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Iti 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 anyet es just as I’ a tray of gingerbread cookies There’s a near-visible trail of scent, which reaches out and tugs the custoives each person a soft, warm cookie, and an even softer, warn froht" and deadbolt the door

I turn, fists on hips, and directmy tips with you"

Ben holds out a cookie "Okay"

"Usually we share tips with the cook But I’ht"

"That’s fine" He pushes the cookie at onna 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 et mad at "

He laughs "Hoould 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 For 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 " I rest my head on the tabletop

"No one tipped you?" He finally sounds outraged

"Everyone tipped ave it all to Candy"

"Well, you earned a cookie"

"I don’t like gingerbread"

"That’s because you’ve never had erbread"

I narrow my eyes "Is that some sort of chef pickup line?"