My Secret Santa Clayton (Silver Ridge Christmas)

7. Clay

SEVEN

Clay

I tossed the ball across the frosty expanse, watching Bear chase it down with the kind of single-minded determination that I wished I could muster for anything these days. Silver Ridge Park was buzzing with pre-Christmas activity; folks were stringing up lights and decorations around every tree and lamppost.

“Go get it, boy,” I encouraged, my breath misting in the cold air. Bear bounded back, a streak of black against the white snow, his tail wagging.

“Good boy,” I said as he dropped the slobber-coated ball at my feet.

My eyes drifted to the frozen lake where some brave souls had swapped their work boots for skates, gliding over the ice. Laughter floated through the air, chased by the scent of pine and fresh snow.

But it didn’t sit right.

It took me back to another day on this very lake—hotter than hell, Mike’s laughter cutting sharply before it turned to silence. The four of us had hijacked a friend’s boat like fucking delinquents—me, Mike, his girlfriend Sierra…and Grace.

I could still hear the thud of his head hitting the boat deck.

Too much booze, too much of everything, except time.

Time we thought we had in spades.

Bear flopped down beside me, panting, his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth.

“Hey, Bear, what d'you say we grab a bite?” I asked, scratching him behind the ears. Bear answered by getting up, ready for the next thing, always looking forward. “Come on then.”

We walked to Millie's Diner, the bell jingling above the door. Bear made straight for his usual spot by the counter, the one with the scuff marks from his claws. Betty was there in a flash, a plate of bacon scraps at the ready. She dumped them into Bear's eagerly waiting mouth with a chuckle that seemed to shake her whole body.

“Special treat for Bear today,” she said, beaming down at him. “He's earned it, hasn't he?”

“Seems like he has,” I replied, keeping my voice level, though a smile threatened at the edges. Bear had always been good at winning people over—far better than I ever was.

Betty leaned in, her eyes flicking up to the festive flyer taped haphazardly next to the daily specials board. “Speaking of treats, Silver Ridge's Christmas party is coming up.” She tapped the paper with a flour-dusted finger. “Made the flyers myself. It's going to be a real hoot this year.”

“Looks…colorful,” I said, noting the excessive amount of glitter and clipart Santas.

“You’ll be there, right? It’s the big kickoff party.” Her tone shifted toward insistence, and she gave me that look—like I was a stray she’d taken in out of pity.

“For Christmas?”

“Of course.”

I frowned. “Thought that was the Secret Santa thing…”

“No, no,” she said. “First the Secret Santa selection— then the kickoff party, then the gift exchange. You’ve gotta go to all three.”

I shook my head slowly. “Betty, you know parties aren't my thing.”

“Nonsense. You need to get out more, see folks. Can't have you cooped up all holiday season,” she pressed on.

“Appreciate the concern, but I'm fine on my own.”

“Fine? That's no way to live. It'll be good for you, Clay. I miss seeing your face around, and it wouldn't kill you to put a smile on it once in a while.” Betty’s voice softened, a velvet hammer driving home her point. “You're part of this town, like it or not.”

“Alright, alright, you win. I'll think about it,” I conceded—not because I wanted to go, but because I knew Betty wouldn't let it go otherwise.

“Plus, I want to show off the new bar you put up,” Betty beamed, her hands on her hips as she surveyed me with an expectant look. “You did such a good job; it's only right you're there to take the credit.”

“Credit?” I chuckled and leaned back against the counter, crossing my arms. “For what? A few planks of wood and some screws?”

“Clay Hawthorne, don't you play modest with me. That bar was falling apart, and now look at it. Solid as a rock. You've got skills, and it's high time you stopped hiding them.”

“Skills won't keep me company,” I grumbled, glancing away from Betty's piercing gaze.

“Who knows, you might meet a pretty girl at the party. Someone who doesn't know your grumpy face as well as I do.”

“Pretty girl?” I snorted. “I know every soul in this town, Betty. There's no one…well, no one I'm interested in.”

“Let the boy be, Betty,” came a voice from behind the grill—Betty’s husband, Sam. “He's just fine how he is.”

“Sam, you stay out of this,” she shot back without missing a beat, but the edges of her lips fought a smile. “This is between me and Clay.”

“Between you and half the town, seems like,” Tom replied with a hearty laugh that filled the diner. “Always setting folks up, aren't you?”

“Only because someone has to,” she retorted, hands now firmly planted on her apron-clad waist.

They went at it then, the kind of bickering only a long-lasting couple can pull off. It was almost comforting to watch, like an old sitcom rerun where you knew all the lines but laughed anyway.

“Been like this since high school,” I mused to myself, feeling Bear's head rest against my leg, seeking a scratch or maybe just some stability amidst the marital crossfire.

“Tell me you'll be there, Clay. Promise me,” Betty said, her eyes drilling into mine like she was trying to hypnotize me.

“Fine, Betty, fine,” I grumbled, scooping up the takeout box from the counter. “I'll show my face at your party.”

“See, that wasn't so hard, now, was it?” She flashed a victorious grin, patting Bear's head as he wagged his tail, oblivious to the whole exchange.

“Piece of cake,” I muttered under my breath. As I turned to leave, a picture on the wall caught my eye—Sam and Betty arm in arm, laughing at something beyond the camera's lens. It was a candid shot, full of life and unspoken words.

For a fleeting moment, my mind betrayed me with a flash of Grace and me, framed just like that, before everything.

Before Mike’s death…before Grace bailed and cheated.

Shaking off the thought, I focused back on the here and now. Bear nosed the door open, eager to get moving, and I followed him out, the bell above the door jingling a farewell.

I hit the pavement outside Millie's, Bear's leash tight in my hand. The cold bit at my cheeks, and the neon 'Open' sign buzzed a dull farewell. I strode to where my truck sat under the glow of a flickering streetlamp, keys jangling with every determined step.

“Clayton.”

The last voice I wanted to hear—save for Grace's maybe. There he stood, leaning against a beat-up Ford that had seen better days.

My old man.

Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world…he’d chosen the diner today.

Fucking asshole.

“Dad,” I said, keeping it short, hoping he'd take the hint.

“Town was better when you weren't in it,” he grumbled, kicking up some gravel with his boot.

“Right back ‘atcha.” I kept walking. Bear growled low from beside me, sensing the tension.

“Train your mutt,” Dad shot back, his eyes narrowing.

“Good night, Pop.” I didn't wait for an answer, just opened the door to the truck and let Bear jump in.

“Clay!” His voice followed me, but I ignored it, slamming the door shut behind me. The engine roared to life, cutting through the silence of the night as I left him there, alone in the parking lot.

I let the truck’s vibration settle into my bones. Couldn't get away fast enough, not from him. But there I was, gripping the steering wheel like it could save me from drowning, watching through the rearview as the old man shuffled back to Millie's Diner.