”

“Okay, so if this octogenarian wandered into the snowstorm looking for her medication because she wanted to get away from her useless counterpart in exchange for death, then why does the song continue to play over and over in this town, celebrating her demise?”

She lifts her chin, almost as if she believes she’s pinned me. A gotcha look spreads across her face, the smallest of smirks pulling at the corner of her lips.

I work my jaw from side to side, attempting to come up with a valid reason why we play it, but nothing comes to mind, which only makes her grin grow.

This is exactly what I’m talking about.

She gets under my skin, and she knows exactly how to do it.

It’s been like that ever since I met her during her first visit to Kringle. We were both eight at the time. Cindy thought it would be nice for us to build a snowman together since we were the same age. Storee wanted to do it her way because she thought she knew best—the girl from California—and I wanted to do it the correct way based on my experience living in snow, and we bickered.

We fought.

And it’s never stopped.

Sure…there were moments when we didn’t bicker and fight. Moments when we’d talk on my front porch about everything and nothing. Quiet, subdued, real moments when I got to know her on a deeper level, but whenever we got back together, the fighting always started again.

Without fail.

“That’s what I thought, Connor.” She turns back to the menu.

“It’s Cole,” I say through clenched teeth.

“Oh right, Cole.” She offers me a grin. Then with her wandering eyes, she gives me a sparse once-over, taking in my muddy work boots, worn jeans, and black-and-navy flannel shirt before meeting my eyes again. “Cole…the neighbor, right?”

“You know exactly who I am—don’t play with me, Storee.”

“Grumpy as usual, I see,” she says with a smirk. And that smirk says it all. She’s fucking with me. She knew damn well who I was the whole time. “Although you are taller now.”

Trying not to show my frustration, I say, “That’s what happens when you grow.”

“You have…broader shoulders.” She motions to my chest. “More muscles.” Okay, so she’s just going to say whatever’s on her mind?

“Yup, when you work on a farm, you tend to gain muscles.”

She leans in an inch, studying my face. “And facial hair.”

“A given, since I’m in my late twenties and live in a colder climate,” I reply.

She slowly nods. “Well, congratulations on growing up.”

“Thanks. Congratulations on maintaining your habit of being massively annoying.”

Her mouth parts in shock. “Well, that was rude. I complimented you on your muscles that were not there five years ago—”

“Ten,” I correct her.

“Whatever, ten. And then you say I’m annoying. How is that being welcoming?”

“Wasn’t trying to be welcoming,” I say.

“What about neighborly?” she asks as we take a step forward in line.

“Wasn’t trying to be neighborly either.”

“Well, you should,” she replies. “I’m going to be here for a while, and I think it would be best if we could live harmoniously—don’t you?”

“We’re not living in the same house, so I have no need to interact with you.”

“Sheesh,” she says, her hand landing on her hip. “I know I pretended to get your name wrong, but there’s no need to be so rude. Remember…I complimented your muscles.”

I roll my eyes. “Do you really think I’m that vain?”

“No,” she says. “But I thought it would butter you up after I called you Connor.” She winks.

“Not interested in being buttered up.”

“What are you interested in?” she asks.

I’m getting sucked in again. This is what she does—pulls me in with conversation, challenges, and questions, and before I know it, I’m ready to fly off the deep end with irritation.

“I think it’s best for the both of us if we just…don’t talk to each other.”

She shrugs. “I’m fine with that.” She turns toward the menu again, and I do the same.

There. Silence.

As long as we ignore each other, everything will be fine.

“For the record, I wasn’t trying to be rude or condescending. I really thought we could joke around with each other. That’s why I called you Connor.”

“For the record,” I mimic, “I couldn’t care less.”

“Well…kind of seems like you cared a little.”

I glance at her. “We’re not talking to each other, remember?”

“Yup, I get that, but I felt like I needed to clear the air. Didn’t want you to think I came into town to disrupt your grumpy peace.”

“You didn’t need to put grumpy in front of peace,” I shoot back.

“It felt fitting.”

“It’s not.” Even though it is. “Let’s just get back to not talking to each other.”

“Couldn’t have said it better myself,” she replies and sticks her hands in her pockets, tuning me out. Just the way I like it.

Silence falls between us once again as we move forward in line.

The Krampus family—comprised of at least twenty members with different occupations all throughout town—works behind the counter, filling orders, shouting at each other because it’s the only way they know how to communicate, and then slapping orders on the counter to pick up.

“What to get, what to get?” Storee mumbles to herself.

I ignore her and focus on the one thing on the menu that I care about…the chicken parm sandwich. Out of this world.

The breading is crisp.

The sauce is remarkable.

And the bread is toasted just perfectly with cheese oozing over it.

Fucking chef’s kiss.

And exactly what I need after a hard day.

“Italian sub…no, Aunt Cindy will want soup. Do I want soup? It will probably warm me up.”

I clench my jaw, irritated with her verbal processing. It feels like she’s trying to goad me into conversation. Not falling for it.

“Taran is not partial to soup, so do I get her tuna? Eh, I hate the smell, so maybe I’ll get her a grilled cheese…”

Sort of wish Taran would get the tuna.

“But she’s also partial to ham and cheese.” I feel her body move closer to mine. “What are you getting?”

I sigh heavily. “Chicken parm.”

“Huh, would have pegged you for an ‘all the meat’ kind of guy.”

I don’t bother commenting because I’m not interested in opening up the conversation. So instead, I rock on my heels, hating this time of year with the crowds that flock to the town, holding up my ability to partake in a sandwich after a long day of taking care of reindeer.

“You know, since you grew so well.”

“Huh?” I say.

“The meat. The muscles. They correspond. More protein means more muscles, unless you supplement. Are you supplementing, Connor?”

“Cole,” I remind her, my patience wearing thin.

“Oh shit, sorry.” She chuckles. “Just got Connor stuck in my head now. Anywho, are you supplementing?”Belongs to © n0velDrama.Org.

“I’m trying not to have a conversation with you, remember?”

“Sure…right. Wasn’t sure if the awkward silence was making your skin crawl like it is mine. But I’m going to take that as a no, so I’ll just stand here and wait.”

“Thanks,” I say, feeling settled finally.

Christ, what does it take to get Storee to understand? The best thing we can do is just avoid each other. Nothing good comes from us being near each other.

Thankful for some peace, I focus on my evening, how I plan on eating my sandwich in front of the TV and catching up on the latest—

“So what have you been up to the six years since I saw you?” Storee asks, breaking the silence again. When I turn to look at her, she adds, “Eh, was it six years? Can’t quite remember. Wait, I think you said ten. That’s right, ten years.”

“Storee, stop talking to me.”

“I can’t.” She shrugs.

“Yes, you can. You’re choosing not to,” I reply, my irritation ramping up.

“No, I actually have a really hard time dealing with awkward silence, and it propels me to want to fill in that silence with gibberish, hence what’s happening right now. So, uh…what have you been up to?”

“Nothing,” I say, turning away from her and stuffing my hands in my pockets.

I feel her move up beside me and catch her peeking around my shoulder from the corner of my eye. “For ten years you’ve been up to nothing? Seems like a giant waste of time.”

“Leave me alone,” I say.

“Hard to.”

“Try harder.”

“I am. Believe me, I’ve held back on at least twenty questions already.”

“Should I be thankful?”

“Very,” she replies. “So, anyway, want to tell me what about the chicken parm gets your taste buds ready to do a happy dance?”

“No.”

“Is it the cheese?”

“Leave me alone.”

“The sauce?”

“Storee…”

“The chicken?”

“For fuck’s sake,” I say, turning on her.

She smiles up at me. “Sorry, but like I said, it’s really hard for me to be quiet.”

“Well, let me make it easy for you,” I say as I step out of line, ignoring my craving for a chicken parm sandwich and settling for the leftovers in my fridge. “I’ll leave.”

“But your sandwich!”

“Not worth it,” I reply.

“Okay, but if you change your mind, I’m not letting you back in line. You leave now, you lose your spot.”

“Well aware,” I say as I walk away and push the door open, freeing myself from her irritating presence.

It’s going to be a long fucking holiday if this is how it’s going to go.