Afraid of what I’m going to see, I walk to the front of the car and bend down. I let out a gasp. “Huh?” No dent, no scratch, nothing—there’s no sign of the accident. “I can’t believe it,” I say with a gasp, pulling off my glove and running my hand along the wet bumper. “This is so crazy! It made a really loud sound when I hit it.” The glow of the headlights creates a bubble around us, and with the snow, it’s almost as if we’re in a snow globe.
“Guess it’s a Christmas miracle,” Charlie says, his hazel eyes twinkling at me.
“Uh, yeah. I guess it is,” I say, relief bubbling through me. I’d already envisioned my driving privileges being taken away until I was twenty.
“Listen, it’s not safe for us to be standing on the side of the road like this,” he says as a truck roars past us, sending up a slushy spray of snow. “You’re okay to drive, right?”
“Oh, yes, totally,” I say, willing it to be true. I’m still in disbelief that there isn’t even a scratch on the enamel.
Charlie tucks his chin down, and the cold air that I just breathed out comes whooshing back and lodges in my throat. “So, Bailey?”
I look up at him, blinking the wet snow off my eyelashes. We obviously don’t even really know each other, but I have a feeling about him. An instinct. I can tell that he’s a good person just by the way he carries himself. Suddenly I realize: This is it. This is the meet-cute Christmas movie moment I’ve been waiting for all my life. “Yes?” I croak as a trickle of mascara slithers down my cheek.
He takes my gloved hands in his. “Promise me you’ll get those tires checked out. The treads on the back ones look a little worn, and you want to make sure you’re prepared for when it’s slippery.”
I gape at him, wondering if the cold is affecting my brain. Are we really having a conversation about tire safety right now? It’s like Charlie turned on a switch that says DAD MODE. “Um, yes. Sure. I will.”
“Okay, good. Now get home safely before your parents start worrying.” He drops my hands, reaches out, and opens my door. Wordlessly I slide behind the wheel and smile weakly as he carefully shuts the door and jogs back to his own car, snow continuing to blow angrily. He gives me a wave and I wave back, then watch as his car disappears into the night.
My heart is still racing, but this time it’s because I realize the universe is sending me a signal. The same cute guy, twice in one day?
So what if he’s driving away? This is the meet-cute moment of my dreams. The moment I love in my favorite books—when the heroine locks eyes with the boy of her destiny. It could be the beginning of my Christmas wish coming true.
It’s only when I pull slowly back out onto the road, clumps of snow spitting from under my tires, that I realize we never exchanged numbers.
Unless the third time’s the charm…I’ll never see him again.
After being dragged out of bed at the crack of dawn Sunday morning to go to church, Karolyn, Liam, and I are back in our kitchen, making Belgian waffles and listening to a Christmas jazz playlist. Ella Fitzgerald’s “Sleigh Ride” wafts over us as my sister makes the batter from a mix, I slice the strawberries and warm the maple syrup, and Liam gets the plates and the powdered-sugar shaker—we’ve done this so many times that we’re a fine-tuned brunch machine. Stacks of cookie tins from yesterday’s bakeathon line the countertop, and we’re under strict orders not to open them. Honestly I wouldn’t be surprised if Mom has a trip wire ready to trigger an alarm if we so much as breathe on them.
“Dude, these look good,” Liam says, lifting the waffle iron as Karolyn slaps his hand. Because he’s home, we have to make three batches instead of our usual two, and he’s been known to hog all the syrup, so Karolyn and I try to hide it from him.
“Stop, they won’t taste right if you keep lifting the lid,” she tells him as I pop a strawberry into my mouth. Karolyn likes her waffles crispy and browned. My brother just likes food.
After we eat, we troop down to the basement like the dutiful children we are. My parents are in the middle of lugging down large plastic bins from the storage shelves. I have to go to work later, but I promised I’d lend a hand for a little while.
“Finally, some help around here,” my dad huffs, hands on hips. “These halls won’t deck themselves, you know.” He’s holding a stack of red-lidded storage boxes, which he keeps our holiday lights in. He was downright giddy last year when he found these boxes on sale in January—my dad is very into organizing. His gaze falls on Liam. “Let’s get started on these bad boys.”
My mom is peering into an old taped-up Stew Leonard’s box. “Now, what have we here?” she asks, rummaging through the Bubble Wrap inside. That’s one of my favorite things about going through our holiday stuff—you never know what you’re going to discover. “Oh, it’s my bottlebrush trees,” she says, taking out a slender copper tree that’s been dipped in glitter. “I love these little guys.”
“They’re so cute,” Karolyn says, holding up a tiny snow-covered tree with a bow on top.
As my dad and Liam march upstairs carrying the light boxes along with two of the giant prelit reindeer we put on our front lawn in a landscape scene, I pick up a large green box with brass handles. Inside are our Santas—wooden ones, plush ones, short ones, fat ones. The Santas go on our fireplace mantel, and each year we get a new one. Last year we got a gnome Santa with a red hat covering his face. My favorite is a Santa wearing a red felt coat and carrying a tiny little corncob pipe. My grandpa gave it to me when I was little. I open the box and there he is, winking at me like an old friend.
Without warning, I feel a lump spring up in my throat. My grandpa died three years ago, and seeing this Santa gives me a rush of emotion, making me feel like he’s with us, at least in spirit. Grandpa loved Christmas just as much as I do—maybe even more, if that’s possible. One of my favorite memories is of him driving me and Karolyn and Liam around in his Cadillac, looking at the holiday lights, drinking hot chocolate from his big camping thermos and playing Christmas music. His hearing wasn’t so great, so he kind of blasted the music, which we all found hilarious. I definitely got my love of Christmas from him.
“Ahhh, an old friend,” Mom says, noticing the special Santa in my hands. She comes over and puts her arm around me.
My lower lip starts to wobble. “I miss him,” I say, my voice cracking.
“Me too,” Karolyn says.
Mom nods, looking sad and content all at once, which doesn’t even seem possible, but somehow, on her face, it is. “He sure loved the holidays, didn’t he?”
I nod. “He’s missed so much, Mom. Liam going away to college, me getting my driver’s license, Karolyn’s dance competitions…”