Jingle Balls

by Waltz, Vanessa

  "What were you thinking?" I ask as soon as we clear the doors. "And why were you drunk?"

  Liam rubs his stubble, eyes narrowing. "I didn’t intend to get that wasted. I woke up, saw the suit, and figured it’d be hilarious if I beat you to the parade. Things got out of hand when one of the elves shared a one-hundred-and-three proof bourbon with me. I had a couple of shots, and I was done."

  It wasn't that big of a deal. No one was hurt. The money-throwing was a minor incident that didn’t disrupt the rest of the parade.

  It totally ruined my day. "What are the chances Mom hasn’t heard about this?"

  Liam sighs as he approaches my car. "I’d say slim to none."

  "I don’t have time to mediate the disaster you created. Gigi won’t answer my calls." It’s worrying me. "Did she ever show up at the parade?"

  "I don’t think so."

  Well, that’s a bad sign. I try her number again, and it goes straight to voicemail.

  We pack in my Audi. Christmas music booms from the speakers when I start the engine. I turn it down as we pull from the police station.

  "Dude, I'm sorry for today. I know you had a whole day planned with Gigi."

  "What the hell’s gotten into you?"

  He stares out the window. "A girl."

  "Typical." And he lectures me how I’m screwing up with Gigi. "You gave me so much shit for hitting on Gigi, and here you are. Getting drunk and twerking on Christmas floats."

  "For the record, a twerking Santa Claus is hilarious. It’s not the sign of a meltdown."

  I laugh. "If I weren't famous, your ass would be in jail. You realize that, right? We got out by the skin of our teeth."

  Liam shrinks into the seat, wide-eyed. "Not yet."

  "What?" I follow his gaze, stomach turns to lead. "Oh."

  Mom stands on the porch, only wearing a housedress. Golden curls blow in the wind. I don't need to read her expression to know she's pissed. There's so much fire in her gaze. I doubt she even feels the cold.

  "Shit. So much for sweeping this under the rug."

  "Think fast," he blurts. "How do we avoid causing Mom an aneurysm?"

  I sweep into our driveway. "Don’t be yourself. Let me do the talking, and try not to ruin everything."

  "Mom’s probably heard about what happened from a dozen different people already. Christ, here she comes."

  Mom storms down the patio, red-faced. Her scream of fury booms through the window. "Get out of there!"

  "Here we go," he groans, sliding out the car. "Hey, Mom."

  "Hey, Mom. Is that all you have to say for yourself? How dare you behave like that in front of the whole town? I didn’t raise you this way. You’re acting like an alcoholic. Brought shame to the whole family! I can’t believe—"

  Liam keeps his mouth shut and his gaze down as Mom continues her tirade, screaming as though she’s a drill sergeant. She only pauses to take a breath before launching into another attack.

  I follow them into the house and through the kitchen, where Mom insists we sit down to eat an early supper. She bangs a pot onto the stove, warming yesterday’s spaghetti leftovers. Liam sips his scalding-hot tea, as silent as a Buddhist monk.

  Both of us have been here way too many times. Interrupting Mom during her rants only emboldens her rage. It's better to let her get it all out.

  She doles out dinner, and we eat in silence. Mom sporadically bursts out with comments like "totally irresponsible" and "just like your father." Grimacing from that burn, I meet Liam's narrowed gaze. He doesn't enjoy being compared to Dad. I better head this off before they end up in a fight.

  I face Mom. "So, how was the rest of the parade?"

  She shakes her scarlet face, her voice dropping. "It was very nice. Did you and Gigi have a good time?"

  "I haven't seen her." My stomach clenches and I push the plate away. "She hasn't answered my phone calls. Do you know where she is?"

  "No, I don't. She must have dropped by, though. She left a present on the porch." Mom gazes up from her mostly untouched plate. "You didn't fight, did you?"

  "No." Now I'm lost. "A gift?"

  "It’s on your bed. Ronan, where are you going?"

  "Give me a sec." I jog to my room, spotting the red-and-gold Christmas present on my mattress. An envelope sits beside it with my name written in looping black ink.

  I tear it open, grabbing the Christmas card.

  Ronan,

  I bought this gift weeks ago, thinking that even if you wouldn’t like it, you might at least get a laugh. I can’t tell you how much it hurts that I was wrong about you.

  I made a mistake. I believed in you.

  There’s a lot more I could say, but I don’t have enough room on this card. And truth be told, you don’t care.

  You’re not what I want.

  Gigi

  Well, that’s brutal. My stomach collapses, caving in from an invisible gut-punch. I don’t understand this abrupt about-face.

  What happened?

  We were fine yesterday. Hell, we were making plans for after the holidays. Suddenly, she breaks up with me. She says I hurt her. How? When?

  I abandon the gift and the card, storming out of the bedroom and yanking my coat from the closet.

  "Ronan? What’s wrong?"

  I ignore Mom, bursting outside in my bare feet because I can’t get to her fast enough. Slipping on sleet, I charge to her darkened porch and hammer the front door.

  No answer. Not even a fuck-you, go away.

  I peer inside the windows. Nothing but darkness.

  She’s gone.

  Gigi

  "No thanks, Nagymama." I wave the plastic tub of tapioca pudding. "I'm fine."

  Nagymama is Hungarian for grandmother. My Dad’s American side has a nonexistent presence in my life, so I’ve never called anyone Memaw, Pop-pop, or any of the cute nicknames other people use for their grandparents.

  My gran wouldn’t want one, anyway. She has an ornery nature that was inherited from her mother, and from her mother before her. Mom is a milder clone of Nagymama, and I’m an even more watered-down version.

  Whatever I am, it’s not good enough for Ronan.

  "Vhy you don’t eat, Marguerite?" My grandma is the only person who calls me that. "Haff some beigli. They’re poppy seed."

  A mountain of my favorite Eastern European pastries sits on a white ceramic plate. Apricot kolaches. Swiss-rolls filled with poppy seed paste. Small jam tarts sprinkled with powdered sugar. I love them, but heartbreak has stolen my appetite.

  "No thanks."

  "Eh?" Her silver eyebrows rise into a nest of gray curls. Nagymama doesn’t understand romantic love. At least, not the way I do. She married twice and divorced twice, declaring herself allergic to men, and never dated again.

  Mom followed a similar path, marrying young and divorcing before she had me. It wasn’t easy raising me alone, but you couldn’t tell by the way she acts. I’ve only seen her cry a handful of times in my life, and those tears weren’t over a man.

  But I’m not like that. I get hurt too easily. First James, now Ronan.

  I know how to pick them, don't I?

  I smile apologetically at Nagymama, standing. "Thanks, but I’m not hungry."

  I’m not sure I’ll ever get my appetite back. Ever since we left for grandma’s, a gaping wound has throbbed in my chest. A nagging doubt pulses in my head. I’m sure it’ll go away eventually, exactly like the pain. I’ll forget our magical weekend, the whispered secrets, and the way he made me scream with pleasure. Maybe, just maybe, I’ll be able to look back on this with a self-deprecating smile.

  A phone rings. Mom’s angry voice drifts from the kitchen.

  I climb the stairs and disappear into my room, which smells strongly of mothballs. The MCAT books make a small pile on the floor. Another couple of weeks, and I’ll be back at school. Totally clueless about what I’m supposed to do.

  I grab a book and flip through the pages, agonizing. As though a diagram of Bernoulli’s Equa
tion will tell me what to do with my life. Physics won’t get my mind off Ronan. It’s hopelessly fixed on a man who hates me.

  Soft footsteps climb the stairs. I feel Mom’s gentle presence before she speaks, like a warm lamp heating my back.

  She squeezes my shoulder. "Gigi, we should talk."

  "About what?" My insides cave at her tone.

  "Ronan."

  His name is enough to make me hurt. My eyes swim in tears. "There’s nothing else to discuss."

  "Honey, did you speak to him after the parade?"

  "No. Why would I do that?" I wipe my face, hating that I’m blubbering over Ronan.

  I want her to tell me it’ll be all right. That I’m not doomed to be alone.

  "I think you should talk to him."

  "So he can humiliate me again? No thanks." Honestly, I’m surprised she brought it up. "I have no interest in being jerked around."

  "You might regret it."

  "Why?"

  "I can't say. You should hear it from him." Mom steels herself with a great sigh. "I invited him over."

  "You what?" I spring from the bed. "Mom, I don’t want to deal with him. It’s Christmas!"

  "He’s coming over. You’ll find out why soon enough."

  "I can’t believe you of all people would fall for his crap!" I run from the bedroom, ducking into the bathroom to scowl at my bedraggled appearance. "How soon is he coming?"

  "Now."

  Good Lord. "I don’t want to see him."

  She rolls her eyes. "Is that why you’re doing your makeup?"

  My cheeks burn. "Why did you give him the address?"

  "Because," she says in an infuriating tone. "I’m your mother."

  "That’s not an answer!" I smudge eyeliner all over my lid. "Damn it!"

  "You look beautiful, Gigi. You always do." Mom takes a beauty sponge and wipes my chin. "Promise me you’ll let him talk."

  I don’t know what’s more ridiculous—that my mother invited Ronan over, or that I’m getting ready for him. By the time I descend the stairs, Mom and Nagymama are sitting in vigil by the windows.

  "He’s not staying for dinner, is he?"

  Mom watches the street with her arms folded. "Don’t worry about that."

  Well, that’s also a non-answer.

  I pace the living room, shooting the door dark looks as though it offended me. What does he hope to gain by coming here? I didn’t take James back, and I won’t take Ronan. After James, my tolerance for bullshit with men is zero.

  Finally, Mom perks up. The iPad she pretends to read slides from her lap and hits the floor. "He’s here."

  I freeze. "Seriously?"

  We both watch as a car slides into the driveway. The engine cuts and he steps out. His heavy footsteps crunch the snow. He stops at the threshold, wipes his feet, and knocks.

  Mom beats me in a mad sprint to the door, throwing it open.

  It’s him.

  His cheeks are stung with cold, as though he drove the thirty minutes without a heater. A small bundle of brightly-wrapped gifts is tucked in the crook of his arm. Ronan brushes snow from his hair, smiling at my mother. "Merry Christmas."

  "Come in, Ronan."

  I bristle as he steps inside, confronted by my bewildered grandmother.

  "I’m Ronan Smith, ma’am. “He seizes Nagymama’s hand in his mammoth grip. "I’m dating your granddaughter."

  "No, he’s not—"

  "Why don’t you both go upstairs and talk? Nagymama and I will heat soup for lunch."

  Dimples carve into Ronan’s cheek. "Sounds great. Gigi, you heard the woman."

  Nagymama’s curious gaze bounces from Ronan to me. "Ven is the marriage?"

  Ronan laughs. I don’t. She might’ve forgotten about the whole fight, but I haven’t.

  "We’re not ready for that." But there’s no point in causing a scene in front of her.

  "This is for you," he says, handing gifts to my mother and grandmother. "Sorry, I wasn’t sure what to get, so I kinda took a wild stab."

  Unsmiling, Nagymama peels hers open. "Oh. Candy."

  Ronan grins at my grandmother’s deadpan delivery.

  I’m in no mood for him to mock my family. "Upstairs. Now."

  "Yes’m."

  He follows me, his weight creaking the old floorboards. I can’t believe he followed me here. My ex barely fought when I told him I was done, but Ronan’s not James. He looks at me the way I always wished James would look at me.

  The door snaps behind us as we enter my room. I sit on the bed as he slides gifts over the comforter. I recognize the one I wrapped for him.

  "I thought we could open them together."

  I glare at him. "Why are you here? Is this another prank?"

  "You dumped me in a Christmas card." He sits beside me, sighing heavily. "What’d you think I’d do, take that lying down? You wouldn’t answer my calls."

  "You know what you did."

  "No, I don’t!" he bursts. "I’ve racked my brains for hours, and I have no idea."

  "You acted like an idiot at the parade. You were drunk. Sloppy." I watch his mouth drop and hang open. "Your hands were all over that girl. Sorry isn’t going to cut it this time."

  "Oh God." Ronan chokes with a laugh. "That wasn’t me. You saw Liam."

  My insides flip. "What?"

  "Liam," he growls. "He stole the suit and wore it to the parade. Before I could stop him, he climbed onto the float and almost caused a riot. It’s a long story. I spent what should’ve been our date begging police officers not to charge him. That wasn’t me, Gigi."

  I’m still confused. "He did that? How did he get the suit?"

  "I wasn’t home. I was out getting your present."

  "Oh my God." I meet Ronan's blues as a sob chokes from my throat. " I'm so sorry. He was wearing your stuff, and I assumed the worst."

  "It’s okay." Ronan pulls me onto his lap, wrapping his arms around me. "I’m not giving up on you that easy."

  Guilt throbs in my chest. "What I said in the note—it was harsh. Please forgive me."

  "Stop," he says, stroking my hair. "You didn’t know that it wasn’t me, and Liam and I look alike. With the beard and everything, there’s no way you could’ve known."

  I smile through tears, relieved beyond words. "How are we going to do this?"

  "What?"

  "A—a relationship. You’re all the way in Northwestern, and I’m at Rutgers."

  "I’ll quit. I’ll come to you."

  Shock ripples through me. "No, you can’t!"

  "Don’t tell me what I can’t do, Gigi." Ronan pulls away, a breath hitching in his lungs." I know what I want, and it’s not football. It’s you."

  "No." Tears sting my eyes. "I won’t be the reason you end your career."

  "I love you, Gigi. Nothing else matters."

  I wrap my arms around him, burying my face into the crook of his neck. "I love you, too."

  "I know," he says, the smirk in his voice. "Merry Christmas, babe."

  Gigi

  Once again, it’s Christmas. Another year of sickly-sweet peppermint mochas, well-wishers, and saccharine music. I hate it all, but you couldn’t tell by the way my house is decorated.

  Garlands of pine wrap the railings. Pretty lights dance on the tree in the family room. Ronan chose the tree. I decorated. Unfortunately, I had to keep the cock lights in the XXXMAS box, but I saved a couple of ornaments and hung them in the back. My dish towels are holiday-themed, and scented pine cones sit in a green ceramic bowl.

  The lights and decorations have grown on me. One can only spend so many hours helping out in various Christmas-related events before it seeps into your soul. This year, Christmas doesn’t feel unbearable. Probably because Ronan and I are together.

  Peppermint tea steeps as I slip my hands around the hot mug. After hours of volunteering at an adoptions event for cats in my Mrs. Claus costume, I’m beat. I didn’t have the energy to change.

  A key scrapes the front door’s lock. Ronan’s
deep groan fills the house as he stamps his boots. "God, you wouldn’t believe the crowds today."

  "Uh oh. Did you get recognized?"

  Wearing the Santa suit, Ronan walks into the kitchen and rips the beard and hat off. I lift the tea bag and slide the mug to him.

  "Thanks, babe." Ronan wraps his hands around it, sighing. "Some parents need to teach their kids boundaries, but I guess we might not be together if I’d have had manners when I was a boy."

  I bounce on my toes to plant a kiss on his stubbled cheek. Ronan beams when I pull away.

  "What?"

  He seizes a wayward strand and tucks it behind my ear. "You look pretty."

  Ronan’s grin sends a rush of warmth to my skin. "You’re the one with a modeling contract."

  "I’m not a model! I’m an Instagram influencer."

  "You’re a hot football player who gets paid to endorse products with photos I take of you. That’s modeling, my dear."

  Ronan shakes his head as though embarrassed by the whole thing. After a successful year with the Flames, Ronan was approached by all kinds of sporting brands and offered endorsement deals. I’m grateful because it pays the rent, and if Ronan isn’t drafted into a league, we’ll be comfortable.

  "I don’t know why you downplay how successful you are." I help him out of his bright-red jacket and throw it over a bar stool. "You should be proud of yourself. I am."

  He lowers the mug onto the counter and sweeps me into his arms. Ronan carries me as effortlessly as a doll, my hands clasped around his neck. My heart pounds at his closeness. It doesn’t matter how long we’ve been together, seeing him walk through that door is always the best part of my day. He takes me upstairs, toward the bedroom.

  Okay, perhaps it’s the second best part of my day.

  "You know, it’s been a year…and we’ve never banged in our Santa outfits."

  I burst with laughter. "Yeah, and that’s a good thing. I can’t take you seriously with the fat suit."

  "Your costume is sexier than mine." His hand slips under my dress to grab my ass. "Come on, Gigi. Indulge my fantasy."

  It’s impossible to say no to Ronan. All year I’ve said yes. Three months after we started dating, he asked me to move in. It’s been pure bliss since then—a whirlwind romance where we finish each other’s sentences and blow off friends to be together.