All I Want for Christmas Page 2

  “You didn’t even ask if my mom cooks, though,” he says, raising an eyebrow. His eyes are the steely blue of an Alaskan husky, and I find myself looking at them—or, rather, into them—for a second longer than I should.

  Don’t get sucked in, I tell myself. I’m pretty sure that Jacob Marley is a bit of a player. He hangs with a loud, semi-obnoxious crowd, he always seems to have an answer for everything, and he went out with Jessica Dolecki, so he obviously has questionable judgment. Certainly not who I imagine kissing under the mistletoe.

  I tear my gaze away from his Alaskan husky eyes. “Doesn’t matter. Everyone loves looking at beautiful food. And this one actually has great recipes. There’s one for ramen salad that’ll blow your mind.”

  “Wow. Okay,” he says agreeably. “That sounds amazing.”

  I smile, imagining his mom opening it up on Christmas. You’re welcome, Jacob.

  We move over to the Performing Arts section of the shop. There’s a round table stacked with books ranging from dance to theater to music. It’s what Victoria calls an impulse stop.

  “My dad likes rock,” Jacob says, and I get the sense he hadn’t realized there were actually books about musicians. He points to a Pearl Jam trivia book. “This could be cool.”

  I nod encouragingly. “I was going to suggest a biography—dads love them. Prince, Tom Petty, The Rock…”

  Jacob picks up Acid for the Children by Flea. “My dad likes the Chili Peppers,” he muses, thumbing through the pages.

  “Winner winner chicken dinner,” I say, then cover my mouth. My dad is the king of corny expressions, and sadly, I have picked up a few of them. But Jacob doesn’t seem to think it’s strange. He just laughs.

  “You’re pretty good at this book stuff,” he says approvingly. “You know, it’s almost like you work here or something.” He is standing just close enough for me to smell him: a mix of Downy fabric softener and wet dog. It’s more appealing than you would think. But then I remind myself that holiday dreams are made of peppermint, evergreen, and cedar.

  “Yeah, you know, I try,” I say modestly, but the truth is, I am pretty proud of my book-matching skills. I was even Employee of the Month back in July, and my shelftalkers—the little signs we’re encouraged to put under books we love with short write-ups of why we love them—are customer favorites.

  “Now, my little bro, Preston, is kind of a tough one,” he says, stroking his chin. “He’s not really into reading. He likes to play lacrosse and video games.”

  The not-reading thing is something I hear a lot from customers, especially parents, and about boys. “You just have to find the right book,” I tell him with conviction as I lead him to the Kids’ section at the back of the store. We browse through fantasy, sports fiction, and graphic novels, finally settling on A Wolf Called Wander, about a wolf cub that has to find a new home, and the Trials of Apollo series by Rick Riordan because Jacob remembered reading another series by the author when he was in middle school and liking it.

  Music begins playing, and I recognize Kelsea Ballerini’s version of “My Favorite Things.” The floor is pretty crowded now, and there’s definitely a feeling of Christmas spirit in the air.

  “So now all we have left is Grandma,” I say, rubbing my hands together. “Cozy mystery? Sudoku puzzle book? Mindfulness mantras? Talk to me.”

  He rocks lightly on his feet, considering the options. “Gram’s a pretty curious person,” he finally says. “She audits classes at her local community college just for fun, ballroom dances with her boyfriend, Rocco, and goes out for mimosas with her friends every Sunday.”

  “My kind of lady,” I say with true admiration. After some back-and-forth, we settle on Mo Rocca’s Mobituaries, about lives well-lived. It’s popular with the over-forty crowd.

  “She’ll love it,” Jacob says, reading the description on the inside flap. “Thanks, Bailey. You really helped me.”

  “Sure thing,” I say, suddenly feeling awkward now that our reason for hanging out together is coming to a close. “Anytime.” I look toward the cash register. “If you, uh, want to go and pay for everything, I can wrap it when you’re done.”

  A flush spreads over Jacob’s face. “Uh, yeah. About that. I, um, I kind of forgot my wallet.”

  I stare at him. “Say what?”

  He nods, looking uncomfortable. “Yeah. I realized it when I put my phone in my pocket.”

  “And you…just decided to keep shopping?” I say, confused. “Were you going to pay with your phone?” My mind flashes to the guys he hangs out with at school. I could totally imagine them working with a personal shopper and then just walking out for the fun of it. Which apparently is what Jacob is planning on doing today.

  “No,” he says, looking a little embarrassed. “I don’t have it set up.”

  “Oh. So…how were you going to pay?” I ask, leaving the question hanging in the air.

  “I…yeah. I guess I didn’t think it through. You seemed so into helping me that I, uh, didn’t want to disappoint you.”

  Disappoint me? Clearly he thinks I set a very low bar for excitement. And maybe I do, which makes me even more annoyed than I should be. I fold my arms across my chest. “That was thirty minutes of my life I can’t get back now. Thanks a lot.”

  “You seemed like you were having fun, though,” he tells me sheepishly. He gives me a hangdog expression—the kind I’m sure has worked for him before. “I’ll come back with my wallet to get these. I promise.”

  “Sure you will,” I say in a monotone, sounding like the cafeteria lady at school when someone in the line “forgets” their swipe card.

  “No, seriously,” he says, scrolling on his phone and then heading toward the door. Obviously something more exciting has come up. “I will. See ya, Bailey.”

  I lift my hand in the most unenthusiastic wave possible. As bizarre as it seems, I think maybe I was wondering, in my deep subconscious, if Jacob Marley could be mistletoe-worthy. But now that I know he wasn’t taking any of this seriously—or more precisely, taking me and my time seriously—um, no.

  That little flip my heart did earlier? Total flop.

  I wander over to the colorful display of romance novels, their bright covers with cute couples tugging on my heartstrings, and sigh. Why can’t life be like a love story?

  Saturday is my favorite day of the week, and Saturdays in December are really my favorite because the Briggs family cookie bakeathon is in full effect. I walk down the hall as my older brother, Liam, sprints past me in the opposite direction, shoving what appears to be a gingersnap in his mouth. “Going for bagels with the boys,” he calls over his shoulder, the front door slamming behind him. Only the sugar trail from the now-eaten cookie left behind on the carpet runner proves he was there at all.

  Liam’s a freshman at Boston University. Despite all the family time we’ve spent together over the past year, we still were all super excited to have him home for a month. However, it’s been two weeks now, which means the novelty has worn off and he’s back to being the annoying brother who leaves his wet towels on the floor in the bathroom after he showers, and who drinks all the milk.

  I poke my head into our family room. Our Westie, Dickens, is lying on the radiator ledge below the window in a fuzzy blue dog bed, watching the world go by. He loves to jump onto the couch and scramble onto the ledge—it’s his favorite spot. He can guard our house and stay warm. I can’t resist him—I go over and give his fluffy white head a kiss. Outside it’s sunny and bright, and I spot my dog’s persistent nemesis—a bushy-tailed, beady-eyed squirrel—climbing up the cherry-blossom tree in our front yard. Luckily for his heart rate, Dickens doesn’t see him. “You’re still the best watchdog,” I say, kissing him on the soft spot between his dark eyes and patting his warm little back. Then I head to the kitchen, the delicious smell of cookies baking making my stomach growl.

&nb
sp; “Hi, honey,” Mom says, dropping a level cup of flour into a large glass mixing bowl. “You’re just in time to start rolling Kringles.” This is what we call our holiday sugar cookies. They’re my favorite, especially when they’re small and the edges get slightly burnt. There are a couple of cookbooks spread out, my mom’s laptop is open to a recipe for pecan tassies, and there are even some handwritten recipe cards strewn about, albeit smudged with butter. “Later we’ll make spritz.”

  My younger sister, Karolyn, is arranging metal cookie cutters on our island. She’s wearing our red Mrs. Claus apron and large elf slippers, her hair pulled up in a ponytail. I might be a bit extra when it comes to the Christmas spirit, but Kar’s a close second. “I was thinking we could do a tray of little stars, then a tray of big stars.” She frowns. “Or maybe we should do all little stars.”

  “Yum,” I say, grabbing a PBB off one of the cooling racks. A PBB is a peanut butter blossom: a soft peanut butter base with a Hershey’s Kiss pressed in the middle, slightly melted and mostly perfect. My mom has threatened to stop making them because my dad and Liam will eat an entire batch in one weekend. I can’t say I blame them. I finish it in two bites and pour myself a cup of coffee.

  “People who haven’t baked shouldn’t get to eat,” Karolyn says, giving my hand a little slap.

  I poke her back in the ribs. “Mom always says we have to eat breakfast, Kar. This is my morning protein.” I shoot Mom an apologetic glance and hold out my phone. “I guess you didn’t see my text? Phoebe’s picking me up in five minutes. We’re going skating.”

  Ice-skating is fun, but we don’t do it often. The rink in our town is used for hockey practice and is open to the public basically never. Phoebe has been pestering us to go skating since the rink opened last month and sent our group chat an urgent text message complete with the siren and SOS emojis.

  Mom shakes her head. “Nope, I haven’t been looking at my phone. We were kind of counting on you to help, Bails.” She looks around our kitchen. “Cookie swap is this Thursday and we are waaaaay behind. Liam already ditched us.”

  A few years ago, my mom decided to hold a cookie swap for our neighbors—basically a holiday party where everyone brings a couple dozen of their favorite cookies. But what started out as a simple gathering has mushroomed into a full-blown party with invitations and decorations and appetizers. It is all hands on deck now to make sure the night runs smoothly. Cookie swap is one of my favorite nights of the year. Because cookies, obviously. But also because it’s a fun way to get into the holiday spirit.

  My shoulders sag. I really do want to help. “Sorry, Mom. I mean, I don’t have to go. But this afternoon is the only time we could all make it. It’s me, Phoebe, Mellie, and Caitlin. They’re kind of counting on me being there. Holiday ice doesn’t stay around forever.” I leave out the part that we only just managed to put a plan together an hour ago. Because really, I knew the cookie swap would come together, but getting my friends together on a Saturday afternoon is all kinds of difficult.

  “It’s fine, Bails. Go,” she tells me, opening the cabinet and taking out more baking soda, baking powder, and a twist-tied bag of confectioner’s sugar. “We’ll soldier on without you.”

  Kar slumps down on one of the island stools. “I thought this was supposed to be a family activity,” she says, pouting. “Dad’s at the gym, Liam’s off with his friends, and now you’re going skating? Thanks a lot for leaving me with Mom.”

  “Ha!” Mom comes up behind Kar and kisses the top of her head. Our mom is actually the best and we all know it. She’s smart and funny, and she always tries to be there for us, whether it’s showing up at Liam’s cross-country meets, sewing sequins on Karolyn’s dance costumes, or making sure to stock up on the granola I like even if it means an extra shopping trip. She likes the same shows and movies that I do, and she never gets mad if I borrow her boots or spill something on the rug. I actually really like hanging out with her. But not right now.

  “I’ll frost the Kringles when I get home,” I promise, feeling guilty. “Just leave that part for me.”

  And then I run back to my room to get ready.

  * * *

  • • •

  Every time I go ice-skating, I’m reminded of three things:

  My ankles are weak.

  There’s always a long line for hot chocolate.

  Kids skate like maniacs.

  “This is so fun,” Phoebe says. She’s a solid skater. She’s wearing a skater’s skirt and tights while the rest of us are in basic leggings, and her wavy blond hair flows behind her as the four of us make our way around the crowded rink. She can do some fancy tricks. Her arm is linked in mine, and I’m hoping that next to her, I look almost like I know what I’m doing. Phoebe’s wearing a white hat with a gigantic fake-fur pom-pom on top, and her cheeks are flushed red from the cold.

  Ice-skaters of all ages and abilities surround us, while cheerful holiday music plays. Little kids who look barely old enough to walk hang on to their parents for dear life—but sometimes it’s the other way around. A lot of the grown-ups are wearing helmets.

  I adjust my slouchy red beanie.

  “My ankles are kind of hurting,” I admit. Phoebe has her own ice skates, but the rest of us rent them. I’m not sure how the skates are supposed to fit, and the kid who rented them to me wasn’t very helpful. I resist the urge to bend down to adjust the laces—I don’t want to do anything that puts my standing upright at risk.

  “Did you layer your socks?” Caitlin asks as she glides next to me. She pulls off her hat, and her fine strawberry-blond hair is super-staticky. It reminds me of how she looked when she touched the van de Graaff generator at the Franklin Institute on our eighth-grade field trip.

  “No,” I say, mentally wiggling my toes inside my rented skates.

  “Good. That cuts off your circulation,” she says briskly. “Okay, now try not to make that face for a second.” She holds up her phone and begins taking a bunch of selfies of us. It’s tricky, because I’m trying to keep skating forward while looking casual and cute at the same time. Caitlin and I are pretty similar in our skating ability—or lack of it. No way would I risk trying to take photos.

  “Let me see,” Mellie says, taking Caitlin’s phone. “OMG, I legit look like Princess Leia with these things,” she says, taking off her brown wool earmuffs. “They aren’t even doing anything. My ears are frozen.”

  A group of boys wearing black hockey skates zips past us, showing off and spraying ice shavings in our faces. Mellie shrieks—she’s one glide away from catastrophe. I’m okay if I keep moving in the same direction.

  “Are you kidding me?” Mellie yells after the boys. “We’re in high school! Have some respect!” We all gradually come to a stop against the wall.

  Caitlin rubs her hands together. “I could totally go for a hot chocolate now,” she says, trying to get a glimpse of the concession line.

  “Is it because Ethan Cooper is over there?” Phoebe asks, lowering her voice to a whisper. Sure enough, I spot Ethan’s signature Notre Dame baseball cap and red hair amid the crowd.

  “Shhh! What if he reads lips?” Caitlin says, pinching Phoebe’s arm hard enough that she yelps and swats her away.

  “Whatever. I don’t care who’s standing over there. I need to pee,” Mellie announces, grimacing. “Just thinking about hot chocolate makes me have to go even more.”

  As Caitlin and Mellie make their way toward the exit, Phoebe turns to me. “Would you mind if I skate off to the back to freestyle for a little while? I don’t want to leave you alone, but…” She trails off, looking forlorn. I know she’s been dying to have some time on the ice to practice jumps and spins. She used to take private lessons, but her dad was furloughed for a few months, so she had to give them up. Luckily, he’s working again, but now she just practices on her own.

  “Oh, sure,” I say.
“I’ll meet up with you in a few.”

  “I feel bad,” she says, but she’s already unlinking her arm from mine. When she skates off, I feel a little unsteady. I keep going around on my long oval loop of the rink, but without my friends here to support me, I feel self-conscious. Maybe I should go find Caitlin and Mellie in the bathroom line. But I hate to do that when the skating session is so short. If you’re not careful, you can spend half your time in the concession and restroom lines.

  Kids with no fear are zooming past on my left and right. Suddenly I’m moving like a grandma on the ice, inching forward, holding out my arms to keep my balance.

  I decide to skate over to the wall. I’m doing pretty well, crossing one skate over the other as I move, aware of the way my weight moves from one leg to another, when the toe of my skate snags a bump in the ice and I trip. My arms windmill forward—and then backward, and I careen back and brace for impact.

  But my butt barely skims the ice when strong arms reach under my armpits and pop me back onto my skates.

  “Easy now,” a voice with the slightest British accent says behind me. It all happens so fast that I’m not even sure what happened.

  I look up into the face of an angel. A freaking skate god angel. He’s tall, with silky blond hair and fair skin that’s just slightly flushed from the cold. Or maybe amusement.

  I’m not sure.

  To my horror, I start laughing. I tend to laugh when I get nervous or flustered, and right now I’m feeling both of those things in a very intense way.

  He’s watching me, a slight smile on his lips. “What’s so funny?” he asks, taking my arm and gently guiding me over to the wall as if I’m a small child who’s wandered off the playground. He’s wearing a navy blue wool coat with a scarf around his neck, dark jeans, and black ice skates, the kind that look like hockey skates.

  I giggle uncontrollably some more. “Oh, you know,” I say, waving my arm around dumbly. “Life.” Stop being so lame! He is going to think I’m the biggest idiot in the world. Right now I think I’m the biggest idiot in the world. “Actually, I…I just…I was laughing at something my friends said earlier.”