It’s Christmas Eve and Joyce works the closing shift at Melvald, because Margret’s knee has gotten really bad and according to Jonathan, she can’t ever stop caring - which doesn't sound too bad to her.
Only a few minutes left, the rush of costumers getting the last minute groceries they forgot about already gone. Soon she can get home and finish wrapping the gifts she got for the kids. Maybe she'll bake a bunch of cookies, too. Vanilla butter sugar, she's thinking.
The noise of a glass breaking disturbs her train of thought. She hears a muffled curse. She sighs and walks to the aisle.
A bunch of shards and sad looking pickles lie on the floor.
"Sorry, Ma'am," Billy Hargrove says to her, all smile and flirt. As if he's not her son's age, but about to ask her out.
"Oh, sweetheart, this happens. Don't worry about it." She already brought the dustpan and a mop with her.
"What do you want for it?" He isn't talking about money. His crooked grin waivers a little. A shiver runs down her spine, because the expression seems well rehearsed - and it's utterly fake. She doesn't want to think about why a kid like Billy behaves like that.
She tries to school her expression. "You're alright, it's just a glass of pickles."
Relief flashes across Billy's face. "Thanks," he says, sounding almost unsure. Like he's expecting a trap. It makes her chest tighten.
"I'll get goin'." He's holding himself stiffly, favoring his left side.
Joyce squints her eyes. She should let it go. "Take another glass then."
Billy's eyes dart from her to the pickles and back. He grabs the smallest glass. "I..." He clears his throat. "I can't pay for it."
She aches. The kid isn't getting groceries for Christmas, looking lonelier each second they're standing under the flickering lights. She wonders if there's something hidden his pockets, too, but decides not to ask.
"Just take it." She smiles encouraging, ignoring her sinking stomach.
He doesn't look at her, but cups the jar carefully. Like it's precious.
"It's Joyce." She grabs the mop tighter, because she's considering to hug him and doesn't want him to get that weird smile again.
"Joyce," he repeats. "Merry Christmas, Joyce."
He's opening the door, the bell chiming, when she can't hold it back anymore.
Billy freezes, knuckles around the jar whitening.
"Do you have a place to go to?" She fears she knows the answer already, so she doesn't give him time to lie. "Because I'm making cookies and there's always too many and Will has this thing about not liking ginger bread, but Jonathan loves it, so I'm-"
"What?" Billy looks confused and so fucking young. Joyce wonders when the last time was he had anybody care.
"You can spend Christmas with us," she offers. "It's freezing outside-"
His face closes off. "I got a place to go to."
"A friend's place?" she asks gently, thinking of all the times in her life a "place" used to be a backyard, a car, someone's garage. "A house?"
Billy chews on the inside of his cheek. Joyce tries to be patient.
"Who the fuck doesn't like ginger bread?" he asks after a while.
"Everybody's different," she shrugs, trying to fight her grin and failing. "It's okay."
Billy stares at her like he can't figure her out. She's used to it. People don't get her all the time.
"Okay," he echoes carefully. "Okay," he repeats and nods at her.
Tension bleeds out of her. She couldn't stand the thought of the kid being alone and cold somewhere.
"Let me just close the store and we can get goin'."
