Her confusion doesn’t break, but she shrugs like that makes sense, like of course such an oddball person wouldn’t be from here. “Well. Welcome to Christmas.Christmas!” She turns away to start another cheer, and yeah, she’s drunk.
I can’t very well base the attitude of the North Pole on this one conversation, but the fact that the whole table reacts to her cheers with the same enthusiasm sits in my stomach like iron.
This is the image my father has worked to provide. Perfection one step beyond mortal—with him as this regaled savior, me as some wild child who can’t be trusted, and Kris nonexistent. He never really hated my negative image in the press, did he? On some level, he probably wanted me to keep fucking up, except when it endangered Christmas.
The only upside is that this girl seemed appalled at the idea of blackmail. So. There’s that.
Iris has gone somber too. Kris whispers something to her, and she nods, pulling up that trained stoic expression.
“Christmas,” I mimic the cheer, voice flat.
Hex presses into me. It yanks me out of my spiral so assuredly that I whimper in relief.
“Here,” he says. “I made this for you.”
He holds out a plate. On it is a gingerbread man, or what was until recently a gingerbread man, only his leg has been amputated and he’s coated in green frosting, with brown chocolate sprinkles formed into eyes and a gaping mouth. There’s a glob of red frosting on the missing leg, and I bust out laughing.
“You made me a gingerbread zombie.”
“Christmas and Halloween.” He grins.
This is the perfect opening to ask what he thinks aboutus.Aboutafter.Because there will be an after, all this will work out, nothing will implode. And in that after…
God, I want there to be an us.
But Hex threads his fingers into the gap of my jacket, misreading my strain. “You will fix this. Their opinion of you.”
It sinks in, a heavy stone. Because that’s what Ishould beworried about. And I am. Also. If problems were bees, I’d be a fucking hive.
I scratch the back of my neck. “I made a point to stop reading the press about us. But I guess I should start again, huh? See what my father is letting out. Or”—I inhale, sugared cookie air and Hex’sown sweet, citrusy warmth—“I keep doing what I think will fix things because wasting energy on PR bullshit gives me a migraine.”
“You should care what your people think of you.”
“We’ve been manipulating them foryears.How can I undo that? And the worst part is I was actively playing right into my dad’s image of me.”
“You’re taking steps to undo it all now.” Hex touches my chin. “You do realize how suited you are to this job, as Santa? You make people happy. You make them laugh. You bring joy. You can do this, Coal. It won’t happen overnight, but you can start to change their minds now that you know the story they believe.”
My eyes shift through his, back and forth, letting him center me. “How are you so sure? I don’t think I’ve ever had half as much conviction as you put into what you said just now, and you have that much conviction abouteverything.”
Hex gives another of those easy, dismissive shrugs, the ones I know are a sign that his true emotions are churning hard and fast beneath his surface.
“Would you like to know my secret?” he asks. All we’ve said has been low, but I lean closer, drawn into him.
“Always. Every single secret you have.”
Fingers still on my chin, he twists my head and presses his lips to my ear. A shiver walks down my spine at the ghost of his breath on my skin.
“I fake it until I believe it,” he whispers. “Everyone’s wearing a façade, whether they are actively posing for photos or merely trying to survive their day. And so my façade is that I never let my true uncertainty show, because often the thing I am uncertain about will resolve itself once it senses no resistance in me.”
I move my head, letting his lips run across my jaw. “Have I told you how incredibly hot it is when you talk?”
“When I talk? As in, all the time, or a specific—”
“All the time. Every word you say. Catastrophically hot and so damn wise I could weep.”
Hex smirks, cheeks aflame. “I gave you a secret of mine,” he says, pulling back. “In payment, I want a secret of yours.”
I break off the gingerbread zombie’s head and eat it. “Fire away. I’m an open book.”
