Prologue
20 Years Ago
Thalia - Age 8
It was seventy-five degrees on Christmas Eve, and I was melting like a snowman in a microwave.
The velvet Santa dress was the culprit. My grandmother had picked it out, complete with puffed sleeves, itchy lace, and a bow that could double as a sail, because “family photos need to look festive.” Never mind that festive in Arizona in December usually meant shorts and flip-flops.
I tugged at the neckline, glaring down at the candy cane clutched in my hand. It was almost as big as my forearm, wrapped in shiny plastic that stuck to my sweaty fingers. I could feel my hair, normally straight, frizzing in the dry heat.
“This is dumb,” I announced to my cousin, Logan, who was seven and currently poking a string of twinkle lights into a cactus. “Santa’s gonna get a heat stroke.”
Logan didn’t look up. “Grandma says the desert cools down at night.”
“It’s still not snow,” I grumbled, kicking at the dusty ground. The candy cane slipped in my grip and smacked my shin, leaving a sticky red streak.
When the lights were finally plugged in, the cactus lit up in blinking, multicolored glory. It should have been magical. It wasn’t. It just looked like Christmas threw up on a plant that could stab me.
Later that night, I tried to make the best of it. I scooped sand into a lopsided pile, sticking twigs into the sides like arms.
“Look!” I called to my mom. “A snowman!”
And then, as if the desert gods themselves were mocking me, the pile crumbled, leaving nothing but a sad mound and two crooked sticks.
I crossed my arms, chin jutting out defiantly. “Fine,” I muttered. “Next year, I’m moving somewhere with real snow.”
15 Years Ago
Sebastien - Age 17
The thing about Christmas at my house was that it was loud.
Not just regular loud, either, it was Mariah Carey-at-full-volume-while-the-blender-runs loud.
I sat at my desk, noise-canceling headphones clamped tight over my ears, highlighter poised above my AP Calculus textbook. Outside my room, chaos reigned: Mom warbling along to All I Want for Christmas Is You, Dad shouting at the football game on TV, and my little brother practicing what sounded like an endless drum solo on the kitchen counter.
I adjusted the headphones and muttered under my breath, “I’d rather eat glass than act like them.”
“Sebastien!” Mom’s voice pierced through the noise-canceling barrier like a siren. “Come sing carols!”
My pencil froze mid-scribble. “I’m studying!” I yelled back, even though she probably couldn’t hear me over the Mariah Carey apocalypse happening downstairs.
No reply, only the relentless beat of holiday cheer.
I glanced at the timer I’d set on my phone. Seven minutes and thirty-two seconds left in my self-allotted study sprint before my scheduled cookie break, which was eight minutes, precisely. That was all I allowed myself.
When the timer dinged, I trudged downstairs, grabbed exactly one gingerbread cookie, and sat at the table while my brother dramatically repositioned the tree topper, a gold star, about an inch to the left.
“It was crooked,” he said.
I glared. “It was fine.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
I closed my eyes, counted silently to five, and retreated back to my room.
Someday, I told myself, I’d have my own place. My own quiet Christmas. No Mariah. No chaos. No stars.
10 Years Ago
Thalia - Age 18
Peppermint chocolate bark was supposed to be easy.
At least, that’s what the recipe said. And Pinterest. And the smug lady in the five-minute video who smiled like she’d never burned anything in her life.
I squinted at the scorched mess in my saucepan and stirred it again, hoping for a miracle. The chocolate clung to the spoon in blackened clumps, releasing the faint, unmistakable scent of failure.
“Is it supposed to smell like that?” Maddie asked from the doorway, clutching a candy cane like a microphone.
“Yes,” I lied, fanning the smoke detector with a dish towel. “It’s called… caramelization.”
The smoke alarm went off anyway, shrieking loud enough to wake the entire neighborhood. Maddie cackled, doubled over in laughter, and filmed me with her phone for proof.
Ten minutes later, I dumped the sad, charcoal-like lump of chocolate into the trash, grabbed my coat, and texted my friends.
By nine p.m., I was standing in the parking lot of Miller’s Diner, where the owner, a kind man with zero regard for noise ordinances, had given us permission to plug our karaoke setup into the outdoor speakers.
Holiday lights twinkled across the awning. A couple of cars honked as they drove past, probably amused at the sight of us screaming Mariah Carey in a parking lot.
I didn’t care. I was in my element, mic in hand, belting All I Want for Christmas Is You like I was auditioning for American Idol.
I even nailed the high note, right before tripping over the extension cord and nearly face-planting in the gravel.
“Graceful,” my best friend shouted over the music.
I popped up, brushing grit off my knees, and grinned. “Shut up. That was a performance.”
5 Years Ago
Thalia - Age 23
The uniform was the worst part.
“Mrs. Claus, but make it Hawaiian,” my manager had said, which apparently translated to a red crop top, a grass skirt over my jean shorts, and a Santa hat decorated with fake hibiscus flowers.
I adjusted the itchy waistband for the hundredth time and plastered on a customer-service smile as I slid another margarita across the bar.
It was ninety-two degrees outside, the tiki torches flickering in the warm desert breeze, and the playlist, an endless rotation of three aggressively peppy Christmas pop songs, had been running on loop for my entire double shift.
When the guy in the corner seat ordered a hot toddy, I blinked at him.
“Buddy,” I said, voice flat. “It’s ninety-two degrees. You’re getting a margarita.”
He opened his mouth to argue. I slid the margarita toward him anyway.
By the time my shift ended, the soles of my sneakers were sticky from spilled rum punch, my hair smelled faintly like coconut sunscreen, and my holiday spirit had been replaced with the vague desire to move to Antarctica.
On my walk home, I passed a cactus wrapped in rainbow Christmas lights, its shadow stretching long across the sand. Someone had added a Santa hat to the tallest arm, and the absurdity of it made me snort.
I hummed a dirty parody of “Jingle Bells” under my breath as I cut across the parking lot toward my apartment.
“Maybe next year will be different,” I muttered. Then, after a pause: “Or at least cooler.”
Authors note
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