Today, the only thing snapping was the tension in my shoulders.
Because from the moment Jess arrived, something had been… off. Not wrong, exactly. But muted, as if someone had dialed her brightness down three notches. She was handling her booth out front of Pour Decisions with her usual efficiency, her face open and pleasant when she talked to customers, but anytime I drifted within her periphery, she seemed to find a reason to busy her hands or shift her focus somewhere else. Not avoiding me outright, but definitely not meeting me where we’d been the past few nights.
I had no reason to think something was wrong. We’d cleared the air. We were on the same page. But having spent a decade on the wrong end of her ire, I couldn’t shake the sense that I was missing something.
I crossed the square to check crowd flow between Stops Two and Three. Volunteers were already corralling kids toward the sleigh photo op, and the cider station had a line forming. I’d barely answered three vendor questions before someone tugged my sleeve and asked if the extension cords were supposed to spark like that. They weren’t, obviously, so I bent to fix that, then rerouted the string lights that had sagged overnight, then helped a teenager staple down the corner of the gingerbread tent before the wind snapped it loose again.
Every time I looked up, I found Jess. And every time I did, she wasn’t looking back.
When I finally made it to her truck, she was wiping a smear of cocoa from the counter, brows knit in concentration. Her hair was pulled back in a low bun, a few flyaways catching the light. I never knew a person’s hands could be a distraction until hers had become one of the things my eyes searched for automatically. I loved watching their quick, capable movements.
I stepped up beside the open service window. “Everything working?” My voice came out low, neutral. Testing the waters.
She nodded without glancing up. “Yeah. Busy. Good busy.”
The words were too smooth, too practiced. Jess didn’t do “smooth.” She did sharp and dry and honest, even when it made both of us uncomfortable. This perfect calm was a mask.
“You sure?” I asked.
“Positive.” She slid a new whipped cream canister into place. “You’re supposed to be with the sleigh volunteers.”
Right. I was. It didn’t change the fact that I wanted—needed—to check in with her. “You okay?”
“Fine.” She said it lightly, but the word slipped past me like a stone skipping over the surface of a lake—never touching the deeper water underneath. “Go deal with Santa.”
Before I managed to ask anything else, my radio crackled with a panicked voice: “Uh, Powell? The sleigh runner came loose again?”
Jess’s shoulders eased a fraction, like the interruption let her sidestep something. “Go. I’m good here.”
I hesitated one more beat. She didn’t glance up. I returned to my Twelve Stops duties.
The sleigh runner repair took longer than it should’ve—partly because a kid tried to climb into the thing while it was halfway off the ground, partly because one of the volunteers insisted on using a wrench the wrong size “because it’s lucky.” By the time I declared the sleigh safe again, the brass quartet had started their first official set, and the crowd had doubled.
A blur of small emergencies filled the next hour. Ornaments rolling under tents. A vendor panicking because her stock of gingerbread men had been miscounted. A kid setting down a caramel apple on top of the walkie-talkie charging station. Two dogs getting into a stare-down near the craft booth. All solvable. All distracting.
Every time I thought I might break free and find Jess, someone else stopped me. When I finally spotted her again, she was carrying a tray of cocoa flights toward a little girl in a sparkly coat. Her smile was dialed to warm enough to be professional without giving away anything truly personal.
I wove through the crowd to reach her, passing a couple debating ornament sizes and an elderly man loudly insisting he’d known Santa back in ’63. Jess was sliding a fresh tin of mini marshmallows into place when I stepped close.
“How’s it going?” I kept my voice low again, trying not to spook whatever fragile quiet she’d wrapped around herself.
She startled slightly, like she’d been deep inside her own head. “Good. Cold toes, warm cocoa. Par for the course.” She flashed a polite smile. Not the smile that warmed her eyes. Not the one she’d given me in my bed when she’d tucked her face into my neck and whispered that she didn’t want to run anymore.
I rested my hand lightly on the metal counter. “Jess. Are we—are you?—”
She cut me off before I found the words. “Can we not do this right now? Please.”
The “please” hit like a soft door closing. Not slammed, but firm enough to stop me mid-step.
“Did I do something?” I asked quietly. “Because if I did?—”
“You didn’t.” She said it fast. Too fast. “I just need… some space to focus. Big day.” She gestured to the bustling square, as if that explained everything.
Maybe it did. Maybe this was nothing. Maybe the dozen small crises tugging me around the square all day made everything seem bigger than it was. I told myself all of that. But the tug of unease wouldn’t let loose.
Her gaze skated toward a family approaching the window. “I should get that.”
I stepped back far enough to let her move. “Okay. I’ll—be around.”
