The Holiday List (The Script Club 4)

“Of course,” I replied brightly. “This is my neighborly good deed.”

Sam sank into the sofa with a sigh. “Right.”

Hmm. Last weekend, his anti-holiday grumbling had sounded halfhearted—more like a familiar cranky role he took on every year without remembering why. But he seemed melancholy now. I’d either misread him or I was missing a crucial puzzle piece.

“I know you mentioned that Lincoln doesn’t mind that you keep an austere home during the season, but he seemed excited at the prospect of a tree.”

“He’s eight, Chet. Everything is exciting at his age.”

“Yes, but—”

“It’s true. A tree isn’t what he wants from me. This is where he comes to chill out. I’m a neutral zone. Although sometimes I feel like a glorified babysitter for my own kid,” he commented in a faraway tone. “Watching him with you earlier was enlightening. His enthusiasm is contagious and because I’m an egotistical prick, I can’t help thinking life would be a hell of a lot easier if I had your job.”

I cocked my head curiously. “How so?”

“You do something that interests him. I don’t. Linc doesn’t care about football. He’s a science guy like you, and I don’t know shit about science.”

Silence.

I wasn’t sure what to say, so I went with the obvious. “Oh. You’re upset.”

“No, no. I’m feeling sorry for myself. There’s a difference,” he joked. “See, I thought I was being clever inviting you over today, but I think I outed myself at being a better part-time parent after all.”

“It probably isn’t appropriate for me to weigh in on the matter, but from a purely observational standpoint, you seem like a great parent. You’ve noted that your passions don’t align and have made the effort to learn…shit about science.” I waited for his bout of laughter to subside before continuing, “And isn’t part-time parenting a by-product of a divorce? Or are you feeling maudlin from excess time off?”

Sam’s wry grin met his eyes and washed away the lingering sadness, like a ray of light through the clouds on a rainy day.

“Maybe I am. I told you I’m tired of my own company. It’s turning me into an existential armchair philosopher. One minute I’m yelling at the TV for the defense to kick some ass and the next, I’m a fuckin’ prom queen with a cracked tiara, wondering what the secret is to being what everyone wants.”

“If it makes you feel any better…pleasure is a matter of perspective. It’s simply not possible to please everyone. But I’m sorry you’re feeling blue.”

“I’m okay.” He bumped my shoulder playfully. “Thank you. I’m actually much better now.”

The combination of his nearness and the personal quality of our conversation lent a cozy air, as if we were old friends, instead of new neighbors.

Who’d kissed.

Right. I cleared my throat noisily and pointed my finger in the air. “You know what would help?”

“Holiday shit?”

I nodded. “Exactly.”

“All right…you win.” Sam heaved himself to his feet and offered his hand to help me up. “C’mon, I’ll show you my Christmas crap, science guy. I have some boxes in storage. I haven’t opened them in ages, but there might be a few things worth using.”

“Excellent.”

He led the way through the kitchen and a short hallway leading to a laundry room, then opened the door to the garage and made a beeline for a wall of cabinets on the far side of the space. I shimmied around the white Tesla and helped him pull a large plastic container marked “Xmas” from the shelf. We carried it to a carpeted area next to a couple of bicycles, where I dropped to my knees, clicking the top free.

“Careful. There might be spiders. This container hasn’t been opened in five years,” Sam warned.

I peered inside and rummaged through a few snow globes, ornaments, and a glittery golden sign that read, “Joyeux Noel.”

“Oh, these are wonderful. What a treasure trove!”

“Let’s have a look.”

Sam kneeled beside me, running his fingers through the satiny ribbon before sifting through holiday knickknacks. He seemed more curious about what was in the box than sentimental. He gave the whimsical nutcrackers a passing glance while I gushed about the quality and variety of his decorations. The man who professed not to care about the holidays had an impressive collection.

“I’m gobsmacked,” I exclaimed. “You have more than enough, and it’s all so lovely. I confess I’m a tad jealous. Your angel tree-topper is divine! Her halo and her gown and—”

“You can have it.”

I snapped my chin in his direction and shook my head. “That’s nice of you, but I couldn’t—”

“Sure, you could. You can have all of it. Or you can give away what you don’t want. I don’t want this stuff,” he said firmly, softening his tone as he continued. “This is all from my past life. Things my ex didn’t want. I should sift through it to make sure I don’t give away any of Linc’s preschool memorabilia, but the rest can go.”