Only Santas in the Building (Under the Mistletoe collection)

Chapter Three

T here’s no ornament waiting for me when I get back, and I take that to mean Mrs. Greene is still out. No matter. I’ll see her at the party, and I can thank her then.

I sit at my round two-seater dining table and video chat my sister, April, while I dig into my chicken pad thai.

“I need advice,” I tell her when she picks up.

“My favorite words,” she says, then yells to the side, “Don’t break that!”

Sounds like my nephews are getting into trouble, as usual.

April is forty and sort of like my second mother. She’s also my best friend, which didn’t happen until around ten years ago or so. She lives in Philly with her husband and their two sons. The boys think it’s so cool that their tía illustrates comic books, and they tell all their elementary school friends.

“Did you finish your pages?” April asks once she’s done hollering at the boys.

“I turned them in bright and early. Already got a confirmation from the editor.”

“Congrats! Does this mean you finally get to take a break?”

“For the next couple weeks. Then I get the script for another project in the New Year.”

“Hmm.” April, who works as an occupational therapist, has very specific views on my work-life balance, or lack thereof.

“Anyway, that’s not why I called,” I say before April can launch into a lecture. “This is about Theo.”

April’s dark-brown eyes, nearly identical to mine, narrow. We definitely look like sisters, with the same honey-tanned skin and high cheekbones, although her hair is curly while mine is straight, and I have freckles across my nose that make me look perpetually twelve years old.

“What do I always say?” she asks in a tone that sounds just like our mother.

I roll my eyes. “Don’t shit where you eat.”

She knows all about my crush on Theo and has made it perfectly clear that I shouldn’t have a torrid affair with my neighbor.

But I really, really want to.

“I’m just saying, you were lucky to find this place,” she goes on. “You don’t want to jeopardize it if things with him go south and you still have three-quarters of the year left on your lease.”

When I chew instead of responding, she asks, “I take it he’s going to be at this party tonight?”

“He is.” I tell her about our literal run-in on the stairs. By the end, April is shaking her head.

“Sweetie, I just think that if he were into you, he would have made it obvious by now, and no, carrying your stuff isn’t enough.” Her tone isn’t unkind, but we’ve been over this many times before. “Why hasn’t he at least asked you out for coffee yet?”

“I don’t drink coffee.”

She huffs. “That’s not the point. Have you decided what you’re going to wear tonight?”

I gladly accept the change in topic. “I was planning to wear a Santa hat and make some cookies, but I look like such a slob every time I see him, I want to go all out.”

April’s expression softens. “Evie, if he doesn’t like you at your worst, he doesn’t deserve you at your best.”

“I know.”

I haven’t told her that I’m not aiming for Theo to like me. That feels too far out of reach, and honestly, I’d be satisfied with making out with him in a dark corner of the party.

Do I want more? Hell yeah. In addition to being gorgeous, Theo is smart, helpful, and polite. From our brief conversations in passing, I know he works as a software engineer, he’s lived in the building for seven years, and he owns his unit. Mrs. Greene adores him and said he fixes things for her when Bernard, the super, takes too long to show up.

I want to get to know my upstairs neighbor, who’s apparently as competent with computers as he is with tools. But I feel like such a loser every time I run into him, I end up babbling or getting tongue-tied. For once, I want to feel like I’m at my best during an interaction with Theo. Is that too much to ask?

“How’s the apartment?” April cuts into my thoughts with another common topic of our conversations. “Have you gotten anything out of storage yet?”

“Not yet. But it’s fine.”

I glance over at my little Christmas tree, which is looking a lot less sad these days with its snowflake, crane, winter landscape, and star. I want to thank Mrs. Greene before I mention them to April.

A bubble of warmth swells in my chest. This tree, with its small collection of handmade ornaments, has made me feel more at home here than anything else has.

April’s quiet for a moment, and I chew another bite of pad thai.

“I know you and Grandma were really close at the end,” she says gently. “We all appreciated how much you stepped up to help her out. It’s okay if this isn’t an easy transition.”

I don’t know what to say to that. Honestly, I try not to think about it much.

I moved in with my grandmother three years ago. She was eighty-five at the time and self-sufficient, but she needed someone to help take out the trash and stuff like that. The rent on my apartment in Brooklyn had been sucking me dry, and since I work from home, I was the ideal family member for the job.

Grandma and I made great roommates. She cooked, I cleaned, and in the evenings we watched telenovelas together. My Spanish language skills are basic at best, so she’d fill me in on things I didn’t understand, and I found my vocabulary improving.

Then she had a stroke. A month later, she was gone.

“Selling the house was a shitty thing for Tío to do,” April continues. “We all know that.”

The noodles in my mouth suddenly turn flavorless, and I wash them down with a gulp of water.

My grandmother’s death was hard on all of us. I helped my mom and my aunts and uncles clean out the house, but I was hoping to continue living there, at least for a while. The mortgage had been paid off ages ago.

But my grandmother had put the house in my uncle’s name, and he sold it without telling anyone. Without telling me .

“I just wish he’d at least given me the chance to buy it.” It’s an old complaint, but April is a compassionate ear, on this topic, at least, and it’s the part of the whole story that bugs me the most. “Not like I could afford it, but still. And then he only gave me three weeks to move out.”

That right there is why all my stuff is in storage.

April makes an understanding hum. “I know you don’t want to live with Mom and Dad. But you could still move in with us. We have plenty of room, and I bet you could sublet your apartment.”

I stayed with my parents for a few weeks after moving out of Grandma’s house. They live in Astoria, and it’s not like they charged me rent or anything, but I can only deal with my mother in small doses, so it was never going to be a permanent solution.

After yet another Sunday morning fight with Mom over going to church—she wanted me to go, and I didn’t—Dad called in a favor with an old friend and hooked me up with this place. The floors creak like they’re in a haunted house and the kitchen appliances are ancient, but it’s rent stabilized and all mine.

Even if it doesn’t quite feel like home yet.

“That’s really nice of you,” I tell April. “But I’m not ready to leave New York.” And as much as I love my sister, her well-intentioned but intrusive questions would get on my last nerve.

“I just want you to know it’s an option, okay?”

“Thanks. Oh, I’m getting another call,” I lie.

“Have fun at the party. I want to hear all about it later. And make good choices!”

I suppress a good-natured eye roll. She’s been telling me that for as long as I can remember. “I will. Bye, Mom .”

“Ouch. Point taken. Bye!”

I hang up and put the rest of my lunch in the fridge. Then I finally tackle the dishes in the sink.

These are the moments when I miss my grandmother the most. When it’s quiet, when I’m alone, when I don’t have a deadline breathing down my neck. It’s easier to stay busy than face the grief of my first Christmas without her.

The ornaments in storage? They’re hers. I had decided to keep them even before my uncle sold the house out from under me, so I didn’t tell anyone I had them.

But I can’t face seeing them anywhere other than the fake tree in her living room.

So the fact that Mrs. Greene thought of me and took the time to make these ornaments, by hand , means more than I will ever be able to convey to her.

Still, I have to thank her somehow.

I think about it while I finish the dishes and do my daily fifteen-minute yoga routine. I want to make something in return. Another ornament? No, that feels derivative. A drawing? Maybe.

Then it hits me. Christmas is a week away, and I haven’t done any baking yet. While I’m not much of a cook, I enjoy the precision of baking. You follow each step and when it’s done, you have something delicious and heartwarming. I’ll find out Mrs. Greene’s favorite dessert and make it for her.

With my mind made up and my body loose and limber, I turn my attention toward the other order of business: prepping for the party in 5B.

Riding high on the endorphins of hitting my deadline, and maybe a lingering sense of empowerment inspired by Starsong’s own story arc, I rummage through my dresser and tiny closet. It’s not enough to just look pretty; I want to embrace my creativity and do something memorable .

While rifling through a bin of cold-weather gear, I’m hit with a brilliant flash of insight.

If I sacrifice this white scarf and this red sweater ...

After a quick image search on my computer, I grab a pair of scissors and a hot glue gun.

A short time later, with my costume complete, I slick on some mascara and wine-red lipstick. Then I trim my bangs and use a curling iron on the ends of my hair. I pin up the sides with a couple of claw clips and leave the rest hanging loose.

With my hair and makeup done, I wrestle my boobs into a strapless push-up bra and pull on a pair of black jeans so tight I know I’ll feel the urge to pee every time I sit down. But this is a minor inconvenience, because they make my butt look fantastic.

And now, it’s time for the pièce de résistance.

I’ve trimmed the neckline and wrists of a red V-neck sweater with pieces of a fluffy white scarf. I tug the sweater over my head, taking care not to mess up my hair or makeup, and tuck the hem into my jeans. After cinching a stretchy black belt around my waist, I turn to admire the results in the mirror hanging on the back of my bedroom door.

“There you are,” I say to the mirror. For the first time in a while, I feel like more than Evie C., the cute and quirky comic book illustrator.

I’m Ivelisse Cruz, the grown-ass adult who knows what she wants and goes after it.

I am wearing Mariah Carey’s iconic red Santa outfit from the 1994 music video for “All I Want for Christmas Is You.” Or as close to it as I can manage, using items found in my closet.

I look hot, and also a little silly, which seems appropriate for a Christmas costume party with your neighbors. I wish I had red pants to complete the look, but that might be taking it too far. And with jeans, I can hold my phone, keys, and lipstick in the pockets, although just barely.

I snap a picture and text it to April. Her reply pops up immediately.

Genius!!!

Smiling, I slip my feet into low-heeled, black ankle boots and grab the narrow gift bag with a bottle of wine I picked up earlier. I leave, lock the door behind me, and climb the two flights of stairs to the fifth floor.

The door to 5B is open and live piano music floats out. Someone is playing “It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas.”

Taking a deep breath, I step over the threshold.

And immediately spot Theo.