Jay Asher - What Light

Every winter, a retired couple opens a seasonal shop downtown called the Candle Box. It’s almost always in a different location—a store that would otherwise sit vacant during the holidays. They stay open about the same stretch of time as our lot, but the owners live here throughout the year. The store’s festive shelves and tables are stocked with scented and decorative candles with pinecones, glitter, and other items layered into the wax. What draws some people into the store who would otherwise walk by is the candle-making in the front window.

Today the wife sits on a stool surrounded by tubs of various colors of melted wax. She dips a wick into the wax again and again to create the candle, which thickens with each dip, alternating layers of red and white. She finishes this candle with a dunk into the white wax and then hangs it on a hook using a loop in the wick. The wax is still warm as she slides a knife down the sides, peeling back strips and exposing the many tiers of white and red. About an inch from the bottom she stops slicing the wax and, in a ripple design, presses the ribbon back against the candle. That process continues, sliding the knife and rippling the ribbon, around the entire candle.

I could watch this process for hours.

Caleb, though, keeps interrupting my hypnotized state.

“Which do you like better?” he asks, lifting candles in front of my face. First he wants me to smell a jar with a picture of a coconut on the label, and then one with cranberries.

“I don’t know. I’ve smelled too many,” I say. “They all smell the same now.”

“No way! Cranberries and coconuts smell nothing alike.” One at a time, he holds the candles close to my nose again.

“Find something with cinnamon,” I say. “I love cinnamon candles.”

His mouth drops open in mock horror. “Sierra, cinnamon is a starter scent. Everyone likes cinnamon! The point is to move on to something more sophisticated.”

I smirk. “Is that right?”

“Absolutely. Wait here.”

I don’t have a chance to get fully re-mesmerized by the candle-making before Caleb returns with another jar. He covers the picture with his hand, but the wax is a deep red.

“Close your eyes,” he says. “Concentrate.”

I close my eyes again.

“What does it smell like?” he asks.

Now I laugh. “Like someone recently brushed their teeth and is right up in my face.”

He nudges my arm, and—eyes still shut—I inhale deeply. Then I open my eyes, looking directly into his. He feels so, so close. My voice comes out breathy, almost a whisper. “Tell me. I like it.”

He smiles warmly. “It has some peppermint, some Christmas trees. A little chocolate, I think.” The label on the jar, in scripted gold letters, says A Very Special Christmas. He sets the lid back on the candle. “It reminds me of you.”

I wet my lips. “Do you want me to buy it for you?”

“That’s a hard one,” he murmurs, our faces mere inches apart. “I think I’d probably go crazy if I lit this thing in my room.”

“Guys!” Devon interrupts. “Heather and I are getting pictures with that Santa in the plaza. Want to come?”

Heather must have seen the moment happening between Caleb and me. She grabs Devon’s hand and pulls him back. “It’s fine. We can meet them later.”

“No, we’ll come,” Caleb says.

He holds out his hand and I take it. Really, I would love to disappear somewhere uninterrupted with him. Instead, we leave to get our picture taken while sitting on a stranger’s lap.

When we get to the plaza, the line snakes out from Santa’s Gingerbread Cottage, through the courtyard, and halfway around a wishing fountain with a bronze bear reaching into the water.

Devon flicks a penny and it hits the bear’s paw. “Three wishes!” he says.

While Devon and Caleb talk, Heather leans close to me. “Looks like you two could’ve used some alone time back there.”

“That’s the joy of Christmas,” I say. “You’re always surrounded—completely—by family and friends.”

When we finally get to the cottage door, a chubby guy dressed like an elf guides Devon and Heather to Santa, who is perched on an oversized red velvet throne. They squeeze together onto his lap. The man has an authentic snowy white beard, and he puts his arms around them both like they’re little kids. It’s silly, but adorable. I lean into Caleb’s shoulder and he puts his arm around me.

“I used to love getting pictures with Santa,” he says. “My parents dressed Abby and me in matching shirts and would use that year’s picture for our family Christmas cards.”

I wonder if memories like these are bittersweet to him now.

He looks me in the eyes and touches a finger to my forehead. “I can see your wheels spinning up there. Yes, it’s okay to talk about my sister.”

I smile and lean my forehead against his shoulder.

“But thank you,” he says. “I love that you’re trying to figure me out.”

Devon and Heather walk to the register, which is staffed by another elf. When we take our turn on Santa’s lap, I watch Caleb pull the purple comb from his pocket and run it through his hair a few times.

An elf with a camera clears her throat. “Are we ready?”

“Sorry,” I say, turning my gaze away from Caleb.

The elf takes several pictures. We start with some goofy faces but then lean back with our arms around Santa’s shoulders. The guy playing Santa goes along with everything, his jolliness never fading. He even tosses in a “Ho, ho!” before every photo.

“I’m sorry if we’re heavy,” I tell him.

“You haven’t cried or peed,” he says. “That puts you ahead of the game.”

When we hop off his lap, Santa hands us each a small wrapped candy cane. I follow Caleb toward the counter to look at our pictures on the computer screen. We choose the photo of us leaning against Santa, and Caleb buys a copy for us both. While those print, he requests a photo keychain, too.

“Really?” I say. “You’re going to drive around in your manly truck with a picture of Santa on a keychain?”

“First, it’s a picture of us with Santa,” he says. “Second, it’s a purple truck, making you the first person to call it manly.”

Heather and Devon are waiting outside the cottage for us, with Devon’s arm around her shoulders. They want to grab something to eat, so Caleb and I follow, but I have to guide him by the arm while he attaches the photo to his keyring. I successfully navigate him around one near-collision. Then I get so distracted by his careful expression as he slides our photo onto an item he’ll see every day that we walk into someone.

He drops his phone. “Oops. Sorry, Caleb.”

Caleb picks up the phone and hands it back. “No problem.”

We continue on and Devon whispers, “At school, that guy’s always got his face in his phone. He should try looking up every once in a while.”