Once Upon A Christmas Eve: A Novella (11 page)
Read Once Upon A Christmas Eve: A Novella Online
Authors: Katie Klein
“We’re walking back to the store. Can I have until midnight?” I ask Dad. I don’t expect him to say no. This house isn’t really his territory, anymore. His rules aren’t my rules. He must sense this, because he doesn’t argue.
“Do you have your keys?”
I stuff my hand in my right jacket pocket, feeling for metal, listening for the muffled jingle. “Yes.”
There is the polite exchange of goodbyes just before I close the front door behind us, and Jonathan and I step back into the street—into the cold, silent night. We say nothing, at first. Because in times like these, when you’re with someone like him and what’s happened has happened, words aren’t necessary.
Being together is enough.
We reach the intersection, cross the main road through Mansfield, pass beneath the blinking red light.
And it’s here that he flips his coat collar up, protecting his neck from the cold, reaches for my hand.
I give it to him, shifting closer, locking fingers together.
And something passes through me at his touch—setting my soul on fire—the same feeling I felt when he pulled me into his arms on the porch. A warmth. A wholeness. Something magical, even. Like maybe I don’t have a blueprint for the future, but that’s okay—he can still be part of it, somehow.
The lights are on at the Andrews’ house, but many of the cars are gone.
“Was everyone leaving tonight?”
“A few were making the drive. But some of us were going to stay and drive back tomorrow.”
“Two and a half hours. It’s kind of a long trip to make so late,” I agree.
It’s a long trip to make, period.
The arctic air burns my exposed skin—my nose and cheeks and lips—until it reaches my bones, until it’s impossible to keep from shivering. I focus on our movements—every step, every breath fogging between us—squeeze Jonathan’s hand tighter just to be sure he’s here, that I can still feel him.
As we close in on the store a haze settles above the road. A thin layer of smoke. The smell of wood and flame lingering, air too heavy for ascension.
“Is it weird to say I don’t want this night to end?” he asks.
“No.” I would welcome no end to this night. Because there are worse things than being trapped in the snow globe of Christmas Eve—the lights and decorations and trees and food and family—everyone together. “Is it weird to say I feel like I’ve known you forever?” I ask. “Because right now I can’t imagine not knowing you, and this morning you didn’t even exist.”
“Nope,” he replies. “That’s the miracle.”
The store is asleep when we arrive—lone candles still flickering in windows, the porch light on, but the inside remains dark, the sign on the door
closed
. Yellow lights flash at the street as I hit the keyless entry to unlock my Jetta parked at the curb, windows already glazed with frost. I open the driver’s side door, reach for the console, remove my frozen wallet.
“I need to go inside for a minute, if that’s okay.”
We climb the front steps together. “So . . . does someone live here?” he asks, glancing at the porch ceiling, hands returning to his coat pockets.
“Yes.”
He studies me, quizzical.
“But she’s not here right now,” I quickly explain. “No. Mrs. Kimble left yesterday to visit her sister. The place is empty.”
“Oh. Got it. Since you’re okay with stealing Christmas gifts, I thought you might have a thing for breaking and entering,” he teases.
“In that case, I should be the
criminal
in one of your novels. And
I
didn’t steal anything tonight.
You
did.”
His eyes narrow, mouth opening in protest before realizing I’m right. I never went after anyone else’s gift. He did. He stole the glass ornament for me. Even after all of his righteous indignation at the game,
he
ended up the thief.
“A technicality,” he says as I struggle with the door jammed in its frame, coercing it open. “Because I would argue that you did, in fact, steal something tonight.” The sleigh bells jingle, announcing our arrival to no one.
“What?” I ask, stepping inside, shutting and locking the door, heading straight for the Christmas room. When pressed, the lone switch on that surge protector brightens the space instantly—trees and wreaths illuminating, glowing back at us. And mechanical things start turning, twirling, statues moving arms and necks, the room come alive.
“Nope. Cannot go there.”
“Sure you can.” I make a pass throughout the space, studying ornaments, the village—where little porcelain people ice skate and check the mail and carry Christmas trees home on their shoulders—the candles and tchotchkes.
“It is so horribly trite and cliché, that if I say the words out loud you’re going to laugh me straight out of this store.” He blows against his hands to warm them.
“You’re being dramatic.”
“So what, exactly, are we doing here?” he asks, changing the subject.
“Since my dad and Amanda are staying the night. . . . It’s just . . . I didn’t get her anything,” I confess. “And it seems rude after . . . everything that happened. My
gut
is telling me I should at least make an effort.”
“You waited until eleven-whatever on Christmas Eve to buy your last Christmas present? And I thought
I
was the procrastinator,” he teases.
I continue circling the room, stopping at a blue and green bird that just might be proper enough to fit Amanda. But I’m too scared to take it off the tree, too scared to pay for it and wrap it, because then my work is finished—this night is over. And I’m not ready to say goodbye or think about what parting might mean.
“Your heart,” I blurt out.
He blinks, not understanding. “What?”
“Is that what you were going to say? That I did steal something tonight, and it was your heart? Because that’s exactly how I feel—about you, actually. Six hours ago I didn’t even know who you were, but now . . . everything’s changed. And it’s like . . . I don’t know. Maybe I was waiting for this to happen. Maybe I was waiting for you this whole time. And here you are and the timing is right. And everything makes sense, somehow. Because what should have been the worst Christmas Eve ever turned into one of the best. Because . . . because I met you. Because I spent it with you. And I don’t know what’s going to happen after tonight, but . . .”
He refuses to let me finish, takes me by the hand and pulls me into him, crushing his mouth against mine like he has been waiting for the opportunity since he walked into this store. The kisses are greedy and reckless at first, wreaking havoc on the rhythm of my heart, rushed because we are famished. Desperate.
But they slow, softening as we realize this is real, this is happening, and no one can take it from us.
He wraps his arms around me, anchoring us as he kisses me carefully, tongue teasing mine, every inch of me feeling him. I savor the taste of his mouth as he breathes new life into me, the rest of the world dissolving, fading to background.
Until we pause, both demanding air, and he brushes the length of my cheekbone with his thumb, kisses the tip of my nose. “This isn’t a one night thing, Olivia Hall,” he says, eyes searching mine, voice cracking, barely a whisper.
Already my heart sings with the memory of his lips, aching for more. More this. More Jonathan. As unexpected and dangerous as it feels, it’s also not enough.
“How do you know?” I ask.
The last thing I expect him to do is separate us, reach into the pocket of that worn leather jacket and remove his cell phone. But this is what he does. He turns it on, checks the time. “Because there are twelve minutes left of Christmas Eve, and then it’s tomorrow,” he explains. “And I’m going to kiss you until tomorrow, and at twelve-oh-one I’m going to be the first to wish you a Merry Christmas. And then it’s not goodbye. It’s not goodbye because I won’t let it be.”
“You’re going back to Hamilton,” I remind him.
“We’ll keep in touch.”
“How?”
“Plenty of ways. Phone calls. Text messages. Video chats.”
“That doesn’t take the place of
you
,” I say. “Of this.”
“Your dad is in Hamilton. My aunt and uncle are in Mansfield. We’ll meet halfway.”
“What if it’s too hard?”
“Six hours together. You know enough about me by now to know I don’t pick the easy road,” he says. “In fact, I err on the side of impracticability. An idealist. The yin to your yang. You make lists and I go with my gut feeling. And right now it’s screaming at me to shut the hell up and kiss you for as long as I can for whatever time we have left.”
But he must sense something, must see in my eyes the worry and fear and uncertainty I carry inside, the anxiety that is a side effect of being a girl in the midst of a battle—the baggage my sister swears is a shadow, effectively keeping anyone who might want to get to know us better at arm’s length. He must realize the “too hard” referenced is more than time and space and distance, because then he assures me: “I was serious earlier—what I said on your porch. Whatever happens, you don’t have to go it alone. I will risk whatever life throws our way for a hundred Christmas Eves with you, Olivia. Because I have a feeling you’re worth it. You might not believe in perfect, but I do. Because I believe in you. Because I want to see where this goes. I’m not saying it’ll be easy, but I’m willing to take the chance. If you’re in, I’m in.”
Like the teapot, I am the one.
And I can’t help but smile at this, seeing my future at the edge of the horizon, the tiniest bit clearer than it was when I rolled out of bed this morning, all because of one night—one stranger who stepped into my world and altered it forever. Because the greatest gift at Christmas cannot be contained with boxes and bows. It is the gift of life. The gift of hope. Something to believe in.
“I’m in.”
A smile flickers, turning the corners of his mouth. “Good. Now that we’re on the same page. . . . Merry Christmas, Livy. Can I call you Livy?”
I laugh at his asking permission. “Yes, you may. Can I call you Johnny Baby?”
He groans. “Are you serious?”
“No. Because I have plans to come up with some new and exciting name for you.”
“I would
love
that,” he says, slipping an arm around my waist, drawing me closer, face inches from mine.
Merry Christmas.
The words are a flurry drifting from a cold gray sky. A single white snowflake. But behind one is another. The text message he will send the following morning. The phone call after he arrives home. Until six days later, when he returns to spend New Year’s Eve in Mansfield at his aunt’s invitation. Until flurries become showers, snow falling faster, one promise kept after another after another, each its own tiny miracle, building into a storm, a raging blizzard.
Until I am in love.
“Merry Christmas,” I whisper.
Katie Klein is a diehard romantic with a penchant
for protagonists who kick butt. She currently
resides on the East Coast and is hard at work
on her next YA novel. She maintains a web
presence at:
http://katiekleinwrites.blogspot.com
.
Her other books include:
