Nyla wiped the last pot clean and set it on the shelf with the rest of the gear we'd need the next day. Christmas. Tonight had been the trial run. Well, I should say, my trial run as the new guy. Nyla had been here a few years, but word on the street was she'd been volunteering at these kinds of places since she was sixteen. Maybe that's why she had the whole thing down to a science, and she managed to look festive and upbeat as she served homeless kids and old men and pregnant women and so many others that inspired the growth of a giant lump in my throat.

I glanced at her out of the corner of my eye, at the fuzzy red sweater and the candy cane earrings, then furrowed my brow as she took them off and shoved them into a bag before grabbing her coat. Her hair, a storm of gold falling out of a bun, remained a spot of brightness, along with the glowing smile she shot in my direction.

"You ready for tomorrow, Luke? You're sure you're OK about being here by nine? We really count on our volunteers."

I nodded as I shrugged into my coat.

"Perfect. See you then." She tossed the words over her shoulder as she stepped into the icy air and soon was a shadow, rushing ahead of me in the distance. As much as I wanted to, I didn't try to catch up. We'd been working together for exactly three days, and I didn't want to come off as some sleaze ball who signed up to work at soup kitchens to pick up the women who worked there. She continued walking ahead of me, past the buzz of college-town activity—the bars and restaurants and shops—then turned down a street. My street.

I picked up my pace and followed. She lived two doors down from me. But that wasn't what surprised me the most. What actually surprised me was that her house was grim and dark, absent of decorations, while all of the others were literally lit up like Christmas trees. I moved closer, thinking maybe she would turn on some lights and then I would make out a few ornaments or a string of lights inside. But there was only the harsh light of a lamp, the forms of furniture, and her. Nothing festive. Nothing festive from the most festive person at the State Street Soup Kitchen.

And then I took action and knocked on her door before the logical part of me could talk me out of it.

She was unwinding the long gray woolen scarf from around her neck, and the scent of chicken soup—our Christmas Eve appetizer for the kitchen's guests—hit my nose.

"Did you follow me home?" She didn't seem thrilled or upset, just bewildered.

"Not intentionally... I... um... live on the same street and saw you opening the door here."

"Ah, well, no surprise. So many students live around here, right?"

I nodded, and then was talking before any thought process could convince me to keep my mouth shut. "Um, I'm kind of surprised you don't decorate for Christmas... At the kitchen, you seem to be more into the holidays than Santa Claus."

I thought I'd get a smile or laugh, but instead, in her eyes, I could see a window closing. That window to the soul that people are always talking about.

"Look, I'm kind of tired, and we have a big morning ahead of us."

"Well, it is Christmas Eve. I just thought if you wanted to get a drink or something..." The words stumbled out, beyond my control.

She shook her head. "No thanks. I'm not big on Christmas. As a matter of fact, I'm not a fan at all. And it shouldn't matter. At the kitchen, I have to be jolly, to make their season bright, but that doesn't mean I have to go around pretending to be one of Santa's elves or something once I'm off the job."

"Sure. I get it. See you tomorrow then."

With her words like a slap across my reddening cheeks, I turned and hurried back down the street. I didn't feel like facing the emptiness of home, which wasn't really home—home was in Connecticut, but I wasn't going back over break. I'd just transferred into the public health graduate program this fall and had too much work to do. Christmas would be a video call with my parents and sisters. But now I wasn't thinking of all that. I was sinking into a booth at the back of the coffee shop and pretending not to notice that the staff members were dressed as Santa and his elves. Things were getting a little too festive. A hand on my arm made me jump, and then Jess, another volunteer at the kitchen was sliding in to face me.

"Have a ginger-cinnamon muffin." She pushed one across the table, then took a bite of hers and a sip of some sort of herbal tea concoction.

"You bought yourself two? These things are huge."

"Nope. I saw you heading over here and thought you'd like one, well, thought you could use one."

"What do you mean?" I said between mouthfuls that kind of reminded me of that cinnamon sort of cookie my mom would be making right about now. The sound of Nyla's name brought me back to where we were at.

"No one knows why she hates Christmas so much. I mean, the only thing separating her from the Grinch is she would never ever ruin anyone else's Christmas. She'll go out of her way to make sure everyone is joyful over the holidays, but she refuses to join in."

"What'll she do on Christmas after the kitchen shift?"

Jess played with a long coil of brown hair and frowned. "I'm from around here, am even living at home as I go for my master's." Here she rolled her eyes, then she leaned in closer. "But here's the thing. I've invited Nyla to Christmas dinner at my house every year since she's been here, and every time she refuses. She says she sits around and reads and likes it that way. But if she liked it, I don't understand why she looks so miserable."

"A shame," I said because I really didn't know what else to say.

"So what are you doing for Christmas?" Jess asked. "You're welcome to come to my house."

"Thanks but—"

"But you'd rather be with Nyla, even if she might just shut the door in your face. That's OK. I totally understand."

"Look, I—"

"I get it, Luke. I see how you look at her."

And right then and there, I knew my cheeks were flaming again but this time for a different reason.

**

Nyla Sigrid-Dupres was an unusual enough name. A bit of online research might come up with something, some sort of clue. Research was my thing, and that's exactly why at three in the morning, I slouched on the sofa with my laptop and a lukewarm cup of coffee that would never keep me awake more than my own frenetically moving mind.

The first thing I learned about Nyla was that she was a law student. She'd won some awards, written an interesting piece on an internship she'd done at the district attorney's office. I couldn't find her on Facebook and her Instagram account was filled with nature photos but not a single photo of her or friends or crazy nights on the town.

I rolled my eyes at my lame efforts to learn more about her online instead of just pushing ahead and having an actual conversation with her. Damn. I felt like a stalker. I was about to slam the computer lid shut and call it a night when a headline caught my eye.

One Woman Killed in Armed Robbery, Another Seriously Injured

My eyes flew from paragraph to paragraph. Nyla had witnessed an armed robbery six years ago on Christmas Day. Well, according to the news article, she'd more than witnessed it. She—this seventeen-year-old girl—had tried to save a woman who died in that robbery. It happened in Boston, which apparently was her hometown.

I pushed the computer aside and held my head in my hands. How could I make things right with her, and maybe even convince her that spending Christmas Day alone wasn't the best way to heal?

**

When Nyla smiled at every person she served, said "ho, ho, ho," and laughed as kids tried on the Santa hats she'd brought in, I almost believed she was happy. A day earlier, I would have completely believed it, but today, I noticed that glimmer of sadness beneath the surface. 

Jess nudged me as we arranged turkey on plates. "See, she's fine. It's really not a big deal. Probably some weird family thing, like maybe she was forced to dress up as an elf or something to entertain the little kids in the family."

I turned to Jess and raised an eyebrow.

"Seriously?"

"Why do you think I'm dreading my family's Christmas?"

"And you invited me, considering the situation?"

"You'd make a fine elf." She grinned and carried off a load of bread baskets. I normally would have laughed, but as Nyla hurried by, my mind raced back to where it had been all morning. It had been on that afternoon.

And that afternoon seemed to roll around in a flash. That's what happens when you're busy and at the same time need to be sure that those you're serving aren't just getting food but a day that's maybe better than most.

So there we were, Nyla and me. The other volunteers left earlier, with places to go and people to see, but we weren't in any rush. We cleaned up, made small talk that meant we probably knew each other less than we did at the start. Small talk was usually a waste of words.

And then we were out the door, locking up, and heading in the same direction until I put a hand on her arm. She stopped, jumped as if that small gesture had burned her to the core.

"Come with me," I whispered.

"Where?" Her voice was soft, almost lost in the flurries that had just begun to fall.

She didn't bother to tell me she never went out on Christmas Day—other than the shift at the kitchen—and buried her nose in a book until it was all over and the memory was behind her for one more year. It was as if she knew that I knew.

I didn't answer, but instead took her hand and led the way. The kids' laughter guided us, shrieks of happiness from the park down the street as the weather meant the annual snow sculpture show wouldn't melt into nothingness.

"You're new around here—How did you know—"

"When you're new to a place, you actually know more about the things to do than the locals. Because you want to discover everything."

We reached the park and stopped between the two snow angels at the entrance. Beyond, lights glimmered all the way to the top of the giant Christmas tree and carolers gathered around it, testing their voices as kids threw snowballs at random targets.

I glanced at Nyla out of the corner of my eye. If she crossed this threshold, I had a chance. We had a chance. And maybe Christmas would have a chance too. If she didn't, we'd be back to square one, two strangers who would eventually drift out of each other's lives.

Nyla turned to me and smiled. The hint of sadness was still there, beneath the surface, but the joy that rose above it suddenly seemed just as real.

"Merry Christmas, Luke," she murmured. Then, gloved fingers entwined, we stepped past the angels and into the park.