Jingle Bell Hell (Bad Luck Club)

by Denise Grover Swank

  “Then how about you tell me the rules?” I suggest.

  He looks at me in surprise. “But you’re a grown up. You’re supposed to know the rules.”

  “Tell me anyway.”

  “You turn the cards over and match them,” he says.

  “What happens if you get a match?” I ask.

  “Then you get another turn. And if you don’t, it’s my turn.”

  “Okay,” I say. “Let’s play. You go first.”

  He turns over two cards—a little girl with braids and an old woman with salt-and-pepper hair—then turns them back over. “Your turn.”

  “Thank you,” I say, then turn over two cards. A man with a bald head and glasses and a little boy with freckles. “Do you remember my name?” I ask as I turn them back over.

  He looks at me like I’m an idiot. “You’re Mr. Jace. Ms. Liu told me five times that you were coming today.”

  “And you’re Aidan,” I say as he takes his turn. “Ms. Duckworth told me three times I was coming to see you.” I motion toward the older woman, but Aidan doesn’t turn to look.

  “Is she your teacher?” he asks as he flips his unmatched cards back over.

  “No,” I say. I almost tell him she’s my boss, but I worry about how his brain will interpret that. The last thing I want him to think is that he’s my job. “She’s my friend. She thought you and I would make good friends.”

  “Why?”

  Shit. That question could be a minefield. “Because I need a friend, and she thought maybe you did too.”

  He studies the game, saying idly, “I don’t have any friends. I just moved here, and Mom says it takes time to make new friends.” He looks up at me. “Do you know how long it takes?”

  I’ve known this kid for about five minutes, and he’s already melting my heart.

  “Are we friends yet?” I ask.

  “You brought me a game to play.”

  “And I brought another one we can try after this one. So, are we friends?”

  He scrutinizes me, or rather the shoulder of my shirt, for a long moment. “Friends play together.”

  “They do.”

  “Then I think we are friends.”

  I smile, then look at the clock on the wall behind him. “It took us six minutes to become friends. It usually takes me a lot longer.”

  He glances down. “Me too.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with taking your time when it comes to making friends,” I say as I go through the motions with the game. No match. “But every now and then, you meet someone, and you just know you’ll be friends.”

  Aidan’s hand drops from his zipper, and he gives me a shy smile. “Like me and you.”

  I smile. “Just like you and me. Those are the best kinds of friends.”

  He turns over two cards, revealing two images of the same man in a suit. “I have a match.”

  “That’s awesome,” I say, and he gets another before it’s my turn again.

  We spend the next forty-five minutes playing two rounds of the matching game and a couple of rounds of the sorting game I brought. I’ve learned that Aidan is an only child, he recently learned that Santa is a lie, he sees a lot of his grandparents, even though they still live in Charlotte, and his father has been away for a very long business trip. “This is the longest one he’s ever been on,” Aidan says. “By eleven months and three days.”

  I cringe a little at that. Because it’s no business trip the man’s on, and I question his mother’s choice to tell a lie that will have to be set right at some point. But it’s none of my business.

  “Mom says they’re not going to be married anymore, but he’s still my father. I haven’t talked to him since January, though, and you’re supposed to talk to your father. At least that’s what Mikey says.”

  “Who’s Mikey?”

  “He sits next to me in school,” Aidan says, pulling his zipper up and down, up and down.

  Mikey sounds like kind of a dick. Sure, he’s only six, but some people start early. Still, I doubt Ms. Duckworth would appreciate it if I said so.

  So I change the subject by sharing about my own family, telling him that I have one sister and a nephew, but I refrain from telling him that my parents are dead. I’m not sure how much he understands about death, and I don’t want to open that can of worms. I also talk about my job remodeling houses. Before I know it, Susan is waving at me to get my attention.

  “I think you two have had a splendid afternoon,” she says, beaming, “but Aidan’s mother is here. Would you like to meet her?”

  “Yeah.” She needs to feel comfortable with the man spending time with her son, so I ask Aidan to pick up the game. I get to my feet, then turn to face her, but I stop in my tracks.

  I wasn’t sure what I expected. A beaten-down woman struggling to make ends meet after her husband abandoned his family? Maybe she’s both of those things, but that’s not how she looks. She’s wearing a white blouse under a gray jacket, paired with a gray pencil skirt that clings to the curves of her hips and stops several inches above her knees. Her three-inch black pumps make her about six inches shorter than me. The only concession to disorder is her auburn hair—chin length but wavy.

  Mary O’Shea is sexy as hell in her power suit, but what draws me in most is the vulnerability in her bright hazel eyes. I of all people know that a tough exterior doesn’t mean she’s okay on the inside. This woman is worried about her son, and God help me, I want to make everything okay for her.

  What the fuck is wrong with me?

  I mentally shake my head. Get your shit together, man.

  Extending my hand, I twist my mouth into a friendly smile, and say, “Hi. Jace Hagan. Nice to meet you.”

  Chapter Three

  Mary

  I was so nervous at work that I started tapping my keyboard without realizing it. Worse, it was to the tune of “Jingle Bells.” My boss, Hilde, actually came over—not to tell me to stop, mind you, but to compliment the rhythm.

  What if Aidan is anxious?

  What if this man is some kind of weirdo or pervert?

  What if Aidan is kidnapped from the library, and I never see him again?

  What if this is another mistake, and Aidan gives me the cold shoulder for a month?

  Because he’s already giving it to me—the cold shoulder, that is. He doesn’t get mad the way other kids do. He’d probably say he isn’t mad. He’d probably even believe it. But I know differently. Everything I do right now is wrong, and it’s because his Santa dreams have been crushed.

  We still haven’t decorated the horrible tree. It stands in the corner of our living room, its most naked bits turned to the wall, like someone changing into a bathing suit. Maisie and Molly haven’t seen it yet, thank God—my sisters are worried enough about me as it is—but a reckoning might be in store for me anyway. Molly said she has something urgent to talk about, so I’m going to drop Aidan at Maisie’s for dinner so my little sister and I can chat.

  I’m hoping Molly’s just seeking my lawyerly advice about her book contract. Her first novel, Hearts in Flight, just sold to a small, independent press. But that voice in my head, the one that never turns off and has been particularly loud lately, suggests she’s going to confront me about being a hot mess. The tables have turned—usually I’m the one worrying about Molly and encouraging her to (a) get a better job or (b) find a boyfriend who lasts more than a week, but it’s abundantly clear she doesn’t need my advice anymore. She’s happy in a way she’s never been before, and I’m happy for her. Actually, it’s a weight off my shoulders because I always blamed myself for the way she floundered after our parents died. My mother had always impressed upon me the importance of security, something she’d felt was lacking in her relationship with our father, and I’d tried to do my big-sister duty and steer Maisie and Molly away from situations that offered none. In retrospect, I realize that I had it wrong. They’ve both built lives that make them happy and fulfilled, and me? I don’t really know what happi
ness looks like anymore. I only find it with Aidan and my sisters. Work is comforting, the rhythms of it predictable and calming, but I wouldn’t say I’m happy there. Content, sure. Happy? No.

  Because here’s the thing. Strip away all that security, all the manners I’ve cultivated to hide my nerves and awkwardness, all the trappings of my life…

  I don’t know who I am.

  Maybe it was like this all along, and I just didn’t realize it, but I’m the O’Shea sister who’s most lost.

  How am I supposed to help Aidan when I can’t even help myself?

  But as soon as I see him—Jace—that persistent voice in my head shuts up.

  This is my son’s “buddy”?

  Jace Hagan is sexy in the way real people aren’t supposed to be.

  He looks like the bad boy in a movie, with his short beard, longer golden-brown hair, and a body that is frankly intimidating. And his eyes…they’re that strange teal of the ocean under sunlight—a color that shouldn’t exist in nature. I feel a weird stirring in my body.

  Weird, because I honestly can’t remember the last time it occurred to me that my body is capable of more than delivering me from place to place, task to task, and item one to one hundred on my never-ending to-do list. Even before Glenn left, it had been a long time since we’d had any—ahem—intimacy—and even longer since I’d enjoyed it. It’s uncomfortable, this feeling, and it takes me several long, awkward moments to notice that he’s holding his hand out to me. Shoot, I’ve probably left him hanging for several seconds.

  I dart my hand out and take his, feeling my cheeks flush. Darn this fair O’Shea skin.

  His hand is big and rough, and the feel of it sends a cascade of tingles through me, awakening all the dusty and, frankly, abandoned bits of me. There’s something untamed about Jace. Wild. And even though I don’t want that—I’ve always wanted the very opposite of that—I can’t help but feel an answering purr inside of me.

  And you worried that he’d be a perv? You’re the perv.

  I take my hand back abruptly, as if bitten.

  “Mom,” Aidan says, “you tell me I’m always supposed to say my name when someone introduces themselves. You didn’t say your name.”

  The blush I felt deepens. I ignore it. “Mary O’Shea,” I say.

  The man, Jace, is watching my mouth in a way that has me wiping at it.

  “Did I smear my lipstick? Sorry, I was in a rush to make it down here.”

  He shakes his head slightly, an almost delicate gesture for a man so large. “No, nothing like that. It’s nice to meet you. My friend, Aidan, has been telling me all about you.”

  “No, I didn’t really talk much about her,” Aidan says. “I just told you that she’s been lying to me about Santa for my entire life. And that my dad’s on a long business trip.”

  Great.

  Jace is looking at me skeptically, as if to say he knows I’m a liar, and not just about jolly men in red suits. Good for him. He can judge me all he pleases. Still, I can’t ignore the fact that Aidan actually opened up to him. That’s what I’ll choose to focus on. Not his judgment. And certainly not his eyes.

  “Well, thank you, Mr. Hagan,” I say. “I’m glad Aidan has a…” Oh, God, I can’t say it. This man is all man. He’s no one’s buddy. Finally, I choke it out. “Bud–dy.”

  “Call me Jace,” he says. His gaze shifts to Aidan, who’s still sitting in his chair, in absolutely no hurry to leave. “You too.”

  “Are you ready, Aidan?” I ask. “There’s just enough time for a puzzle or an episode of Dinosaur Train before I bring you to Aunt Maisie’s house.”

  “I’m not ready to go, Mom,” Aidan says. The zipper on his sweater goes up and down. “I’d rather keep playing with Jace.”

  Embarrassment floods me. My son would prefer to hang out with this beefcake than go home with me, and now the beefcake knows it. Feeling someone’s gaze on me, I turn slightly—which is when I remember that Ms. Duckworth and the librarian are both still present. Jace’s presence is so large, so all-encompassing, that I’d completely forgotten. Excellent. My humiliation is complete.

  “Honey,” I say slowly to Aidan before glancing back at Jace. “Jace has to go home to his own house. He can’t stay here forever.”

  “Why do you keep looking at him like that, Mom?” Aidan asks. “You usually don’t look at people this much.”

  “Because he’s a new acquaintance,” I mutter. “It’s good to pay attention to what new people look like so you can recognize them when you see them again.”

  Aidan considers my response, then nods, thank God. I don’t dare look at Jace. I can’t let him realize I have a pathetic attraction to him. Although, looking like he does, he probably has a line of women who follow him around like children flock to ice cream trucks.

  Ice cream.

  Since the puzzle wasn’t enough of a draw, I add, “Why don’t we stop for ice cream on the way home?”

  Sure, it’s bribery, but I’m not above it. Besides, he needs to eat more, and I’m at the calories-are-calories stage of desperation.

  “It’s cold out, Mom,” Aidan scolds. “That’s not a good treat for a day like today.”

  “Okay, how about stopping for a hot chocolate at the Chocolate Lounge?”

  Something lights in his eyes, and I know I have him on the hook, until he says, “I want Jace to come.”

  My gaze flits to Jace again, dammit, and there’s a flicker of a smile playing at his lips.

  “I’m sure Mr. Ha—Jace has places to be, sweetheart. But you’ll see him again…”

  “Thursday,” Ms. Duckworth supplies from behind me. Oh God, she’s still here.

  “I want him to come,” Aidan repeats. Zipper goes up. Zipper goes down.

  If Jace doesn’t come, getting Aidan to leave quietly is going to be a problem, so as much as I’d like to end this encounter, I find myself glancing at him.

  He’s giving me a questioning look, so I offer a slight nod.

  “I love hot chocolate,” Jace says. “Sounds great.”

  Of course, Aidan being Aidan, he adds, “My mom and I are lactose intolerant. But they have almond milk at the Chocolate Lounge, right, Mom? That’s why I like it the best.”

  “Right, Aidan,” I mutter, collecting his backpack. I can practically feel Jace laughing. It’s bad enough that Not-Santa knows milk makes me bloated. The last thing I want is for a man like this to know about my bloat.

  Forcing myself to look at him, I catch the slightest quirk of his lips—knew it—and then force out, “We go to the one on Riverside Drive. It’s his favorite, and they actually have a parking lot.”

  “I know it,” he says with a dip of his head. “I live nearby.”

  My mind jumps to where a man like this would live. The upper floor of a garage? The back of a tattoo parlor?

  I can practically hear my sister Molly add the inside of a sexually repressed suburban housewife’s imagination?

  I clear my throat. “We’ll meet you there, then. Thank you, Jace.”

  I make myself turn and nod to Ms. Duckworth, who’s watching us like we’re the cast of a soap opera. The librarian, who’d been craning her neck to look at us, knocks over one of the empty red-wrapped presents by her desk. She has the grace to blush.

  “Okey dokey,” I say, and immediately hate myself. “Let’s get the show on the road.”

  “Mom, that’s a dumb saying,” Aidan says. “It doesn’t really mean anything.”

  I just gesture for him to get moving, silently adding, Actually, it does, Aidan. It means your mom is making a freak show out of herself.

  I don’t wait for Jace to leave the library. I hurry Aidan off like I just pulled off a heist, which is stupid for multiple reasons but mostly because we’re about to meet up with him again. It’s not like I can run away. Still, as I prepare to leave, I spy Jace in my peripheral vision, folding himself into a red truck. It suits him.

  Few things wouldn’t suit him.

  It’s j
ust a sexual attraction though, nothing more. Molly has always put a lot of stock in that sort of thing. And given that Maisie wound up dating her husband after they had a one-night stand, I suppose she does too. But that’s just foolish. You can be attracted to an ottoman, and it doesn’t mean it would make a good boyfriend. And okay, if you’re attracted to an ottoman, you have bigger problems than being single, but that’s beside the point. Sexual attraction is meaningless.

  But I can’t deny I feel a weird sort of anticipation as I drive us to the Chocolate Lounge.

  After I get on the highway, I shoot a glance at Aidan in the rearview mirror. He’s actually looking back to see if Jace’s truck is following us. Maybe he just likes the color—red is one of his favorite colors, his current issues with Santa notwithstanding—but I can tell there’s more to it.

  “You like Jace, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do, Mom,” he says, settling back into his seat. “He’s my friend. You’re supposed to like your friends.”

  “Did he say anything about his work?”

  “He said he does construction, like Uncle Cal.”

  I nearly correct him, because my sister Molly and her boyfriend aren’t married, but it’s sweet that he’s finally taken an interest in Cal. He made Aidan this truly amazing tent, and it apparently upgraded him to uncle status. Which is fine, I guess, even though it’s currently inaccurate. It’s only a matter of time before they make things official.

  Thinking about Cal and that tent he made, my mind skips to his business. His house flipping and renovation business. Huh. If Jace works in construction, they might know each other. I tuck that in the back of my brain and ask, “Anything about his family?”

  “I don’t know. He said something about a nephew. Why are you asking me so many questions?”

  “Just interested in your new friend,” I mutter. The nephew fits with what Ms. Liu told me about Jace’s motivation for volunteering his time. I guess his nephew is on the spectrum too, and they have a close relationship. Knowing that made me feel more comfortable with the arrangement.

  Aidan starts humming Christmas carols, and I spend the rest of the drive glancing in my rearview mirror. I don’t see Jace, which is actually sort of a relief. I always drive the speed limit, and if he were close enough to be seen, it would mean he was speeding.