Page 8 of Big Santa

Well, almost every night.

There were hospital beds, one truly terrible night in a vinyl chair at the rehabilitation center after Grandpa’s hip replacement, and one weekend at Josie’s girl getaway that Grandma spent reminding me she was perfectly capable of surviving forty-eight hours without me.

She was.

I still called her six times.

Now there are boxes lining the wall. My suitcases are open on the bed. My car is already packed so full that I’m going to have to wedge myself behind the steering wheel like a Tetris piece.

And tomorrow someone else gets the keys to this house.

“Yes,” I say. “I’m really doing this.”

Josie sits on the edge of the bed.

Her expression changes.

Ugh, that’s worse than teasing. I can handle teasing. I don’t particularly want to handle whatever is happening to her face right now.

“You could come home with me.”

“I know.”

“I mean it,” she says.

“I know.”

“We have plenty of room.”

“I know. But you also have two children who love you,” I say, “and a husband.”

“He loves you too.”

“I’m reasonably certain Chase Michael merely tolerates me because I make good queso and because I make you laugh.”

“He likes you better than half of his own siblings.”

“Low bar.”

Her mouth twitches.

Good. Crisis averted.

I turn back to the dresser.

There’s nothing left in it.

I open the top drawer anyway.

Empty.

Second drawer.

Empty.

Apparently packing doesn’t become less complete just because you check it again.

“Josie, I know you can stay with me.”