Once Upon A Christmas Eve: A Novella (6 page)

“Good work, Johnny Baby!” Leslie says. “Way to win it back for the girl!”

“Nah. Matches my apartment,” he insists, even as color surfaces, cheeks flushing with embarrassment for having been called out so publicly.

“See?” I whisper when the game ends a few minutes later. “Everyone’s happy. No pressure.”

“Not
everyone
,” he replies. “I believe this belongs to you.” He hands me the white box, the purple and blue ornament tucked safely inside, cushioned in tissue paper.

“I thought it was for your apartment.”

“I bet you did.” His mouth hints at a smile as he studies me with serious eyes. And I wonder what he’s thinking as a hush—this perfect stillness—settles between us. As my thoughts tumble over one another, a swirling fog, heart crashing against my chest, making it difficult to breathe. As I wonder what it would feel like to have his arms wrapped around me. For his lips to touch my own.

“We should trade, at least. Make it fair,” I finally manage, reaching for the gift card. 

Mrs. Andrews interrupts this exchange: “Smile, you two.”

Jonathan slips his arm around me, hand resting just above my hip, the gesture itself so warm and natural and expected it’s impossible to think I’ve only known him going on two hours.

Somehow it’s impossible to imagine
not
knowing him.

His aunt lifts her phone to snap a photo of us, documenting the moment forever. “One more, just in case.”

“I should probably get going,” I announce when she finishes, rising. It has to be close to eight by now.

“Let me get you that cheesecake,” she says. I follow her to the kitchen. She busies herself at the refrigerator, removing dishes, setting them on the counter, rearranging things until she finally produces a brown box. She opens the lid, checking it. “Tell your mom and Samantha ‘Merry Christmas’ from us, all right?” she insists.

I take the pie box from her. “I will.”

“And thank you so much for coming. We enjoyed having you.”

“Thank you for letting me hang out with you guys. The food was delicious. Everything is
so
beautiful,” I reply.

“Well, you are absolutely welcome to stop by and see us any time. I’m always here if you need anything.”

I thank her, forcing back unexpected tears staining my vision. The offer, her kindness and generosity, triggering that familiar ache rooted at my feet, determining to creep up legs and body until it devours me. I am thankful for Jonathan. Jonathan, who hands me my black peacoat, collects boxes so I can slip it over my shoulders.

“Don’t forget about your car,” he reminds me.

I manage a smile as the world clears, correcting itself. With everything else going on, I’m not sure there’s enough room for sad tears on Christmas Eve. “Actually, we can walk from here. Do you mind if I steal Jonathan for a while?” I ask Mrs. Andrews.

“Absolutely not. Jonathan, we’ll be up late, I’m sure. But, if not, you know where the spare key is?”

“I do.”

“Great. Enjoy yourselves.”

She passes her nephew a wink I’m not sure I’m supposed to see. Grandma hugs us both on the way out the front door. Tessa and Leslie wave, still wanting my boots, possibly. Derrick tells me not to be a stranger. And then Jonathan’s mom is there, standing with us in the foyer. “We’re going to Olivia’s for a while,” he tells her.

“All right. I’m sorry we didn’t have a chance to talk more,” she tells me. “Next time, maybe?”

Next time.

Permanent.

I force a smile. “Sure.”

Jonathan pulls the front door closed behind him, disconnecting us from everything inside, exhaling what might be a sigh of relief, breath smoking in the icy air.

“That wasn’t too terrible,” I say as he joins me on the narrow walk leading to the curb.

“It wasn’t. In fact, I think it’s ranking pretty close to the top in terms of best Christmas Eves ever.”

“It was fun,” I agree. “I like your family.”

“My good time had
nothing
to do with family,” he admits, stealing a sideways glance at me.

Heat rises to my cheeks, warming me from the inside out as we step into the road, take a left.

“I think you’re right about the teasing,” I say. “It’s just the way you guys operate. Most of it is good-natured. The English stuff sucked, though. It’s really none of their business what you major in.”

We walk in silence, the gravel spilling over from a driveway crunching between shoes and asphalt, the house it belongs to washed in night. On the other side of the street an older man crosses a lawn, heads to a car, unlocks it.

“Beautiful night!” he calls to us, opening the trunk.

“Yes, sir,” Jonathan replies. “Merry Christmas!”

A rush of biting air sweeps in as I marvel at how different Jonathan is from the boys I grew up with—how unlike the guys at school in nearly every way. Honest and decent. Not interested in drawing unnecessary attention to himself or showing off. Genuinely kind and considerate—no ulterior motives—exuding this subtle charm he doesn’t even realize he has.

Yes, he tends to procrastinate, he’s not a list-maker, and he could be more assertive around his family. But his Grandma was right. There’s a calm that surrounds him. A peace I feel when he’s beside me. Like maybe everything could be okay.

“The thing is,” he finally says, interrupting these thoughts, “I don’t
just
want to be an English major. Confession?”

“I love confessions.”

Though he’s the one who initiated the conversation, he seems to wrestle with the idea, gathering words, until I can almost see the images churning, turning over in his mind, until I begin to worry about the nature of confessions and their power to change everything.

“God. I’ve
never
told anyone this before,” he says.

“You don’t have to,” I say.

He groans. “No. I’m just going to come out with it.”

Another extended silence.

“Okay,” I urge.

“I want to write.”

“Write?” I repeat, not understanding. That’s it?
That’s
his big confession?

“Yeah. I want to be a writer. I want to write books. Tell stories. I’m working on the student newspaper and just finished a creative writing class. And yes—I’ve considered teaching. It’s definitely a possibility. But I love books. And talking about them and thinking about them. And . . . writing them.” He speaks quickly, eyes lighting with possibility—almost manic—transformed by the freedom of telling. Of sending something of this magnitude out into the world, letting the universe take control.

“Wow. What kind of books?”

“That’s the thing. This is where I should say I want to write the next ‘Great American Novel.’ Tomes on the meaning of life. The evolution of society. Pitfalls of mass consumption. But I actually harbor a pure, unadulterated love of crime novels.”

We step beneath another streetlamp, the muted light playing with our shadows. “You want to be a crime writer?”

“It’s absurd, I know. Paperback pulp fiction author? They’d laugh me out of the department if they knew. The academics are so high-brow it’s nauseating. Right now I’m putting in the work, writing poetry and short stories—questioning the meaning of it all—but as soon as they turn me loose. . . .” He trails off, imagining the potential—life as a writer. On his laptop at his desk. Or at a coffee shop, maybe. Stringing words together until they make sense. Telling stories.

“Jonathan Talbot,” I say. “I could see that on a book cover.”

“Really?” he asks, slanting a look toward me. “You don’t think it’s a stupid pipe dream? Because my family thinks I’m insane for majoring in English. Imagine what they’d say if they learned I wanted to write for a living.”

“I don’t think it’s stupid. What’s stupid is not chasing that dream because you’re worried about what other people think. If you want to be a writer, then an English degree is perfect. Working at the student paper is perfect. I think you’re doing everything you’re supposed to be doing.”

“God. That has to be one of the most amazing things anyone has ever said to me.”

I laugh. “It’s called being supportive. It’s not hard.”

“I am a humanities major in a sea of business and finance men,” he reminds me. “This is uncharted territory for us.”

“I think your Grandma would love the idea of you being a writer. And, out of everyone in that house back there, her opinion might be the only one that matters.”

The night grows still again as he considers this, the streets quiet as a silvery moon slips in and out of view overhead, its pale light shining between leaves and branches.

“So . . . when your first novel is published will you personally sign my copy?” I ask.

“I think I’ll dedicate the whole book to you,” he replies. “To Olivia Hall, for believing.” I smile at the idea. “Even better—I’ll name a character after you.”

“Just don’t kill me off in the first chapter,” I say. I don’t read crime novels—I lean more toward the classics (thanks, Mom)—but I know enough about them to know things don’t always go well for everyone involved.

“Never. I’ll immortalize you. You could be one of my main detectives. A kick-ass female crime-fighter with a penchant for telling guys they’re compensating whenever they super-size their fast food orders.”

I laugh weakly, thinking maybe it would have been better to keep that particular opinion to myself. “Yeah. Sorry about that.”

“Don’t apologize. Someone had to take Derrick down a notch or two. I’m glad it was you.” 

I don’t want to admit that the idea of living forever in one of Jonathan’s stories has a certain appeal. Even if
I’m
lost, even if I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, at least there is a version of me out there somewhere doing
something
. Fictional or otherwise.

“So . . . dinner with your family,” he says, changing the subject. “Is there anything I should know going in?”

I exhale a sigh, hesitating. Part of Jonathan’s initial allure was that he was unfamiliar with this town. Its history. Its people. By agreeing to this night, by allowing him into my home, he will ultimately learn more about me than I want anyone to know. Every mistake, every hardship, everything my family has been through in the last year will be sitting at the dining room table when the eggplant parmesan is served.

There is nowhere to hide.

“Well, it was just supposed to be me, my mom, and my sister. But two weeks ago Mom had the brilliant idea to invite my dad and his girlfriend.” I take a deep breath, knowing there is a story to be told—that Jonathan deserves to hear it. That I deserve the opportunity to tell it.
My
version. Mom has her own account, of course. My sister. My father. Amanda. Each one of us standing at different points along this path. But right now it’s only me and Jonathan. And
my
side. And I’m grateful to have someone other than my sister to talk to.

“I don’t know
what
she’s thinking, to be honest,” I continue. “I mean, she’s a totally different person now that her treatments have ended. She meditates. She’s always reminding Sam and me to ‘be present.’ She wants to go vegan but loves eggs too much. I don’t even know how she’s surviving vegetarianism. She adores fried chicken. It’s just . . .
jarring
. It’s like she’s not even my mother, anymore.”

“Cancer is hard,” Jonathan reminds me. “She’s still your mom, but you’re right. She’s probably
not
the same person.”

“I know. And I’m trying to understand. But inviting Dad
and
Amanda to Christmas dinner? It’s like, ten minutes was all it took to pick up the phone and lose her mind.”  

Jonathan smiles at this, and I can only imagine what he’s thinking, what I sound like—bitter little girl siding with her mom after a messy divorce.

“So this could be a pretty eventful dinner,” he confirms.

“Maybe. I don’t know. I met Amanda once—when I was staying with my dad in Hamilton. They’re living together now. Sharing a townhouse. It was so . . .
awkward
. I mean, here’s the woman my dad cheated on my mom with and now she’s living with my dad and my mom is at home by herself fighting breast cancer. . . . I mean, what the hell?”

“So the cheating thing. That’s a fact?”

“Yeah. He confessed. And, you know, we should’ve known. He worked for a company based out of Hamilton, at the satellite office about twenty minutes from here, but suddenly he had all of these business trips to take. First, he was just getting home late. Then they became overnight trips. Soon they were every week, and then he was staying weekends. It was so obvious. When he told us he put in a request for a transfer to the main office, we knew there was no way he was going to stay—to try to make it work. Mom didn’t even put up a fight. She knew, too, I guess. And it’s funny, because she always taught Sam and me that love is the only thing worth fighting for. That when you find it, you better hang on tight. It won’t be easy, but it’s worth it.”