by Wendy Loggia
A young man is jogging across the road over to my car. He raps on my window. “Bailey! You okay?”
I stare through the fogged-up glass. It’s the British guy from the ice rink—Charlie. He’s in the same blue coat from before, but the scarf is gone and his coat is unbuttoned, revealing a gray waffle thermal shirt underneath. The tops of his ears are pink.
My heart starts racing again. “Um, yeah, I’m fine.” I unbuckle my seat belt and open the door. “I can’t believe you’re here—what a coincidence.”
He smiles at me. “It is, isn’t it?” Snow is falling on his head in large, wet flakes. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this—you on the brink of disaster and all.”
He’s joking, but it’s true: this mysterious stranger has come to my rescue twice in one day. His hair is slightly mussed and I have a crazy urge to run my fingers through it. “I was just coming home from a party when I saw you fishtail,” he says. “Very glad you’re okay.”
“Me too,” I tell him, blinking as snowflakes land on my eyelashes. “I was at a party too,” I say, wondering whose house he was at. “Joe Shiffley?” I add, wondering if they know each other.
“No, it was this place I volunteer at. Quite a rager,” he says in a way that makes me unsure whether he’s kidding or not. “How ’bout yours? Quiet evening in or did the cops get called?”
The thought of me being at anything remotely near a party where the police are involved almost makes me laugh. Instead, I shake my head. “Pretty boring, actually. Honestly I should have just stayed home. My dad is going to kill me when he sees the car.” I was in a fender bender last year with our old Corolla. Tonight I’m driving our much newer RAV4. Facing my dad isn’t going to be pretty.
Charlie walks around to the front of my car and taps soundly on the hood. “Maybe you don’t have to tell him,” he says, shrugging. “For something like this, I probably wouldn’t.”
“You don’t know my dad,” I tell him, shaking my head. A gust of wind makes me shiver. “Nothing gets past him—not even a smudge on a mirror.”
He shrugs. “You might want to reconsider. Come take a look.”
Afraid of what I’m going to see, I walk to the front of the car and bend down. I let out a gasp. “Huh?” No dent, no scratch, nothing—there’s no sign of the accident. “I can’t believe it,” I say with a gasp, pulling off my glove and running my hand along the wet bumper. “This is so crazy! It made a really loud sound when I hit it.” The glow of the headlights creates a bubble around us, and with the snow, it’s almost as if we’re in a snow globe.
“Guess it’s a Christmas miracle,” Charlie says, his hazel eyes twinkling at me.
“Uh, yeah. I guess it is,” I say, relief bubbling through me. I’d already envisioned my driving privileges being taken away until I was twenty.
“Listen, it’s not safe for us to be standing on the side of the road like this,” he says as a truck roars past us, sending up a slushy spray of snow. “You’re okay to drive, right?”
“Oh, yes, totally,” I say, willing it to be true. I’m still in disbelief that there isn’t even a scratch on the enamel.
Charlie tucks his chin down, and the cold air that I just breathed out comes whooshing back and lodges in my throat. “So, Bailey?”
I look up at him, blinking the wet snow off my eyelashes. We obviously don’t even really know each other, but I have a feeling about him. An instinct. I can tell that he’s a good person just by the way he carries himself. Suddenly I realize: This is it. This is the meet-cute Christmas movie moment I’ve been waiting for all my life. “Yes?” I croak as a trickle of mascara slithers down my cheek.
He takes my gloved hands in his. “Promise me you’ll get those tires checked out. The treads on the back ones look a little worn, and you want to make sure you’re prepared for when it’s slippery.”
I gape at him, wondering if the cold is affecting my brain. Are we really having a conversation about tire safety right now? It’s like Charlie turned on a switch that says DAD MODE. “Um, yes. Sure. I will.”
“Okay, good. Now get home safely before your parents start worrying.” He drops my hands, reaches out, and opens my door. Wordlessly I slide behind the wheel and smile weakly as he carefully shuts the door and jogs back to his own car, snow continuing to blow angrily. He gives me a wave and I wave back, then watch as his car disappears into the night.
My heart is still racing, but this time it’s because I realize the universe is sending me a signal. The same cute guy, twice in one day?
So what if he’s driving away? This is the meet-cute moment of my dreams. The moment I love in my favorite books—when the heroine locks eyes with the boy of her destiny. It could be the beginning of my Christmas wish coming true.
It’s only when I pull slowly back out onto the road, clumps of snow spitting from under my tires, that I realize we never exchanged numbers.
Unless the third time’s the charm…I’ll never see him again.
After being dragged out of bed at the crack of dawn Sunday morning to go to church, Karolyn, Liam, and I are back in our kitchen, making Belgian waffles and listening to a Christmas jazz playlist. Ella Fitzgerald’s “Sleigh Ride” wafts over us as my sister makes the batter from a mix, I slice the strawberries and warm the maple syrup, and Liam gets the plates and the powdered-sugar shaker—we’ve done this so many times that we’re a fine-tuned brunch machine. Stacks of cookie tins from yesterday’s bakeathon line the countertop, and we’re under strict orders not to open them. Honestly I wouldn’t be surprised if Mom has a trip wire ready to trigger an alarm if we so much as breathe on them.
“Dude, these look good,” Liam says, lifting the waffle iron as Karolyn slaps his hand. Because he’s home, we have to make three batches instead of our usual two, and he’s been known to hog all the syrup, so Karolyn and I try to hide it from him.
“Stop, they won’t taste right if you keep lifting the lid,” she tells him as I pop a strawberry into my mouth. Karolyn likes her waffles crispy and browned. My brother just likes food.
After we eat, we troop down to the basement like the dutiful children we are. My parents are in the middle of lugging down large plastic bins from the storage shelves. I have to go to work later, but I promised I’d lend a hand for a little while.
“Finally, some help around here,” my dad huffs, hands on hips. “These halls won’t deck themselves, you know.” He’s holding a stack of red-lidded storage boxes, which he keeps our holiday lights in. He was downright giddy last year when he found these boxes on sale in January—my dad is very into organizing. His gaze falls on Liam. “Let’s get started on these bad boys.”
My mom is peering into an old taped-up Stew Leonard’s box. “Now, what have we here?” she asks, rummaging through the Bubble Wrap inside. That’s one of my favorite things about going through our holiday stuff—you never know what you’re going to discover. “Oh, it’s my bottlebrush trees,” she says, taking out a slender copper tree that’s been dipped in glitter. “I love these little guys.”
“They’re so cute,” Karolyn says, holding up a tiny snow-covered tree with a bow on top.
As my dad and Liam march upstairs carrying the light boxes along with two of the giant prelit reindeer we put on our front lawn in a landscape scene, I pick up a large green box with brass handles. Inside are our Santas—wooden ones, plush ones, short ones, fat ones. The Santas go on our fireplace mantel, and each year we get a new one. Last year we got a gnome Santa with a red hat covering his face. My favorite is a Santa wearing a red felt coat and carrying a tiny little corncob pipe. My grandpa gave it to me when I was little. I open the box and there he is, winking at me like an old friend.
Without warning, I feel a lump spring up in my throat. My grandpa died three years ago, and seeing this Santa gives me a rush of emotion, making me feel like he’s with us, at least in spirit. Grandpa
loved Christmas just as much as I do—maybe even more, if that’s possible. One of my favorite memories is of him driving me and Karolyn and Liam around in his Cadillac, looking at the holiday lights, drinking hot chocolate from his big camping thermos and playing Christmas music. His hearing wasn’t so great, so he kind of blasted the music, which we all found hilarious. I definitely got my love of Christmas from him.
“Ahhh, an old friend,” Mom says, noticing the special Santa in my hands. She comes over and puts her arm around me.
My lower lip starts to wobble. “I miss him,” I say, my voice cracking.
“Me too,” Karolyn says.
Mom nods, looking sad and content all at once, which doesn’t even seem possible, but somehow, on her face, it is. “He sure loved the holidays, didn’t he?”
I nod. “He’s missed so much, Mom. Liam going away to college, me getting my driver’s license, Karolyn’s dance competitions…”
Mom kisses the top of my head. “He’s with you, Bailey. Keep his memory close in your heart.”
Karolyn slides an arm around my waist. “And we can make new memories that would make him happy. We can always go blast some Christmas carols,” she says, shrugging.
I sniffle-laugh. “You’re my little sis. Why are you so smart sometimes?”
She shrugs. “Get it from my mom.” And then we all laugh.
“Back to work,” Mom says, heading for the basement stairs holding a long pine garland.
I let out a little gasp. “What time is it?” I’m supposed to be at the bookstore at 1:00 p.m. and I’m still in my flannel pj bottoms and a Minnie Mouse T-shirt, with unbrushed teeth and unwashed hair. I push past my mom and scramble upstairs to my room.
Once our house is all decorated—the lights are up outside and the reindeer family is glowing, the Santas are on the mantel and the ornaments are on the tree—I will really feel the spirit of Christmas. But right now, all I feel is the spirit of panic.
As I hurry down our front sidewalk fifteen minutes later, showered, dressed, and with minty-fresh breath, I hear Dad saying, “This should be as easy as one-two-three.” I turn around. He’s lying on his back, plugging in an extension cord that looks like it would reach the North Pole. Liam is on a ladder sticking up Command hooks and holding up strings of little white lights. He shoots me the look of a trapped animal—a look I sadly can relate to, as it’s how we all look when we get stuck as Dad’s helper on a project that is guaranteed to last for hours. Predictably, only half the lights light up.
I think of Grandpa, and this time, the memory makes me smile. “You know what, guys? It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas.”
* * *
• • •
I’m so caught up in the holiday spirit with my family that I haven’t really allowed myself to think about what happened last night. About Charlie. After I’d arrived safely home, I’d fallen asleep daydreaming about him: the way his blond hair falls over his eye in that Jack-from-Titanic way, his dimple flex, his prepster peacoat, his thermal shirt that covered what appeared to be seriously ripped abs. His friggin’ pink ears. But I also kept tossing and turning over how dumb I was. Why didn’t I give him my number? Why didn’t he ask me for mine? Whose party was he really at? So. Many. Questions!
It was so strange that I ran into him on a snowy highway. Caitlin thought so too—we’d been texting back and forth on my way from the parking lot to the bookstore about my Charlie sighting. Even though she has never had a boyfriend, she is the voice of reason when it comes to most things.
Maybe it’s a sign, Caitlin types.
A sign? Do you really think so? I type back as I walk.
Yeah, you know. Like you guys were meant to be together or something.
Okay, later. I know she’s being sarcastic. As much as I wish that were true, the fact that he didn’t ask me for my number did not go unnoticed. If a guy likes you, he finds a way to contact you. Maybe that is the sign I had missed all along.
* * *
• • •
The bookstore is what Bill calls “hopping” today, and Victoria is in her element, hand-selling books, cracking jokes, passing out miniature candy canes to shoppers. Christmas songs are playing on the stereo, and all the staff—including me at the wrapping station—are wearing reindeer antlers and red T-shirts that say SHOP LOCAL. A bookseller named Carol is wearing a red nose and has brought extra noses, but I draw the line at that. The person who was supposed to be my wrapping partner came down with a cold, so it’s just been me today.
“This put me in the holiday spirit,” a woman says as I tie a green ribbon on the puzzle I just wrapped for her. “I need to get a pair of those,” she adds, looking at my antlers.
“Thirteen out of ten would recommend,” I say, handing her the package. “Much more comfortable than the elf ears we considered.”
The ribbon we use is made of high-quality paper that looks very sophisticated on the gift bags, but we pay the price: it gives us the worst-ever paper cuts. I’m coming back from a quick trip to the back room, to get a Band-Aid and some Neosporin from the first-aid kit Victoria keeps there, when I stop short, my boots squeaking on the wood floor. Jacob is at the gift-wrap table, holding a large bag of newly purchased books. He’s wearing a green University of Vermont winter hat and his usual track pants and sneakers.
“Told you I’d be back,” he says when I reclaim my place behind the table. He pushes the bag in my direction. “I made sure to come when I knew you’d be here,” he adds.
For a moment I think he must have followed me to work, but then I remember I’d posted the times I’d be gift wrapping on Winslow’s social media. “Knowing someone is on hand to wrap might make someone choose to shop here,” Victoria had told me.
This is very decent of him—sometimes customers browse at Winslow’s but order from somewhere else, which makes Victoria a combo of mad and sad. Still, I don’t want to show him that I appreciate his returning—it’s not like he deserves a prize for doing the right thing. I silently slide the books out of the paper shopping bag. He’s purchased every single book we selected together.
“Got ’em all,” he says off my glance. “And, yeah, definitely Dogs in Stockings,” he says before I can ask him which paper he’d like.
“You did, uh, pay for these, right?” I ask, raising an eyebrow, even though I know he did.
He dangles a small brown leather wallet in front of my nose. “Yes, ma’am. Used real cash money and everything.”
“Just making sure,” I say smoothly, pulling the paper across the blade with a practiced flick of the wrist. “Wouldn’t want to spend, oh, thirty minutes wrapping all this and then have to unwrap everything.”
“If it takes you thirty minutes to wrap, we’re not going to have time to go out for hot chocolate,” he says, smooth as butter. He grins, amping up the charm that has obviously worked for him in the past.
I smirk. What a player. I decide to ignore this the same way he ignored my obvious annoyance about the other day when he forgot his wallet. I’ve chalked Jacob up to be the kind of guy to throw out statements like this with nothing to back them up just to get a reaction.
I keep my eyes down and my expression neutral as I wrap, but even so, I can feel him staring at me. “You disappeared last night,” he says, sounding both accusatory and surprised. “I looked for you and someone told me you’d left. I thought maybe we could hang out and talk or something.”
Jacob Marley wanted to hang out and talk with me at a party? Interesting. But, not interested. My eyes flick up. “Yes, well, with all the rolling around on the carpet that was going on, you seemed a little preoccupied.”
If I thought Jacob was going to be self-conscious about this, I was wrong. “Yeah, love my boys,” he says, grinning and completely missing my dig. He rotates his right shoulder and then his left. “Definitely need to do some more stre
tching at the gym this week, though. I felt a little sore this morning.”
“Mmmmm.” I’m not quite sure what to say, so I become a model of wrapping efficiency—pulling out the paper, folding, creasing, taping, tying. At last Jacob seems to get that I’m not impressed by his mere presence. He just kind of stands there, looking like he isn’t sure what to do—probably the same look I had last night at the party. He stuffs his hands in his pockets. “It was snowing so hard last night. You get home okay?”
“Actually, I had a little accident,” I admit.
“How little?”
I shrug. “I spun out and hit a guardrail. But amazingly there wasn’t any damage to my car. I got stuck in a snowbank and this guy stopped to help me.” I pause. “He was so nice.”
“Oh. That’s cool,” Jacob says, nodding. “So, like…was the guy an adult?”
“Nope. Around our age. I, uh, know him.”
Jacob looks surprised at this. “He goes to Bedford?”
I shake my head, and the bells on my reindeer antlers jingle. Since I don’t actually know where Charlie goes to school, I don’t feel the need to continue this conversation. I’m also not totally sure that Charlie is still in school. He could be in college, for all I know. I mean, he looks like he’s sixteen, but he seems, I don’t know, older and wiser. Not like the guys in my grade who have duels with curtain rods and smash beer cans on their heads.
When I’m finished wrapping all the books, Jacob sticks a ten-dollar bill in the donation jar for Bedford High.
“That’s really generous of you,” I say, passing everything back to him. “Hope your family likes the books.”
“Me too. And sure, yeah, anything for the arts,” he says. He shifts from side to side. “So, uh, how much longer do you have to work?”
“Oh, um…” I look at my phone—it’s almost 3:00, which means the volunteers for the next shift will be here any minute. “I think you’re my last customer.”