Instead of answering, I cross my arms. “Find your wallet?”
The smile drops off his face. “I told you, that was an innocent mistake. I wasn’t trying to waste your time.”
Just then, beefy Tufts guy comes running up behind Jacob and tackles him. They fall to the ground and begin rolling around in a manner that I guess is their way of having fun.
Talk about a waste of my time. With a huff, I turn on my heel and walk toward the stairs.
Did I really think I was going to find holiday romance in Joe Shiffley’s basement?
My phone buzzes. It’s a Snap of Sam and Karl in elf outfits.
They’re already using Snapchat filters together? I let out a resigned sigh. I guess it’s not impossible to find romance in a cellar…but tonight, it is for me.
* * *
• • •
It’s starting to snow when I leave the party. Big, fluffy flakes fall softly all around me, and I feel a little bit like I’m in Frozen as I walk to my car. It’s a lot colder than it was when I got here, and I zip up my coat, quickening my pace.
I take out my phone to check the time—almost 10:45—and see a text from my mom: Drive safely!
I like it and shove my phone back in my pocket.
I let the car warm up for a minute and pull out, turning the radio to a channel that plays Christmas music 24/7. The comforting sounds of a classic—“Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree”—fill the air, and naturally, I sing along at the top of my lungs. A lot of people complain about holiday music starting in November. They’re sick of turning on the radio or walking into a store only to hear The Waitresses or Mariah Carey or Michael Bublé crooning a holiday classic.
I am not one of those people.
During the year, I listen to pop and country music, and even the occasional rap mix, but when November hits, all I want are Christmas tunes, the more Christmassy the better. I would never admit this to my friends, but sometimes I like to pretend that my life is like a holiday movie.
The snow is coming down hard now, and the wind is kicking up. I put the wipers on full speed. It would normally take me about ten minutes to get home, but it’s getting really hard to see and I’m driving super slow. I scoot forward in the seat, my gloved hands gripping the wheel. No one is on the road—I guess everyone else got the memo that it’s not a good night to be out driving.
I’m making a left turn onto Big Tree Road when suddenly the back of my car starts to skid. “Shoot!” I yelp, knowing I should stay calm as my heartbeat ramps up. A million thoughts flood my brain. What if I hit somebody? Or what if somebody hits me? I desperately try to remember what my driving teacher, Mr. Dave, told me. Do I brake? Steer into it? Or give it gas?
I decide to brake and push my boot down on the pedal. But I press too hard and the car slides in the opposite direction. “No, no, no,” I beg to the car gods. “Don’t want to go that way!”
I flash back to my driving course with Mr. Dave, his unruffled demeanor and monotone voice coming to me just when I need it.
Stay calm. Brake softly and slow down. Gently turn the wheel in the direction you’re spinning. Come to a natural stop.
Everything is happening simultaneously at warp speed and slow motion.
I’m on autopilot. Like a robot, I remember and follow Mr. Dave’s instructions. Well, everything but the stay calm part. I’m braking, I’m slowing, I’m turning…I’m spinning, and then—whack!—I’m smashing into a guardrail and skidding to a stop in a snowdrift.
“Ahhh!” I shriek.
In an instant the car is stopped. I’m pretty sure I’m alive. At least—until I get home and my parents see the car.
I sit there, blinking, heart racing, hands shaking. I’m okay, but the guaranteed nice-size dent in my front bumper will make my dad threaten to take away my car keys.
In the distance, there’s a car coming toward me, its headlights like soft glowing orbs in the snow. My car is pointed in the right direction, facing the car on the opposite side of the road, but I’m parked far onto the shoulder. The car pulls off the road on the other side of the highway and the driver turns on its blinkers. It’s a full-on whiteout now, but I’m pretty sure someone gets out of the car.
Instinctively, I reach out and lock my doors. I’ve watched too much Dateline. You can’t be too trusting—even in a blizzard.
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.”