Mister Perfect: A Romantic Holiday Story

He doesn’t come in on Friday. Or Saturday, either. I even wait till the last minute on Sunday, Halloween, before closing up. Winded and hustling, he shows up just as I’m poking my head out the front door, peering left and right for any last-minute shoppers.

  Or, at least, one in particular.

  “Are you…” He pauses, bending over slightly and clutching his chest as if he’s run the whole way there. “Still open?”

  We both look at the store hours to the right of the door at the same time, then down at our watches. “Shit!” he says and it’s so shocking coming from Mr. Perfect, I have to snort.

  “Come on, come on,” I say, waving him in and locking the door behind him. “I just closed out the register but since you always pay with cash…”

  “Thanks!” he gushes as we stand, face to face just inside the door. “I promise, I won’t be long.”

  “I know you won’t,” I tease, deciding to “punish” him for a few minutes for scaring me like that – I thought I’d never see him again! “Halloween aisle’s pretty picked over!”

  “What?” he asks, disappearing down Aisle 3 as I smirk my way behind the cash register.

  “Shit!” he curses again as I hear plastic crinkling and frustration creeping out of his every pore. “I tried to get here Friday but there was a leak in the Jonstone’s unit,” he says, waving candy bags dramatically. “And then last night I got caught up in that rental cottage by the beach, so…”

  “Relax,” I tell him, sliding two bags of Halloween stuff from beneath the register. “I told you I got you covered.”

  “Is that… what I think it is?” he asks as I peel open the plastic bags to reveal all the missing pieces to his Halloween theme: the skeleton mugs and pumpkin side dishes, the spider web placemats and the leg bone pillar candles.

  “I told you they were going fast,” I tease, bagging it all up in a sturdy, recyclable Dollar Jungle bag so he can carry it home easier. “When I saw you didn’t show up last night, well… I had to take matters in my own hands and make sure you had the complete set.”

  He looks flummoxed, eyes wide, mouth half-open but nothing coming out. “I saw how much missing one placemat threw you,” I tease, trying to prime the conversational pump, “I’d hate to see what waiting a whole year to get a matching pumpkin coaster might do to you!”

  Finally, a sound: groaning. And movement: he covers his face with one large hand, shaking his head. “You must think I’m a total freak.”

  I don’t deny it but, instead, wink and say, “Isn’t that what Halloween is all about?”

  “I guess,” he says, reaching for his wallet.

  “Now your guests will be impressed by how everything matches,” I tease-slash-hint.

  His face crumples, like maybe I forgot a witch hand towel in there or something. “Guests?”

  I cock my head, wagging a finger. “You said you were having a party tonight, remember?”

  The blush is so thick and red, suddenly I realize why he’s been so dodgy all week: he’s got a girl. No wonder he’s never said his name, stuck around or hit on me in the least. Not that I’m vain or anything but gheez, I’ve sure put out the hints all month!

  “Oh, right,” he murmurs, handing over a twenty. “I… I’ve been so busy I almost forgot.”

  Yeah, right, I think, waving off the cash. “I can’t make change tonight,” I say, pointing to my defunct cash register.

  “Keep it,” he offers, brightening.

  “Oh no,” I say, waving it off and gently guiding him toward the door. “The receipt’s in there. You can just come by sometime after Halloween and pay me then.”

  He pauses just inside the door as I turn the key, watching me curiously. I think maybe he’s going to say something, like ask me to his party after all or something even more… intimate.

  “That’s really…” he hems instead, taller than me by a good inch or two. “That’s really nice of you, Mia. I don’t… I don’t know what to say.”

  I shove him out the door playfully. “Say goodnight,” I chuckle, waving him off into the cool night air. “And go have fun!”

  He nods, and smiles that soft, sad smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. I lock the door behind him, biding my time. I’m all done for the night, and was about ready to go when he showed up, but I don’t want to walk out right after him and have that whole awkward scene where we’re both ready to go but neither wants to admit it.

  Instead I go back to the cash register, count to twenty, grab my own Dollar Jungle recycling bag and revisit the front door. Mr. Perfect is out of sight now, my cue to hit the road.

  I sigh, setting the alarm before locking the door behind me. I thought for sure something might happen when he walked in tonight. I mean, how much more obvious could I be?

  Oh well, I think, turning for home. I guess I’ll have to go to the Dollar Jungle employee party again this year, after all.

  I spot him as he’s coming out of the Stop ‘N Go on Cranberry Street, pausing in the glow of an overhead light to readjust the bags on his arms. I can see a quart of milk in the bag, and a few other hot and cold items he couldn’t get at Dollar Jungle.

  My hand itches to wave; my throat burns to call out to him. I’m usually so behind in my closing duties I never get to see where he goes each night, but with the holiday and him coming so late, I’m right on his tail. And yet… I don’t. I do the opposite, in fact.

  I crouch against the brick façade of the Snowflake Savings and Loan, hidden in the shadows as he peers around before crossing onto Mint Street. He hasn’t seen me!

  I don’t know why that gives me a little thrill – okay, a huge, big, FAT thrill – but it does; I can’t deny it. I give him a little head start and then follow him, feeling like James Bond’s apprentice as I lurk in the shadows and inch across to Mint Street.

  Despite his big Halloween party, he doesn’t seem to be in any particular hurry. In fact, if I was walking at my normal pace, I would have overtaken him by now and probably sped right past. Instead I lurk in the shadows, waiting for him to turn off and head back toward the nice part of town.

  But with every step he gets closer and closer to my neighborhood. In fact, by the time he makes the turn into the Whispering Pines Motor Court, I’m pretty sure he’s punking me and is going to turn around any second, wink and say, “Gotcha!”

  Instead he keeps walking, down the gravel drive that spans the park, past my trailer, # 17 on the left and, as I hide behind the cluster of palm trees just before the park to the right of the road, I see him open the screen door to Trailer # 24.

  It’s a little nicer than mine, two toned with a tan exterior and dark brown storm shutters. I figure he’s slumming, come to pick up someone for the party, but then he slides a key in the knob and pushes open the door, turning on lights and shutting the door behind him.

  “Waddya know?” I murmur to myself, sliding my cell phone out of my back pocket and calling my manager. “Mr. Archer?” I say when he answers.

  “Where are you, Mia?” he asks and, in the background, I hear the hooting and hollering of the half-dozen or so other Dollar Jungle employees.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Archer,” I lie, feeling bad about it, but… it is Halloween, after all. “My neighbor can’t take her kids trick or treating tonight, so I’m filling in for her. Do you mind if I take a rain check?”

  “Oh no,” he says. “But you were bringing the candy corn!”

  I look down into my recyclable bag at two bags worth. “I know, but… haven’t you already had enough this season?”

  He laughs, sounding distracted. “You’re probably right, Mia. Listen, have fun trick or treating!”

  I smile. “That’s exactly what I’m going to do, Mr. Archer!”

  * * * * *