Jingle All the Way

by Fern Michaels

  “So I was hoping you might be able to give me his number so I could call him. His first name is Ryan. I’m afraid I don’t know what his last name is.”

  Fortunately for me, For the Children has very poor privacy policies for its volunteers, and the girl gives me his name and number as soon as she’s able to find it. I thank her and hang up the phone, and then I pick it up again to dial Ryan. Before I can even punch a single number, my heart starts doing its impersonation of a basketball being dribbled at a furious pace. I try to take a few deep breaths to calm myself, but I’m having trouble finding air. I don’t want to give myself any time to chicken out of this, so I go ahead and dial his number anyway.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, may I speak to Ryan?”

  “This is he.”

  “Hi, Ryan. This is Aimee Lachaussée, I uh . . .” I expel an embarrassingly loud gasp for air since I’m about to keel over from lack of oxygen. “We met the other night at . . .”

  “Yeah, of course, I remember you. What’s up?”

  “Oh. Well, uh, sorry, I’m a little nervous. Uh, so, how was your Christmas?”

  “Fine.” He says “fine,” but his voice is suspicious, like what he’s really saying is, “What is it you want?” What happened to how easily we were able to talk the other night? He does think I’m a stalker. I knew it!

  “The thing of it is, I really enjoyed talking to you the other night, and I was hoping maybe we could get together sometime and talk some more. Like maybe get some dinner or something?” Thank goodness, I’ve said it. The words are out. I’m able to breathe again.

  “Do you mean like on a date or something?”

  “Uh, yeah, that’s sort of what I was thinking. I really haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since I met you. And, of course, none of that guarantees that anything would work out between us, but, well, I was hoping we could see . . . if maybe things could . . . work out.” Ugh, I have the aural dexterity of Daffy Duck. Get it together, Aimee!

  “Look, Aimee, you may think I’m some sad schmuck who can’t get a date and hasn’t gotten laid in three years, but I don’t need your charity.” His voice has this hostile tone that throws me.

  “I didn’t call you out of feelings of charity . . . I . . .” I want to say “I’m attracted to you. I don’t care about the stupid wheelchair,” but I’m too nervous. Nervous about having made the call in the first place and a little freaked out about his reaction.

  “Well, I’m not interested. Goodbye.”

  And with that, he slams down the phone. I stand there in shock, staring at the telephone as if it can tell me what the hell just happened. I really want to call him back and ask him if he’s just not attracted to me, or if it’s too soon after his accident for him to start dating again. Whatever it is, he didn’t have to slam down the phone on me. Does he know how much courage it took me to make that call in the first place? What a jerk!

  I lay on my bed, stewing with anger until Bridgette comes to tell me that Mom and Dad are ready for dinner. I take them to a family-owned Italian restaurant, and Mom and I spend the duration of the meal arguing about me having children.

  At least there’s something in this world that’s predictable.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I see my family off to the airport the next morning and get into work a little late. Only a skeletal workforce has shown up to the office since so many people have taken extended vacations to visit family.

  “Good morning, Olivia,” I say when I get into the office.

  “Hey, Aim. How was your Christmas?”

  “Good. It was good to see my family.” I tell her about some of the stuff we did, and then she tells me about how Christmas for her involved much shuffling of children from one family event to another, from her ex’s house back to her apartment and back again. She and her ex squabbled at length over everything under the sun. (Which she repeats to me verbatim. It isn’t very interesting, but it also isn’t work, so who’s complaining?) He gave the kids hundreds of dollars’ worth of presents while she only spent a “mere” hundred on each of them, so they now think she’s selfish and he loves them more. So naturally he’s the hero and she’s the villain. At this she starts to tear up.

  “Olivia, I know it seems hard now, but eventually the kids will grow up enough to understand that you were the parent who did the brunt of the parenting—making them eat their broccoli, brush their teeth, clean their rooms. It’s not the fun part of the job, but it’s one of the most important parts. Someday they’ll understand that their father swooping in every now and then bearing gifts like Santa Claus is a much easier way to express love. It’s much easier to sign a check than to give up your time.” She nods. She knows this is true, but that doesn’t make any of it easier. So I just keep talking, to keep her distracted from her dark thoughts. “Speaking of Santa, doesn’t it piss you off that Santa gets all the credit for everything? You just know it’s Mrs. Claus in the background getting all the gifts ready and wrapped, the holiday cards written, the food ready. And who gets the credit? A man, of course. So typical.”

  She smiles at this. “Speaking of men, did you meet your transcendent love?”

  “No. I’m afraid not.”

  “Oh. Well, it said you have till the New Year. What are you doing for New Year’s anyway?”

  “I’m going to a party at a girlfriend’s house.”

  She nods, and there is something about her expression that makes me realize she’s got nothing to do that night.

  “If you’d like to come with me, you’re more than welcome to.”

  “Oh, no. I couldn’t go out with a bunch of kids.”

  “Olivia, I’m only five years younger than you. Give me a break.”

  “I wouldn’t know what to wear. And I probably couldn’t get a sitter on such short notice.”

  “I’d help you pick out something to wear. You could come over to my place and we could get ready together. I’m sure there is some teenage kid out there somewhere who’d rather earn twenty bucks watching your kids than sit home alone on New Year’s. You should really get out more. You’re never going to meet anybody if you never leave your house.”

  “I know, but I probably won’t meet anyone, and sitters are so expensive, and I won’t get to sleep until late, so I’ll be tired the next day, and . . .”

  “You’re right; you probably won’t meet a guy, but you might. More importantly, you might just have yourself some fun. Even if you have an awful time, at least that’s an experience. Sitting in front of your TV is not an experience; it’s a waste of your life. Living is about having good experiences and bad ones. It’s about making memories and meeting people.”

  She thinks about this for a moment. “Are you sure you really want me to come? You’re not just inviting me because you feel sorry for some frumpy old single mother?”

  “Why does everyone think I do things out of charity? You know me well enough to know I’m not really a good person. If I didn’t want you to come, I wouldn’t have invited you. I see you enough at work as it is.”

  “Well, I probably can’t get a sitter. I’ll see.”

  “You just let me know.”

  I’m pitifully unproductive at work. I try to get stuff done, but for every minute of work I do I spend about ten minutes daydreaming about Ryan. I think about things he said, or the way he was with the kids, or how we laughed together. And then I think of how he treated me when I called him yesterday, and the memories of that really piss me off. I want to call him and get some explanation. I really thought we connected the other night, but it’s happened to me many times before that a guy I wasn’t remotely attracted to thought we’d “really connected,” and I had to do that awful tap dance around the truth where I try to come up with a reason not to go out with him without hurting his feelings. I really like you . . . but the timing just isn’t right. Then, of course, the guys I am interested in brush me off with some lame excuse like they don’t “see a future between us,” which I usua
lly interpret to mean, “your breasts aren’t big enough.” I just want to know if the fun I had the other night was all a figment of my imagination. Plus, I’d love to tell Ryan off for hanging up on me.

  I’m still feeling resentful toward him when Olivia leaves for lunch. Before I can talk myself out of it, I close the office door and dial his number. After three rings, I get thrown into voice mail.

  To leave a message or not to leave a message, that is the question.

  For several seconds the only thing recording is the sound of me breathing. Then I realize it’ll be much easier to tell him off to his machine than personally, so I forge ahead.

  “Hi, Ryan, this is Aimee Lachaussée. I just wanted to say that I was sort of surprised and confused about your reaction yesterday. I mean, if you’re not interested in me, that’s fine, but I just think you could have been a little bit nicer about telling me that. It took a lot for me to work up the courage to call you. You seemed so nice the other night. And cute. And fun. But if you’re not attracted to me . . . I mean, you certainly wouldn’t be the first guy . . .” Shut up, Aimee, shut up! Stop talking. Set the phone down. Drop your weapon! “So, I just wanted to call you and get that off my chest. Goodbye.”

  I hang up the phone. My insides rumble volcanically, and for the second time in as many days I feel like I could pass out from a lack of oxygen.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  For the next several days, I come to the office and pretend to work while actually spending my time thinking about Ryan, and my sister and Tristan, and about Sean, and about relationships in general. Then at night I come home and think about how I should put my Christmas tree and all the Christmas decorations away. I have a fake tree, so really, I could just take the entire thing, decorations and all, down to my storage space in the basement of my townhome and leave it there, all ready for next year, but even that seems like more effort than I can summon. So instead of returning my living room to its natural state, I come home, strip off my clothes, and sit on the couch watching TV in the calming glow of the Christmas tree lights.

  Even though I normally like to cook, this week I just can’t face doing all the dishes that cooking creates. So one night for dinner I have M&Ms, another night it’s microwave popcorn, and the next night I go crazy and order in something resembling a balanced meal: sesame chicken and fried rice. Close enough.

  We have to work on New Year’s Eve—we just get New Year’s Day off—and Olivia comes in that morning looking happier than usual.

  I, immediately suspicious, ask, “What are you smiling about?”

  “I found a baby-sitter for tonight. I can go out!”

  “Awesome! That’s great. You’ll have a lot of fun, I promise.”

  “Do I need to bring anything to the party?”

  “Something to drink. Wine, beer, whatever you like.”

  “We’re going to drink? Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had a drink?”

  What did she think we were going to do at a New Year’s Eve party, play pin the tail on the donkey?

  “You don’t have to drink if you don’t want to.”

  “Oh. I want to,” she says, with the wide eyes and breathy voice of a woman possessed with thoughts of debauchery on a grand scale. The look of a woman who has found a baby-sitter and has been given the all-clear for a night away from the kids.

  What have I gotten myself into?

  “What time is the party?” she asks.

  “Well, it starts at eight, so we’ll want to get there at nine. Come over to my place at seven-thirty and bring a few different outfits. We’ll do each other’s hair and makeup, have a glass of wine, consult each other on what to wear, and then go to the party together.”

  “That sounds like fun. It’s a plan.”

  I’m glad to be able to consult with Olivia on her appearance. I’m not a fashion maven or beauty consultant, but there are many days when I want to pull Olivia aside and say, “Girlfriend, what were you thinking when you got dressed this morning? How can you not see that couldn’t possibly be less flattering for your figure?”

  She’s overweight, but that’s not why she looks frumpy. I know lots of overweight women who are as stylish and good looking as any model. It’s not about her weight; it’s about the tragic fashion choices she makes. I couldn’t tell you what cuts or fabrics or colors would look good on her, but I do know that I can look at her and know whether she looks good or not. And tonight I’ll finally have my chance to let my thoughts known.

  Before Olivia gets to my place, I begin the what-should-I-wear-to-the-party ritual. Because I don’t get dressed up very often, I find it a particular challenge to try to figure out how to look sexy and festive while simultaneously being comfortable. I don’t mean just comfortable in that I want to avoid wedging my feet into impossibly narrow shoes or comfortable that I’ll be able to do fancy things like breathe. I mean I want to feel confident that I won’t be offered money in exchange for sex and I’ll be secure in the knowledge that my boobs won’t come tumbling out for all to see in the event that I should laugh or sneeze. I’m wearing my sexy, too-tight jeans and the multicolored sequined bustier that Bridgette got me for Christmas. I put my fitted black blazer on over the bustier, but I still worry it’s too sexy for me. I look good, but I fear the possible boob-pop-out factor might just be too strong. I take the blazer off and am about to free my breasts from their sequined confines when the doorbell rings. It’s 7:30 on the dot. That can’t possibly be Olivia, can it? I hadn’t actually expected her to be on time. She’s never on time for work, usually because of her kids. (I’m always late to work, too, but that’s just because I don’t like work.) I grab the blazer and am putting it on as I make my way to answer the front door.

  “You look so, so sexy,” Olivia announces.

  “Yeah. I was thinking I look too sexy. I’m probably not going to wear this.” I finish buttoning up the blazer. “What do you think?”

  “You look gorgeous. Sexy but not slutty. Very hot.”

  Olivia enters my place, and I close the door behind her. She is carrying a dizzying array of plastic bags—both of her arms have bags dangling all up and down them. She looks like a shabbily decorated Christmas tree.

  She begins peeling off the bags, and then frees herself from her layers of outerwear and I see what I have to work with.

  Not much.

  “I brought most of my wardrobe and all the makeup I own,” she says.

  “I’ll open a bottle of wine, and we’ll get to work.”

  I pour us each a glass of wine, and I show her around my place. It’s small, but nicely decorated, and Olivia makes all the appropriate cooing noises about how great the place is. I am proud of it. I redid the kitchen cabinets and the kitchen floor myself, and no wall or ceiling is the same color it had been when I bought the place. (The previous owner had apparently suffered from a very serious drug problem to come up with the combinations she did. Three words should be kept in mind if one is going to attempt sponge painting: “tasteful” and “in moderation.” And the places she’d wallpapered looked like she’d taken magic-eye paintings and plastered them over pebbled, rocky terrain—it was so bumpy I wondered if she’d somehow managed to wallpaper over entire colonies of bugs that were spread out across the walls at the time the gluey paper came down.)

  In my bedroom, I tell Olivia to spread out the clothes she brought. We sip our wine and inspect the selection. It’s grim, that’s all there is to it.

  “The outfit I’m wearing now is the one I thought looked best. What do you think?”

  “Well, you look good,” I lie, “but having your shirt tucked in at your waist makes your figure look kind of boxy. Why don’t we put you in a blazer?”

  “I don’t have any.”

  “But I do.”

  “But you’re so skinny.”

  “Yes, but I’m also broad-shouldered. Just try this on. I really think it’ll fit.”

  “What will I wear under it?”

  “Let’s
just see if it fits first.”

  I let her try on my chocolate brown blazer. We have to roll the sleeves up, but otherwise it fits her surprisingly well. The color is well suited to her hair and eyes.

  “See how flattering that is? It gives you a waist. You have nice curves; you need to show them off, not hide them.”

  I watch her watch herself in the mirror. I can see the corners of her mouth bending upward, just a little, as she tries to absorb the possibility that her curves are actually a good thing.

  “What am I going to wear under it?”

  “Let’s figure that out after we get our hair and makeup done. Take the jacket off so it doesn’t get full of makeup.”

  I take my bustier off and put on a tank top, and the two of us, half dressed as we are, go into the bathroom.

  “Why don’t you let me style your hair,” I say.

  “I’ve already done my hair.”

  “Let’s try something a little funkier tonight.”

  She looks at me for a moment, considering. With the blazer victory fresh in her mind, she decides to trust me. “Okay,” she says with a definitive nod.

  “Why don’t you get your hair wet in the tub, and I’ll blow-dry it.”

  I help her get the water started, and she bends over the tub, leaning her head under the faucet. As she gets her hair wet, I begin putting on makeup. I only put minimal makeup on for work, but sometimes it’s fun to pretend I’m a drag queen and really paint it on. I put on foundation, powder, blush, and lipstick, and then I begin the tricky process of putting my eyeshadow on. I brush a dark brown color on across the crease and the outside of my left eye, and that’s when the doorbell rings.