My True Love Gave to Me
: Welcome to Christmas, CA Kiersten White

If you do a search for “US cities named Christmas” (which, get a life, weirdo), you’ll get five main results. Arizona, Florida, Kentucky, Michigan, and Mississippi each had someone who decided, “Hey, let’s name our city after Christmas, because then it’ll be Christmas all year round!”

If you ever stumble across one of their graves, you are obligated to spit on it, because honestly.

However, on the I-15, between the glittering cityscape of Barstow and the stunning metropolis of Baker, there’s a crumbling freeway exit that’s so small and depressing, even Google doesn’t know about it. And here, cradled in the bosom of the ugly brown desert, is my home: Christmas, California.

Technically, it’s not a city. It’s not even a town. It’s a “census-designated place.”

“Where are you from, Maria?” I’ll be asked someday, and I’ll be able to say with utter accuracy, “Just some place.”

Christmas is slipping into a pit of obsolescence. That pit would be the local boron mine, where fifty workers literally squeeze their living from rocks. Someday the boron will run out, and our census-designated place will finally be allowed to die.

As I sit in the passenger side of my mom’s boyfriend’s eighteen-year-old Chevy Nova, the December sunshine coldly brilliant, I pray that day comes soon. It’s a forty-five-minute drive from the nearest high school, which means I get an hour and a half of quality time with Rick every day.

Our script:

Maria enters the car. Rick removes a tape from the deck, then puts in one of two cassette tapes, Johnny Cash or Hank Williams.

“How was your day?” Rick asks.

“Fine,” Maria answers.

“Homework?”

“Doing it now.”

Repeat every day for the last three and a half years.

Today, as we pull off the highway and onto the bustling main strip (a car repair shop, a gas station, a series of slumping duplexes, and the Christmas Café), Rick breaks script.

“Paloma found a new cook.”

I narrow my eyes suspiciously at the dull brick exterior of the Christmas Café, which isn’t a café at all. It’s a diner. But the Christmas Diner isn’t alliterative, and saints forbid anything about the place not be ridiculous.

Ted, the last cook, died last week. He’d worked here since it was opened thirty years ago by Rick’s mom. Dottie lives in a retirement home in Florida. Even though my mom has been with Rick for eight years, Dottie still refers to her as “that nice Mexican.” That nice Mexican runs the diner—covers the ordering, keeps track of the accounting, forces her daughter to work for tips alone—basically does everything Dottie is too busy being retired to bother with. She also works full-time at the mine with Rick.

I keep trying to feel sad about Ted, but we barely knew each other, even after three years of working together. Still, it’ll be strange not having him there. He was more of a fixture than a person. Like if I walked in and the freezer was just . . . gone. Another reason I need to get out of here, before I become stuck like Ted, stuck like Rick, stuck like my mom. Everyone here is miserable, and we’re all just punching our time cards until we die.

Or, in my case, until May, when I graduate and leave Christmas forever.

Rick drops me off in front of the duplex, then heads straight for the late shift at the mine. They actually let me take the car when I turned sixteen, but I got in two accidents (both my fault), so it’s still cheaper for Rick to drive me than for them to insure me. Cheaper trumps all.

I unlock the door and enter the dim, chilly stairwell. My mom doesn’t believe in heating. It’s a belief strongly supported by Rick. During the winter, it’s colder inside than it is outside. I shrug into the jacket that I leave by the door, check the mail—always neatly divided into the Sanchez and the Miller piles—and climb upstairs to the kitchen. The fridge is plastered with so many years of my report cards, they’ve formed a sort of wallpaper. I push past the milk labeled “Rick,” the yogurt labeled “Rick,” the eggs labeled “Rick,” and replace a small container of unlabeled leftover turkey. It has the flavor and consistency of cardboard. I scoop it into the trash, still hungry.

Usually our fridge is packed with castoffs from the diner, but with it out of commission since Ted died, actual food has been scarce. My mom hasn’t cooked a meal in years. Never thought I’d miss Ted “Moderately Edible” Dickson’s culinary stylings.

My mom used to cook. Before Christmas, we hopped around. Sometimes living with relatives, sometimes on our own. No matter how small our kitchen, though, she made it work. She’d spend hours putting together tamales, dancing and spinning stories in musical Spanish. She’s different in Spanish than she is in English. Warmer. Happier. Funnier. Mine.

English mom began when we came to Christmas. She got a job here as the site administrator—a fancy name for a secretary who has to do everything. We lived in a little trailer right at the mine site. Then she got a second job managing the diner, and she and Rick started dating. And it wasn’t just the two of us anymore. One of these days, she’ll show up with her own “Rick” label, right across her forehead.

Fridge possibilities exhausted, I head over to the diner to make sure our schedules haven’t changed and to get something to eat. There’s a dented minivan in the parking lot. Several car seats inside. Luggage strapped to the top. Bad news.

The door opens with a rusted jingle, and an animatronic Santa insults my moral virtue three times. Ho, ho, ho. A train track overhead circles the entire room, a dusty Polar Express forever stalled on the verge of reaching the North Pole. Every surface not reserved for eating is covered in holiday kitsch. Glittery Styrofoam snowflakes, empty boxes covered in sun-bleached wrapping, twinkle lights with one strand always blinking out of sync, stockings with hot-glue stains revealing where pom-poms used to be, and a stuffed deer head, red-bulb nose long dead and antlers strung with limp tinsel. As if that weren’t freak show enough, from the ledge above the kitchen door, a sinister elf gazes malevolently down, its head cocked at a horror-movie angle.

A year ago, I stuck a tiny knife in its hand. No one has noticed.

I look for the other waitress, Candy—she covers mornings and early afternoon, while I do late afternoon and evening. But she’s not here, and I was right about the minivan. The corner booth is a pending full-mop situation. A harried-looking woman wears a pair of sunglasses with only one lens. She’s bouncing a screaming infant on her lap. A toddler climbs on top of the table in spite of the mother’s cautions, while a middling-sized one whines and a bigger one pouts.

She sees me, a combination of hopelessness and annoyance warring on her tired face. “Good luck. We’ve been here five minutes with no sign of a waitress.”

I freeze. If I back out now, I can leave. I’m not scheduled to work.

The bell at the window rings. Ted was short, like me, so he never used the order window. We always had to go into the kitchen to get it. “Order up!” a cheery tenor calls.

The woman sees my reaction and narrows her eyes.

“I—uh—I work here.” You had to admit it, didn’t you, Maria. “Be right back with some menus.”

“Thanks.” Her voice is tight.

I approach the window to replace a miniature box of Cheerios, three kids’ cups of chocolate milk, one large Coke, and a deep dish filled with—baked macaroni? I lean forward, breathing in, and . . . wow. I’m not huge on pasta, but this smells like comfort smothered in cheese. There’s a bread-crumb layer on top that’s baked a perfect golden brown. The whole thing is still steaming.

I get on my tiptoes, but my view into the kitchen is limited. “Hey? I work here? Who is this order for?”

“Table two,” the voice calls. I look out to double check. There’s no one else in the restaurant. Just the crazy family.

“She said no one has taken her order yet. Is Candy back there?”

“It’s for table two.”

Frowning, I walk the tray over. “Here’s your food.”

The woman huffs in exasperation, prying her hair out of the baby’s fist. “No, we haven’t even ordered. Can we—wait, what is that?”

I’m already swinging the tray away, but I pause mid-action. “I think it’s baked macaroni. Do you at least want the drinks? No charge.”

The woman pushes her glasses up on her head, finally noticing the missing lens. Her laugh surprises me. It rings through the room. “Well, that’s embarrassing. And shows you what kind of birthday I’m having. You know, it’s the oddest thing, but this macaroni looks and smells exactly like what my mom used to make us on our birthdays.”

“Gramma?” the oldest child asks, perking up.

The mom’s face softens. “Yeah.” She touches the edge of the pale yellow dish. “This even looks like one of her baking dishes. That’s so strange! You know what, we want this.”

“Yeah?” I ask, confused.

“Yes. If we could get some plates?”

“Of course!” I rush behind the counter and grab four plates and silverware sets. The mom is in the middle of telling some story about a birthday treasure hunt. Everyone has calmed down—the older ones have stopped whining, the baby is eating the Cheerios, and the toddler is satisfied with his chocolate milk. The mom looks about ten years younger than she did when I walked in here.

“Can I get you anything else?”

She gives me a happy shake of her head. “This is perfect, thanks.”

I retreat, relieved but puzzled. Why did the new cook make that? Maybe someone else was here? I push through the door to ask what’s going on. And then I’m grateful my mouth is already open, otherwise I couldn’t have covered my jaw-drop.

Because the new cook is not some paunched, sixty-something, chain-smoking deadbeat.

He’s tall, a ridiculous chef’s hat making him even taller. Lean, with shoulders slanting inward so he seems to take up less space than he really does. Thick, dark eyebrows. There’s a single line between them that should make him look like a worrier, but there’s something inherently pleasant about his face. Maybe it’s the way his nose has the slightest off-center curve, like it was broken into a sideways smile.

Oh, and he’s not old. Maybe twenty, tops.

Oh, and he’s not unattractive.

“Hi!” He looks up from something boiling on the range. And there—when he smiles, his whole face lights up. It’s like his other expressions are placeholders.

I realize I’m beaming back. I tame my own mouth so I don’t look like a total idiot. “Hey. So. You’re the new cook?” Oof, yes, ask the guy cooking if he’s the new cook.

“Yeah! Isn’t this place amazing?”

“There . . . was no sarcasm in that statement. I’m confused.”

He laughs. “I couldn’t believe my luck when they hired me.”

Maybe I don’t know him well enough to understand when he’s joking. Surely he’s not sincere. He removes the pot from the stove, wipes his hands dry, and then holds one out to me. “I’m Ben.”

“Maria.”

His hand is big, but not in a meaty sort of way. I let go before he does, self-conscious. I don’t know what I look like right now. I didn’t bother checking myself in a mirror before coming over, because again: this is not what I expected to replace.

There must be something wrong with him. Like, seriously wrong. It’s the only explanation for why he would consider himself lucky for getting this job.

The front door jingles as Santa insults another customer. Ben returns to whatever he’s making—for no one, apparently—and I walk out and scan the restaurant. It’s still empty except for the family, who seem to be having a great time. After checking to make sure their drinks are filled, I go back to Ben. I lean as casually as I can manage against the counter, but the kitchen is weird now. No comforting sameness. Ben has transformed it into an unknown quantity.

“So, who ordered the macaroni?” I ask.

“Table two needed it.”

“Right. But she didn’t order it.”

He shrugs, as though he, too, is unaware of how this all worked out. But there’s a sly pull at one corner of his lips. “They like it, though.” It’s not a question.

“They’re thrilled. Have you looked at the menu? We don’t offer baked macaroni. Probably because Dottie couldn’t think of a way to make it Christmassy.” Her signature dish is the Rudolph’s Delight Salad—iceberg lettuce, ranch dressing, and one token cherry tomato.

He shrugs again, and this time both corners of his lips follow the upward movement. “First day. I’ll figure things out.”

“Maybe it’s better if you don’t. That looked way yummier than anything we make.” Since it looks like Candy isn’t here, I reluctantly grab my uniform from its peg. It’s a red polyester dress that never sits right, with a red-and-white-striped apron. We also have to wear sequined reindeer-antler headbands.

Year. Round.

The door to the women’s bathroom always sticks, so I shove it open with my shoulder. It nearly slams into Candy, who’s leaning over the sink.

“Oh, sorry! I thought the bathroom was empty.” I turn to go, when I realize her shoulders are shaking. “Candy? You okay?”

Her reflection is drained of color by the fluorescent lights. She has dark circles under her eyes, but that’s nothing new. At least they aren’t bruises this week. Two years ago, when she first moved in with her boyfriend, Jerry, she was bubbly and bright. We used to hang out sometimes after work, if Jerry was still on a shift at the mine. She wanted to be a hair stylist, someday open up her own salon. She even had plans to go to business school so she could run it. But little by little, she stopped talking about school. Jerry didn’t like it. Then she stopped talking about doing hair. Then she pretty much stopped talking at all. I see her every single day, but I miss her.

She holds up a white stick, expression blank. “I’m pregnant.”

I close the door behind me. “Congratulations?”

“I had to sneak out from my shift to buy the test. I’m sorry. I couldn’t go any other time, because then he’d know.”

Jerry always picks her up. I see him sometimes, on the front sidewalk, counting her tips. And on payday he holds out his hand for her check without even asking.

She leans over the sink. Her spine curves, her head droops. “How am I ever gonna get away now?”

I make Candy stay in the bathroom. It’s not like it’s busy. When the family leaves, I trudge toward their table, dreading the mess. Instead, I replace everything neatly stacked, no spilled drinks, no overturned plates. And—gloriously, impossibly—a twenty-dollar tip.

I squeal so loudly that Ben sticks his head out of the window. “Everything okay?”

“Better than okay! Best tip I’ve ever gotten! Thank you, Benjamin!”

“You’re welcome. But Ben isn’t short for Benjamin.”

The door jingles, announcing my mom . . . and Rick? Rick always says, “Why would I pay for someone else to make my food?” as he boils a scoop of rice or beans or whatever else he got in the bargain bin.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

My mom glances around. She works in the back and rarely visits the actual dining area. She never can get over the diner’s shock-and-awe decorating tactics. A penguin nativity, complete with little baby penguin Jesus, snags her attention. “Our shift was halted. Machine failure. We thought you’d be home. We wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Candy’s . . . sick. So I’m covering.”

Rick’s hands are jammed in the pockets of his Wranglers. “Your homework done?”

“Yes.” My voice is flat.

He nods. It’s the same motion he makes every evening when he asks me the same question and gets the same answer. Usually it happens at home, though, when we all get in from our various shifts. Then I pass him the remote so he can watch old episodes of Bonanza. A few years ago, I went through a bout of insomnia, and without fail he’d be out on the couch. We’d sit there, silent hours passing, the boring black-and-white cowboy adventures filling in the space between us.

Okay, fine, there were a few good episodes. But still.

The order bell dings, and I frown. Ben has placed three to-go containers on the shelf. “No one ordered anything!” I shout. My mom looks disapproving, so I stomp over to the window. “Ben! No one is here. No one called in an order.”

He leans his head over. “Oh, right! Well, it’s embarrassing, but I messed up. Instead of throwing it out, I thought you could give it to your parents.” He says it’s embarrassing, but his expression is wrinkled with delight.

“Rick is not my dad.”

“Cool. Well. Ask if they want it.”

I glare. It’s harder than it should be, like his sweet, smiley face is contagious. “Quit making food before people order anything.”

“Right.” He grins even bigger and then straightens so I can’t see his face anymore.

I shove the containers at my mom and Rick. “I guess he messed up an order. Want some free food?”

Rick doesn’t even ask what it is. Free is the only part that matters. He turns toward the door. “Are we going, Paloma?”

My mom frowns. “Tell Ben to note what he’s using. We have an ordering system that doesn’t allow for waste.”

When they’re gone, I check the women’s bathroom and replace Candy curled up asleep in the corner, an apron under her head. I hang an “Out of Order” sign and take the rest of her shift. As a small act of rebellion, I don’t change into my uniform. It has nothing to do with Ben.

Well. Maybe a little.

It’s busier than normal, a handful of locals sauntering in to check out the new chef. Ben doesn’t talk much—he smiles and waves out the window, too busy to come out. I stick my head through to replace him pulling cookies out of the oven. The telltale scent of gingerbread hangs in the air like the promise of holiday cheer. He even has flour on his crooked smile of a nose. It’s adorable.

“You are a terrible cook,” I say.

He looks up, gentle features set in alarm. “Have there been complaints?”

“You haven’t followed any of the standard recipes. I’ve worked here long enough—I can tell.” The mashed potatoes are creamier. The fries are crispier. And his rolls are golden, buttery-topped miracles instead of the straight-from-the-bag variety we normally serve.

For a moment, he looks distressed. And then the agitation melts away as his eyebrows lift, disappearing beneath his mop of brown hair. He is the definition of merry. “But has anyone complained?”

I blow my bangs away from my eyes. “No. They’re just being nice because you’re new.”

That’s not true. The regulars like their familiar terrible food, and if anything is ever different, I get yelled at. They’re not nice.

Except . . . tonight, they are. Steve and Bernie, who always get a steak after their shifts and don’t say a word to anyone, are laughing and swapping stories at the counter. Lorna, who after my entire life of never ever stealing anything still follows me suspiciously around her gas station, complimented me on her way out. And I swear, Angel, the mine’s two-hundred-fifty-pound truck driver, he of the aura of constant menace, he of the incredibly inaccurate name—Angel actually smiled at me.

I think. It might have been indigestion.

But then he tipped me. Ten whole percent, which is a one hundred percent increase over his previous tips.

Ben hums as he dusts the cookies with powdered sugar. “I had to make them circles. What kind of Christmas-themed diner doesn’t have cookie cutters?”

“The kind that doesn’t offer gingerbread on the menu.”

“Right, which, again: how does that make any sense?”

“None of this makes any—oh, no, what time is it?” I dart to the bathroom and shake Candy awake. “Ten minutes until your shift is over.”

She sits with a start, the blood draining from her face.

“It’s okay. You have time. Get cleaned up.”

I clear the tables, and Candy emerges right as Jerry walks in. His eyes, gray and dull as sharkskin, take in the abnormally busy diner. I can see him calculating.

Candy lifts a trembling hand. “Hi, I—there’s a reason—”

“You dropped your pad.” I stand in front of her. “Here.” I dig out my tips from my jeans and shove them into her apron pocket. She can’t even look at me, but she squeezes my arm as she passes. And then I watch, Frank Sinatra crooning at me to have myself a merry little Christmas, as my tips go directly from her pocket into Jerry’s hand.

Merry effing Christmas yourself, Frank.

I make it through the next hour until closing time. Everyone wants to linger, huddling around the old television playing a repeating loop of a log-burning fireplace. They’re laughing, talking, acting like friends. Like people who are happy to be in Christmas.

“Feliz Navidad” stabs into my ears from the speakers, and I can’t handle it anymore. I took a shift that wasn’t mine, and I didn’t even get my stupid tips. Ben emerges just as I’m about to scream for everyone to leave.

He’s carrying a tray of gingerbread cookies. There’s a near-visible trail of scent, which reaches out and tugs the customers after him. He holds the door open and gives each person a soft, warm cookie, and an even softer, warmer smile as they leave. And then they’re gone. I flip the sign from “Merry and Bright” to “Closed for the Night” and deadbolt the door.

I turn, fists on hips, and direct my anger at the only person left.

“I’m not sharing my tips with you.”

Ben holds out a cookie. “Okay.”

“Usually we share tips with the cook. But I’m not sharing mine with you tonight.”

“That’s fine.” He pushes the cookie at me, but I swat it away.

“That’s all you’re gonna say? That’s fine?”

He looks down at the cookie like I’ve hurt its feelings. “Yeah, I mean, they’re your tips. You can decide what to do with them.”

“Of course I can. But we’re supposed to cut you in.”

“If you don’t think that’s fair, I understand.”

I throw my hands in the air. “You’re supposed to get mad at me. Then I can yell at you and feel better about everything.”

He laughs. “How would that make you feel better?”

“Because I want to yell at someone!” I slump into a booth and pick at a chipped spot in the Formica table. Ben slides in across from me, setting the cookies between us. Whether as an offering or a barrier, I can’t say.

“Who do you really want to yell at?”

“Ugh. I don’t know. Candy, maybe. Her dumb, creepy boyfriend, definitely. My mom and Rick, sometimes. And I’d share my tips with you, but I don’t have any, which means I worked all afternoon for nothing.” I rest my head on the tabletop.

“No one tipped you?” He finally sounds outraged.

“Everyone tipped me. But I gave it all to Candy.”

“Well, you earned a cookie.”

“I don’t like gingerbread.”

“That’s because you’ve never had my gingerbread.”

I narrow my eyes. “Is that some sort of chef pickup line?”

He blushes. The way the red blooms in his cheeks as he struggles for an answer is almost too sweet to handle, so I grab a cookie to let him off the hook.

“Díos mío. What did you put in these? Are they laced with crack? Gingerbread cookies are supposed to be hard and crunchy. Not good. These aren’t normal.” They’re soft, not quite cakelike, more like the consistency of a perfect sugar cookie. The spices zing my taste buds without overwhelming them—a dusting of powdered sugar counteracts the fresh ginger—and the whole thing is warm and wonderful and tastes like Christmas used to feel. How did he do that?

“See?” he says. “Not a pickup line.”

“Good, because that would’ve been super lame.” I take another cookie and lean back into the cushioned booth. Usually at the end of a shift I feel heavy, leaden, and ready for bed. But right now I feel light and soft. Like these cookies.

So I take a third. And, feeling generous, I decide to be nice to Ben. It’s not a hard decision. He’s kind, and even if he weren’t the only guy around my age in Christmas, he’d still probably be the prettiest one. “Everyone loved your food.”

His voice is shyly delighted. “I’m glad.”

I’m glad, too. He’ll make the time until I get out of here far more bearable. Maybe even exciting. “So, where’d you learn to cook?”

“Juvie.”

I sit up. “Juvie? As in juvenile detention?”

His face loses none of its pleasant openness as he nods.

“When were you in juvie? What for? Did my mom hire you straight out of their kitchen or something? I knew there was a reason why you were willing to work here.”

He laughs. “I’ve been out for six months. I applied for this job because I love Christmas, and it felt like . . . fate. Or serendipity. Or something. And I don’t like thinking about the person I used to be, so if it’s okay, I’d rather not talk about it except to say that I wasn’t violent.”

I wilt under the weight of my curiosity. “Fine. But it’s gonna kill me.”

“It’s not, and neither am I, because again, not violent.”

I flick some crumbs at him. “I gotta get cleaning.” I stand, stretching, and remove my apron. Ben is staring at me. I raise my eyebrows. He looks away quickly, embarrassed, but I’m more than a little glad I’m not wearing my uniform tonight.

I survey the damage. Not too bad. Mostly it’ll be dishes, but I’ll mop up and wipe down the tables first.

I switch off the sound system in the middle of “Baby, It’s Cold Outside.”

“Thank you!” Ben shouts from the kitchen. “That song is the worst.”

“I know, right?”

“Also terrible? ‘Santa Claus Is Coming to Town.’ ”

“Santa as Big Brother. Just imagine his posters, staring at you from every wall. SANTA IS WATCHING.”

“I love Christmas, but Santa is creepy.”

“Thank you, yes! No one understands. If someone is watching me sleep, it had better be a hot vampire, otherwise I’m calling the cops.”

Ben laughs and dishes start clanging. He must be prepping some food for tomorrow. I put in my earbuds and clean, dancing along to Daft Punk. Candy introduced me to them back when she still liked music. When I finally finish, I wheel the yellow mop cart to the kitchen, bone-tired and not looking forward to the dishes.

But the kitchen is pristine. All the dishes are done, the counters wiped. Even the handles to the massive freezer have been sanitized. A few trays of dough are out to rise overnight, but there’s nothing left for me to do. A sticky note is stuck to the door, with a big, sloppy happy face drawn on it.

I clamp a hand over my smile, try to wipe it away. Because I don’t like Christmas, so I can’t like anyone here. Not even talented cooks with crooked noses.

Normally I drag out my after-school routine—locker, bathroom, library—as long as possible before shuffling to the car. But on Monday I practically sprint there.

You’re excited about the tips, I remind myself. Not the cook.

Rick jumps in surprise as I throw open the passenger-side door. I buckle my seat belt as he fumbles to remove the tape that’s already in the deck. “Quieras bailar conmigo?” a woman asks in a soothing, slow tone. There’s a pause, and then Rick manages to get it ejected.

“What was that?” I ask, reaching for it. “Are you . . . learning Spanish?”

“Nothing. No.” Rick tucks the tape into the pocket of his button-down shirt, clears his throat, and puts the car into drive. I watch him suspiciously but he doesn’t even look at me. Spanish is my territory—the thing my mom and I share that he doesn’t. Even if she won’t speak it with me anymore. I don’t want him there.

As we get close to Christmas, I lean forward, bouncing. This time Rick eyes me with suspicion. Embarrassed, I pack up my bag. I’ve never been so relieved to be out of that car. It’s a long enough drive when we’re pretending not to notice each other. But when we’re both being strange, well, it was interminable.

I take a shower, then mess around with my makeup. I skip to work ten minutes early, whistling cheerily.

For the tips.

“Ho ho ho yourself, you old sicko.” I pat the animatronic Santa on the head. This place is hopping, not its usual dead zone. Candy’s taking orders. She’s stayed the last two nights to help with the extra crowds, even though she had to keep running to the bathroom to puke. She looks hollow today.

Angel is sitting at the counter. He grins. “Hola, Maria!” I’ve never seen his teeth before, much less his smile. I didn’t realize his scowl lines weren’t permanently fixed.

“Can I get you anything?” I hope I don’t look as confused-slash-unnerved as I feel.

“Take your time, chica, you just got here.”

“Right. Thanks.” I barrel into the kitchen. “What did you do to Angel?”

Ben shrugs, clapping his hands together once in a satisfied sort of way. “He needed a good meal.”

“Right. The man who has spent the last three years growling orders at me is now calling me chica and smiling.”

“Yup.”

“Okay, be serious. Are you a drug dealer? Is that why you were in juvie?”

He laughs, stirring something on the stove range. “No. Not drugs.”

“I’m pretty sure you spice your cookies with something illegal.”

“Cinnamon is not a controlled substance.”

“That should be the title of your memoir.” I reluctantly button my uniform over my tank top and leggings. Candy comes back as I’m clocking in.

“Hey!” Ben’s eyes are bright and hopeful. “I made you something.”

She puts a hand over her stomach. “No, thanks.”

“I think it’ll help.” He holds the to-go container while she removes her apron and hangs up her uniform.

She takes the container. “Okay. See you tomorrow.” She shuffles out.

Ben goes to the window, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Then his shoulders stoop, his whole body turning down in disappointment.

“She gave it to Jerry, didn’t she?” I ask.

“It wasn’t for him. It was for her.” He frowns. “Tomorrow I’ll make her something at the start of her shift, instead.”

Animatronic Santa ho-ho-hos at a customer, and I’m swept up for the next few hours. Ben more or less cooks what people ask for, and no one complains. My feet are sore from how busy we are, but my tip-collecting pockets are happy.

Angel has moved to the corner booth, leaning over the back to chat animatedly with Lorna, the gas-station owner. He’s drawing pictures on her napkin. I’ve never seen them so much as glance at each other before. But the way they’re acting, you’d think they were best friends. They’ve been in here every day. A lot of the locals have been coming more frequently than new-cook curiosity can account for.

“Bennett,” I say.

“Not short for Bennett,” Ben answers.

“Do you have Angel’s order?”

He puts up a tray, and I frown. “This is not his.”

“It’s for him.”

“He ordered chicken-fried steak. He always orders chicken-fried steak. This is . . . what is this? Fruit salad? Have you seen Angel?” I gesture toward him: hulking, tattooed, shaved head with several prominent scars. “He’s not the fruit-salad type.”

“It’s beets, carrots, jicama, and fruit with a citrus dressing. Ensalada Navidad! And here.” He presents a second plate.

“Tamales.” A sort of pain, like a sore muscle, pulses through my whole body. I’m filled with an inexplicable need to hug my mom. “We don’t serve those here.” The sudden ache inside my heart makes me sad. I scowl at Ben. “Make him the stupid steak.”

“Maria. Trust me. Take it to him.”

“No.”

He sighs. “How about this: if he doesn’t like it, you don’t have to share your tips with me for the rest of the week.”

“And you tell me how you learned to cook in juvie.” His eyebrows come together so I raise my hand. “Not why you were in juvie. Only the cooking part.”

“Deal.”

I take the plate, surly but certain of victory. Angel has ordered the same meal for as long as I’ve worked here. When I set down the food, he looks shocked.

“I didn’t order this,” he growls.

“I’m sorry, it’s the new cook, he—”

“Are those tamales?”

I still have my hand on the plate, ready to whisk it away. “Yes?”

He leans forward. His eyes wrinkle upward in a smile. I swear his skin creaks, having to force decades of grim frown lines in that direction. “Y ensalada navidad! Mi madre siempre . . .” His hard black eyes soften, looking far past this dinner.

“So . . . you want the food? Because I can take it back!”

“No!” He leans over it protectively. “I want it.”

“Great. Let me know if you need anything else.” I scowl at the kitchen window, where Ben is giving me his full-wattage smile. I give him the finger down low, where Angel can’t see it.

“Maria!” my mom says, aghast.

I shove my hands into my apron like that will erase the offending digit. “What are you doing here?”

“Kitchen. Now.”

I follow her back, dragging my feet. She pushes straight through the back door into the alley between the diner and the gas station.

“What was that?”

“Just . . . goofing off.”

She throws her hands up in the air. “We can’t afford to goof off!”

I fold my arms, take a step back from her. “I’m not getting paid. So goofing off is about all I can afford.”

“Ay, Maria, we’ve talked about this. We’re a family. Everything we earn goes into the same account, so—”

“We haven’t talked about it! We never talk about anything. What do you need all my money for? So you can live in a crappy, nowhere town, in a crappy, freezing duplex, with your crappy, tightwad boyfriend. Yeah, Mama, I get it.” I turn away from her, slam into the kitchen and past Ben, who is leaning over the stove so intently I’m positive he heard every word.

My mom stuck around for a while, talking to Ben about his weird food supplies requests. He convinced her to go along with it. I guess he can afford to goof off. Meanwhile, she ignored me until she left for the mine. When I finish closing, I’m going home, straight to my room, to recount the tips I’ve managed to save. Angel left me fifteen bucks tonight, which still blows my mind. That puts me at exactly $2,792. Three years of working every day, and that’s all I have to show for it.

I turn around to replace Ben, yellow bucket filled with hot, soapy water. He squeezes the excess out of the mop.

“That’s not your job,” I snap.

But he shrugs and gets started without a word. With his help, the restaurant is clean in record time. Ben and I shove the cleaning supplies back into the closet.

I hang up my uniform. “I’m still mad at you. I should have won that bet.”

He pulls out a tray of cookies. “Eggnog-chocolate-chip peace offering?”

“Follow me.” I take him out back, where a rusting ladder is bolted to the side of the building. We climb up to the diner’s flat roof. I show Ben where to step to avoid tripping on the peeling tarpaper as we make our way toward the two lawn chairs that Candy and I hauled up years ago. She hasn’t been here with me in ages.

The last time I climbed up was Christmas Eve. My mom and Rick took an extra night shift for overtime. We “celebrated” early, but sitting by myself in Rick’s duplex was too depressing. So I came here, alone, and glared at the junky buildings around me, hating Christmas and Christmas.

The night is cold. Our breath fogs out in front of us. During the day it’s warm enough, but at night the desert temperature drops. We sit, and Ben passes me a cookie. It’s obscenely good. Warm, bright bursts of chocolate, with the creamy comfort of eggnog.

“Show-off.” I elbow him in the ribs. I keep replaceing excuses to touch him.

I need to stop that.

I lean back, looking up at the sky. That’s the one benefit to living in a census-designated place. The stars don’t have any light to compete with.

“Everyone had to help at my juvie center,” Ben says, without preamble. “Laundry, cleaning, kitchen duty. I’d never cooked anything before, but I had a knack for it, and, before long, they put me on permanent kitchen rotation. The staff was great—they want the kids to get better and have good lives—so they let me play around. I loved it. I’ve never felt anything so right as I did when I was making food for other people.”

I shiver deeper into my jacket. “How do you guess what people want to eat?”

He looks at me sideways, eyes hooded. “What do you mean?”

“The woman with the macaroni that first day—no one even took her order. Don’t think I forgot. Angel and the random Mexican food. And this weekend, that horrible green Jell-O with whipped cream, pineapple, and shredded carrots no one in their right mind would ever order, but that you made special for Lorna. She cried. You made Lorna cry with Jell-O. None of this is normal, Ben.”

He shifts uncomfortably. “You’ll think I’m crazy.”

“You willingly moved to Christmas, California, to work in our dump of a diner. I already think you’re crazy.”

“Fair enough. I figured it out while I was in juvie. Kind of like . . . a sixth sense? For what would make someone happy to eat. I see someone and I just sort of know.”

“So you’re a food psychic.”

He cringes, his friendly face shifting into something defensive, shielded. I don’t like that look on him, so I hurry on. “My mom’s aunt could tell every disease or health problem someone had by looking at their eyes. I kid you not. She had a perfect track record.”

“Really?”

“We lived with her for a while in Los Angeles when I was little. People were constantly dropping by to have her diagnose them. So. Having a food sense seems way more pleasant than her eyeball trick.”

He relaxes, more at ease now that I haven’t dismissed him. “I think if you can replace the right food to connect yourself to a happier time, or a happier version of yourself, it can help you remember. Help you get back to who you were when you were happy. It can change everything. For example, when did you start liking me?”

I stammer, grasping for some response other than The moment I saw your face. Is it that obvious?

Ben answers for me. “When I made you the gingerbread cookies. That’s when you decided to be my friend.”

“Right! Exactly. Yes, gingerbread.”

He gives me a look that makes me think maybe he was saying more. Maybe he wants me to. But I don’t know what to say, so he turns away again. “I like using something I’m good at to help other people. Even if it’s something silly like cooking.”

“That’s not silly. You know what you love, and you’re good at it. I wish I had something like that.” The moment stretches between us, too honest, and that sore-muscle feeling wells up in my heart again. I clear my throat. “Besides, as long as you keep making cookies, I don’t care if it’s magic or not.”

He balances a cookie on the tips of his long fingers. His ring finger is bent at an odd angle. Like his nose, it’s a testament of broken bones in his past. “If you were a food, you’d be a gingerbread cookie. Spicy enough to keep life interesting, but with just enough sweetness to balance it out.”

I laugh. “I’m not sweet.”

“You gave your tips to Candy.”

I dig my shoe under a strip of tarpaper. I don’t want to talk about her, so I say, “What would you be if you were a food? No, better! What food would you use your sixth sense to feed yourself?”

He puts a hand on the edge of his chair, holding it palm up, almost as an offering. It would be so easy to slip mine into his. I nearly do, but . . . it’d be an anchor. I can’t be anchored.

“I haven’t found it yet.” He flexes his long fingers, opening his hand even more. “I like it here. I’m renting a room for almost nothing, so I save what I earn. And small towns are cozy. Familiar. You can slip into other people’s routines, become a part of them. I’m staying here until I have enough money saved for culinary school.”

“I’m getting out of here as fast as I possibly can,” I blurt.

His fingers curl up. “Why?”

“Why not? There’s nothing for me.”

“But . . . it’s your home.”

“I live in my mom’s boyfriend’s duplex. Nothing here is mine. I hate it here. The minute I graduate I’m leaving.”

“Where?”

“Don’t know. Don’t care. I’m hopping on a bus and going until I can’t go any farther. Until I replace a place that feels like home.”

He’s quiet for a long time. “How will you know what home feels like?”

It hangs in the air between us, as frozen as our breaths. I don’t have an answer.

Ben pokes his head out of the kitchen window. “How were the waffles?”

Candy barely glances at him. “Fine. Thanks.”

He looks lost as he stares at her untouched plate. The waffles were crisp on the outside, fluffy on the inside, with a Nutella filling and sliced strawberries on top. Unlike Candy’s, mine are gone.

“They were fantastic,” I offer, but he disappears, muttering to himself.

It’s three days until Christmas. The diner has never been busier. Locals come in whenever they can now. We’re also getting a holiday bump in freeway travelers, lured by the seasonal coincidence of our exit’s name. For once in my career, I don’t pity their optimism. The Christmas Café is—dare I say it—worth stopping for.

Ben whips out holiday-themed plate after plate. Every shift, he makes something new for Candy. And when she inevitably throws it up or rejects it in her zombie-like demeanor, he looks even more discouraged.

I grab Candy’s plate and turn toward the kitchen, looking up at my elf out of habit. Only he’s not holding a knife anymore. He’s holding a tiny glass vial with a skull-and-crossbones symbol on it.

I cackle so loudly that Candy jumps. She’s actually trembling.

“Sorry!” I say. She flees, straight to the bathroom.

I replace Ben leaning over the counter, furiously crossing off items on a list. “Benedict! Are you the one who messed with my elf?”

He looks up, distracted, and then shakes his head as though clearing it. A smile crinkles his eyes as he pushes his hair away from his forehead. His goofy chef’s hat sits on the counter next to the paper and pen. “Not short for Benedict. But yes. I thought he ought to mix things up a bit.”

I laugh again, delighted. “Nobody even notices him except me.”

“I notice everything.” His eyes linger on my face before he blushes. He clears his throat a few times, toying with the pen. “This Christmas menu isn’t working. I don’t know what to do.”

I nudge him with my shoulder. “You always know what to do.”

A deep line has formed between his eyebrows. “I thought so, but nothing’s working.”

“Everything’s working! People have never been so happy to eat here. It’s like they actually enjoy living in Christmas.”

He looks back down at his paper. “Not you.”

I hover, torn between leaning into him and backing away. I can’t commit to this place or anyone in it. I have to be able to leave.

“And not Candy.” He drops the pen. “I haven’t made a single thing she’s liked.”

“Well, she’s puking all the time. Kinda throws things off.”

“I should be able to help. What would she like?”

“I don’t know. She used to be my friend, but then she stopped. She stopped being anything.” Just like my mom. They stopped being the people I needed them to be. “Don’t worry about it. She won’t let you do anything. No one can help her.”

Ben’s brown eyes are so soft, but somehow pierce right through me. “Someone needs to.”

Santa ho-ho-hos the arrival of a customer. Scowling, I head for the door. Ben crumples up his list and throws it in the trash.

Later that night I storm into the house, pulling on my house jacket with an annoyed huff.

“Maria? That you?”

“Yeah,” I shout, answering my mom.

“How was work, mija?”

The rest of my shift was terrible. Ben was being all, I don’t know, normal—he made people exactly what they ordered. I tried to complain to him about Paul McCartney simply having a wonderful Christmastime, and he just shrugged. Two people stiffed me on tips. And, to top it all off, Candy’s creepy boyfriend showed up early, while she was puking in the bathroom. She still hasn’t told him the news, so I had to lie and say it was food poisoning. His stare was even colder than this wretched duplex.

My mom’s standing over the stove, stirring a pot of macaroni. It gives me a pang of loneliness for Ben. Which makes me angrier, because why should I miss a person who I only left five minutes ago?

“Maria, we need to talk.” She points at a stack of envelopes on the table.

“Were you in my room?” The envelopes are college applications, mailed to me or forced on me by my school counselor. I tried to throw them away—so many times—because they’re pointless. But it felt too depressing to get rid of them, and too depressing to stare at what I can’t have, so I shoved them under my bed. Right next to the duffel bag I keep my tips in. “Did you take my stuff?”

“I was vacuuming. Why aren’t any of them opened? Where have you applied?”

“Did you take my money?”

“I would never take your money. I want to—”

“You take my money every day! I work my butt off at that stupid restaurant and you don’t even let me get my own checks.”

She sets her spoon down, looking worried. “I didn’t take any money from your room. I want to know which colleges you’ve applied to.”

I bark out a bitter laugh. “None. Why would I apply to college?”

Her eyes go wide. “None? You’re going to start missing deadlines!” She grabs at the envelopes, frantically searching through them. “What about this one? It’s in Barstow. It looks nice. Or Cal State San Bernardino. It’s not too far away.”

“I want to go far away! And since when am I going to college? We can’t afford that.”

She shoves the applications at me. “You can’t afford not to. You don’t want to be like me. We work so hard, and so long. We don’t want that for you. You deserve more.” Her eyes are intense, pleading. “Por favor, mija, necesitas aplicar. Para tu futuro.”

It’s the most Spanish she’s spoken to me in years. She always said we shouldn’t leave Rick out by using a language he doesn’t know. But hearing it now makes me feel like a kid again. So, like an obedient little girl, I grab the first application and start filling it out while she watches, holding her breath.

“Can you help me with a project?” I ask Ben, two days before Christmas. He’s slammed, doing as much prep work as he can, but he immediately stops.

“What do you need?”

“I want to make something. For my mom. Something special. But I don’t know how.”

“What were you thinking?”

“She used to tell me about rice pudding. Her grandma made it for them every Christmas. And she tried to make it a few years ago, but then she got sad and dumped it all down the sink, said it wasn’t right. She’s never tried again. She works really hard. She deserves some of your magic.”

Ben’s smile is the powdered sugar on top of a cookie. “I think we can do that.”

We work all morning. He shows me how to get the milk simmering at just the right rate. I scorch the first batch, and we have to throw it out. But Ben insists it’ll be more magical if I make it myself. So I try again. This time I keep the temperature steady. I skim the surface like he shows me, so that the milk doesn’t get a skin. We add the rice, and I tend to it with feverish intensity. He takes over the stirring while I mix together eggs, sugar, vanilla, more milk.

“It needs . . .” I tap my finger against the counter, glancing at him for clues. “Nutmeg?” He smiles wider. I sprinkle some in and pour the mixture into the rice on the stove. His body is next to mine, and we both lean in, breathing the sweet steam as it rises up. I turn my face and breathe him in, too. “Keep stirring?” I whisper.

He nods. And doesn’t move. So we stand, occupying the same space, watching as ordinary ingredients combine into something I hope will be magic.

“Mama?” I push the door shut with my foot, carefully holding the still-hot dish. Normally rice pudding is served cold, but when I sprinkled the cinnamon on top, it felt . . . right. Perfect. “Are you home?”

“We’re up here.”

I hurry upstairs. They’re just off a super-early morning shift. My mom wears her weariness beneath her eyes and in the slope of her shoulders, but she manages a smile for me. “Sit down,” I command. I put the pot on the stove as I get out two dishes. I hear Rick pop a disc into his DVD player. The familiar sounds of Bonanza’s opening theme trigger memories of insomnia-plagued nights.

“Does he still stay up watching that show until four every morning?” I stir the rice pudding one last time.

“Hmm? Oh, no. Why would he?”

“I thought he liked doing that.”

“You know he only did that for you, right?”

I stop stirring. “What?”

“I can’t stay awake for the life of me. Never been able to. But he didn’t want you to be alone, so he’d come out and watch television with you until you fell asleep.”

“He—but—I thought he didn’t need much sleep?”

“He was exhausted. But when he was growing up, he had a few years where he had insomnia, too. He said being awake when everyone else is sleeping was so lonely it made him feel crazy. He didn’t want you to feel that way.”

“That’s weird.” All those nights, all that sleep he gave up. It doesn’t make sense.

“How is it weird?”

“Well, I mean, he doesn’t really like me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“He never talks to me. And when he does, he talks about when I leave. Like he’s counting down the days.”

“Sweetheart, Rick doesn’t talk much, period. And he is excited for you to leave. Who do you think tapes your report cards up on the fridge?”

I’m shocked. Rick? Plastering my name all over something that belongs to him?

“It was his idea to drive you to and from school. He didn’t want you wasting your time waiting for city buses. He worried your grades would suffer and you wouldn’t get into college.”

“I can’t afford college! And besides. The food. All the labels. The penny-pinching, refusing to turn up the heat. I’m an intruder in his space. He puts up with me because of you.”

Tears fill my mom’s eyes. “Oh, Maria. Why would you think that? You’ve felt like this all these years?”

My eyes are tearing up, too. I get out one more dish. One for Rick.

She takes my hand. “Do you remember your father at all?”

I shake my head.

“Good.” Her voice is fierce. “It’s one of the proudest points of my life that that man has no imprint on you. It wasn’t easy leaving. I had to sneak and save money for years before I had enough to get somewhere far away and safe. I was terrified you’d remember what it used to be like.”

“I don’t. I remember moving around until we settled here.”

She nods. “Rick can’t show affection the way most people do, but he doesn’t have a cruel bone in his body. And, after my life, he’s exactly what I needed. What we needed. I know Rick is odd. He labels his food so he can make sure that he’s not spending more on groceries than he needs to. We keep the heat off so that we can save more, the same reason we take overtime and holiday shifts. The same reason we put all your paychecks straight into savings. He’s been putting away money since the day we moved in. He—oh, we were gonna surprise you, but—Rick? I think we need to give Maria her present now.”

The television goes silent. Rick comes back in the kitchen, hands shoved deep into his Wranglers. “What about Christmas morning?”

My mom laughs, wiping away her tears. “It already smells like Christmas in here. Maria made rice pudding.” She leans over her bowl, breathes in deeply. I cross my fingers, praying I got it right. “Mí abuela used to make this for us. Then we’d sing and later we’d get an orange. Rice pudding and oranges.” She smiles, happy tears streaming down her face. “I’d actually forgotten what it was supposed to smell like. This is perfect.”

She takes a bite, sighs happily, and leans her head on my shoulder. I don’t know what it’s supposed to taste like, but I like what I made. If asked to describe the flavor I could really only say this: It’s warm. Perfectly warm. And with this in my mouth, I can understand a little of how my mom remembered Christmas feeling.

Rick has already eaten his whole bowl. He clears his throat, then says in an exaggeratedly careful accent, “Muchas gracias. Esta comida es muy buena. Me gusta.”

My mom gasps. I gape. Rick looks terrified as he continues. “Yo estoy aprendiendo español. Para hablar contigo. Por que . . . te amo.”

My mom fully bursts into tears, which makes poor Rick look even more horrified. “Did I do it wrong?” he asks.

“No!” I beam. Because now I understand he wasn’t trying to take anything away from me. He was just trying to fit better into our lives.

“That was wonderful,” my mom manages. “Muy, muy bien.”

Rick sighs in relief. He’s actually sweating. He must have been so nervous. It’s adorable, which I honestly cannot believe I’m thinking about Rick.

I look at my mom, really look at her for the first time in years. She’s beautiful. Sweet and soft and warm, too. I wonder how we went this long without talking about things that mattered. And why it took a pot of rice pudding for me to be able to see that—even though she’s not aggressively affectionate—she’s here. She’s always been here for me. She’s done the best she can.

“This is for you.” Rick slides over a sheet of paper to me. My mom gets up and stands behind him, squeezing his shoulder. The paper is a list of numbers. No . . . it’s a bank statement. For a savings account with forty thousand dollars in it.

Under my name.

“How—what—where did this come from?”

“I told you,” my mom says. “Rick started saving the day we moved in. Every bonus, everything we didn’t need to live on.”

“But . . . I can’t . . . what about you two? The mine won’t last forever. You won’t have any savings!” Here I was, hoarding every penny I made so that I could run away to my own empty future. And here they were, saving every penny they made so that my future was a better one than their families gave them.

I am the worst person in the world. I’m crying, both out of gratitude and guilt.

“We’ll be fine,” my mom says. “The mine has a few years left.”

“We can replace work anywhere.” Rick’s voice is soft and even. I always thought of it as monotonous, but it’s more like the rice pudding. Gentle. “Wherever you end up, we can move and get jobs.”

“But this is your home,” I say.

Rick raises his eyebrows, surprised. “Wherever you two are is my home. Tu . . . eres mi casa. That probably wasn’t right.” He frowns.

I smash them both into a hug. Rick clears his throat, clearly uncomfortable, but I don’t care.

I was wrong.

I’ve been wrong for years.

Being wrong feels amazing.

On Christmas Eve, I show up at work to replace Ben drizzling white chocolate onto peppermint bark. He’s muttering to himself again. It looks like he hasn’t slept.

“You’re incredible!” I throw my arms around him, hugging him from behind.

He startles. “What did I do?”

“The rice pudding! It was perfect!”

He puts his hands on top of mine, tentatively. “You did that, remember?”

“Only because you let me borrow your magic.” I’ve been hugging him for probably too long now. I don’t want to let go, but I begrudgingly release him and point at the peppermint bark. “What’s that for?”

“I thought maybe Candy might like it. I don’t know. I can’t—it’s not working. Nothing’s working with her.” He hangs his head, and his laugh has a note of bitterness that stings my heart. “Maybe I was never magic to begin with. Maybe this whole thing is stupid.”

“Ben, I need to tell you—”

The animatronic Santa announces an arrival. I go up on my tiptoes and see the top of Jerry’s head. “Candy!” he shouts.

I push through the kitchen door with a scowl. “Are you here to apologize?”

Jerry looks at me. His gaze is even but his fists are clenched. “For what?”

“For your bratty girlfriend! If she was going to ditch her Christmas Eve shift and make me take it when I requested it off a month ago, the least she could have done is let me know. Ben had to call me in when she didn’t show.”

“She isn’t here?”

I gesture at the empty diner. “If she were here, why would I be? Tell her if she’s a no-show again, I’m calling Dottie.”

He takes a step closer, looming over me. Don’t look scared, Maria. Look angry.

“Any idea where she is?”

I roll my eyes. “She’s not my girlfriend, dude.”

His nostrils flare, and he leans even closer.

“Maria.” Ben is leaning in the doorway, casually holding a thick rolling pin. “I need some help back here.” He nods at Jerry. “Tell Candy to call the next time she’s not coming in, okay?”

Jerry storms out. I collapse against the counter, my heart racing. “Thanks.” I gesture at Ben’s rolling pin.

“Where is Candy? What was that all about?”

“She’s halfway to an Amtrak station, on her way to live with an old high school friend. Rick picked her up at four this morning, while Jerry was still on the night shift.” When I told my mom and Rick about my new tip-funded escape plan, this time featuring Candy, they didn’t even hesitate. Thinking about it gives me a burst of affection for Rick—silent, strange, gentle Rick.

“She’s leaving?”

“Not leaving. Already gone.”

Ben follows me back into the kitchen. I dip my finger into the bowl of white chocolate and lick it. “You were wrong. You are magic. But people don’t need to remember how it felt to be happy and safe in the past. They need to have hope that they can get there again in the future. And sometimes the only thing to make that happen is, say, enough money to get away.”

His thick eyebrows lift. “You gave her your savings.”

“Turns out I didn’t need to leave so soon, after all.”

His whole face—eyes, mouth, eyebrows, even his crooked nose—is one big smile as he says, “You’re not leaving?”

“Not until this fall when I go to college. I guess I like Christmas, after all. Lately it’s been feeling extra . . . magical.”

He leans forward, and I tip my head up—waiting, waiting—when we’re interrupted by Santa. Ho freaking ho.

I might be okay with Christmas, but Santa is still the worst.

The rest of the day flies by, with a bunch of road warriors and even more locals than normal. They all want to double check Ben’s posted Christmas dinner menu, as though there’s any doubt they’ll be here. It used to be the most depressing day of the year to work, but tomorrow promises to be a party. My mom and Rick will be off in time to come to dinner. My mom is even making the tamales.

Ben and I don’t have a chance to talk again. He’s extra busy with today’s orders, plus prep for tomorrow. But his eyes follow me everywhere, and we keep sharing smiles that feel like secrets. By the time the last customer leaves, we’re both slaphappy and exhausted. “I have so much more work to do.” He rubs his face, leaving a streak of flour on his cheek. I lean into him and wipe it away with my thumb.

He tips his head down, closer.

I put my fingers on his lips, squashing the moment. And his very soft lips. “I’ve got some work to do, too.” I laugh as I dart away. I finish my cleaning in record time, and then sneak out the front door. The logistics of what I’m planning next will be tricky. The likelihood of second-degree burns is high.

Forty-five minutes later—and with only one minor scalding—I knock on the back door to the diner. Ben opens it, a rolling pin clutched over his head.

He lowers it sheepishly. “Thought maybe you were Candy’s boyfriend.”

“Ha! No. Follow me.”

“Where are we—”

“Just follow me!” I climb up. When I’m safely on the roof, the ladder squeaks its metal protests against Ben’s weight. Then his head—his adorable goofy smile of a face—pokes up over the edge. I hold out a hand and help him up.

I don’t let go of it as we walk to the edge of the roof and stare down at Christmas. The beauty I always had to look up to the sky to see has transported itself down to this ramshackle town. As we watch, Angel and a few other guys from the mine finish setting up a huge Christmas tree in the middle of the gas-station parking lot. It gleams and twinkles in the night. Lorna comes out of the station and screams about trespassing—before breaking into peals of shockingly sweet laughter and handing out free beers. More people join them, and from up here, it doesn’t look like a throwaway freeway exit. It looks like a warm, happy community. It looks like, well, Christmas.

I tug Ben away from the edge and over to a cardboard box that I’ve set up in front of the lawn chairs. The box is covered by a red-and-white-checkered tablecloth. On top of it are two mugs, two candy canes, a kettle, and a canister of whipped cream.

We sit. Still holding hands. “Christmas Eve is my favorite,” I say. “I think the anticipation is more fun than anything else. I kind of lost that. The idea that something—food, traditions, an arbitrary date on the calendar—can be special because we decide it should be. Because we make it special. Not just for ourselves, but for others. I’ve had people around my whole life to make things special for me, even when I didn’t notice it. And you’ve been working so hard to make life special for everyone who walks into this ridiculous diner. So . . . who is making it special for you?”

He looks down. The bashful sweep of his eyelashes against his cheek makes my heart burst with something that is probably not the Christmas spirit, but which feels every bit as Joy-to-the-World.

“What food would you make for yourself?” I nudge him with my elbow as an excuse to snuggle closer. All of those practice nudges are finally paying off.

“I don’t know. I don’t have a lot of happy memories to fall back on.”

“Well. I’m creating a happy moment for you. Tonight. Right now. Keep in mind I’m not magic.” I pour water into the mugs, already filled with hot cocoa mix.

He laughs as he unwraps his candy cane to stir with. I take the whipped cream and swirl it, towering, over the tops of both mugs.

“If I’m a gingerbread cookie, you’re a mug of hot cocoa. Makes you glad for cold nights like tonight. We can call this drink a ‘Hot Cocoa Benji.’ ”

“Not Benji.”

“Tell me!”

He smiles, licking cream from the corner of his mouth. “It’s a family name. There’s this famous story? About someone who was mean in his past, but then woke up to the horrors he was creating for himself. And he vows to go forward, being kind and doing good, and keeping Christmas in his heart year round . . .”

“Díos mío. Ben is short for the Grinch?”

“No! It’s Ebenezer. From the Dickens story? And . . . you knew what I was talking about all along, didn’t you?”

I laugh, and he joins me. “Sometimes you’re more spice than sugar,” he says.

“You’re a chef. You like spices. But I’ll stick with calling you Ben, if that’s okay. Otherwise you sound like an old man.”

“By all means. Also, this cocoa is the best I’ve ever had.”

“Liar.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to go to culinary school with me?”

I snort, raising my mug to toast him. “Totally sure. But maybe we can replace a college and a culinary school close by each other.” I smile into my mug and take a deep drink to quell my nerves. “Because, you know, once a girl has had your gingerbread, how can she ever accept anything else?”

“Is that some sort of waitress pickup line?”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

And then, as Christmas Eve turns into Christmas, anticipation becomes reality. We share a cocoa-and-whipped-cream kiss. It’s hopeful and happy and exciting. Exactly how kissing Ben should be, our mouths smiling together.

If you do a search for “US cities named Christmas” (which, fine, everyone needs hobbies), you won’t replace my home. It’s not a city. It’s barely a freeway exit.

You won’t replace Angel, grinning and bursting with pride, showing off his new paintings—the only non-Christmas-themed decorations hanging on the diner walls. You won’t replace Lorna, organizing the Christmas book club and asking Ben’s opinion on what to serve for snacks. You won’t replace Rick and my mom and me, sitting on the couch, watching the Bonanza DVDs dubbed in Spanish we got him for his birthday.

You won’t replace Candy. Neither will Jerry, for that matter.

And you won’t replace Ben and me, sitting on the roof, talking and laughing and planning in our warm, friendly, hopeful census-designated place.

But it doesn’t matter anymore if you can’t replace my home.

I found it for myself.