And it isn’t like I don’t have something to back my dream up. I meet two of the main criteria for a cheesy Christmas romance:
I work in a bookshop.
I was dumped, although not that recently.
I dated Oliver Moreno for four months before I found out that he wanted to just “be friends” because he had kissed Kate Collins, a sophomore in the marching band. The kiss took place after the winter concert, and apparently it was life-changing.
Whatever. Oliver isn’t that great a kisser, if I’m being honest. Kate can have him.
But see, that isn’t the point. I don’t just want someone to kiss. I want someone to experience Christmas Magic with me. Christmas Magic begins the moment Santa appears at the end of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. That’s when the holiday season always starts—the season of cookie baking and tree trimming, sledding and snowfalls, Secret Santas and eggnog and Christmas songs on every radio station. It really is the most wonderful time of the year.
And what I really want for Christmas is something I probably would never admit to anyone. Not to my friends, and definitely not to my sister. It’s honestly hard to even swallow my pride and admit it to myself.
But here it is: I want to be kissed underneath the mistletoe by someone who really thinks I’m amazing.
That’s it. That’s my Christmas wish.
I don’t think it’s too much to ask for.
But will it ever come true?
* * *
• • •
“Snowmen or snowflakes?” I smile up at the college-aged guy standing in front of my gift-wrap station.
He doesn’t answer me. Instead, he drops a heap of books on the table with a loud thunk. I pick up the top one. It’s a cookie cookbook. “OMG, this looks delicious,” I say, flipping to a recipe for salted chocolate chunk cookies. “Or should I say…doughlicious?”
My wrapping partner, Sam Gorley, laugh-snorts beside me. “It must be time to go home, because I’m actually starting to find your jokes funny.” She yawns. “Or maybe I’m just tired.” Sam is in my grade at school. We aren’t really in the same friend group—she hangs out mostly with the band kids—but since we started volunteering at the gift-wrap station, we’ve become kind of friendly. She spends a lot of time posting on social media and showing me pictures of her cat, Meow.
We’ve been wrapping for three hours now, and we’re starting to get a little silly.
I turn back to the customer, who is staring at the giant rolls of wrapping paper. “So what’ll it be?” I am very into themes, especially when they involve the holidays, and holiday baking is one thing I’m always in favor of. So a guy buying a cookie cookbook as a gift makes me happy. Maybe he’s going to surprise his girlfriend with homemade sugar cookies. Or maybe he has a little brother he wants to teach how to bake in time for Saint Nick. I smile, imagining the heartwarming kitchen scene.
He cuts me off mid-fantasy, frowning. “Uh…do you have something a little less…Christmas?”
I can’t stop myself. I frown back. Less Christmas? Less Christmas is right up there with No-Egg Easter and Firecrackerless Fourth, obviously a phrase that would never pass my lips, but I try to maintain my professional composure even though I’m wearing a plush red Santa hat and a strand of blinking lights from Five Below around my neck. “Oh, sure,” I say smoothly, reaching under the table and hoisting up a roll of wrapping paper. The rolls are even heavier than they look. “We don’t have room on the table for all our choices. Here’s another Happy Hanukkah…and we also have Dogs in Stockings.”
He shakes his head, his shaggy bangs covering his eyes. “Nah. How about something purple?”
I stare at him. “As in red meets blue?”
He nods. “Yeah. Purple.”
I’m about to object when Sam awakes from her nap and whips into action. “Here you go, sir,” she says, grabbing the books and wrapping them in a flurry of white tissue paper. She puts them in a fancy cream-colored WINSLOW’S bag, slaps a gold foil sticker on it, and ties it up with a purple ribbon that she apparently pulled out of thin air. “Happy holidays!”
“Cool. Thanks.” He pushes a couple bucks into the donation jar and heads out the door, the little bells dinging upon his exit.
Sam turns to me and holds up her hand in anticipation of what I’m about to say. “Don’t even start.”
My shoulders rise and fall. “I just don’t understand people,” I say sadly. “Purple? For Christmas?”
Sam’s scrolling rapidly through her texts. “Not everyone’s as into the holidays as you are, Bailey.”
“So I’ve noticed,” I tell her, dejectedly picking at the fuzz on my red wool sweater.
“Anyway, are you going to that party tomorrow night at Joe’s house?” she asks, not looking up from her phone.
I shake my head. “I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”
Sam sighs in the overly dramatic manner I’ve come to know well these past few weeks. “Joe Shiffley invited a bunch of people over to hang out. You should come.”
I shrug. “Maybe.” I don’t even know Joe, so the idea of showing up at his house for a party feels very awkward.
No one is coming over to the gift-wrap table. Sam heads to the restroom, and while she’s gone, I decide to rearrange everything. I line up the ribbon spools on the left—green, red, white, blue, silver—and put the tape dispenser next to them, along with a giant pair of scissors, a candle jar we now use to hold pens, and two gigantic rolls of paper. I pick up all the stray bits of cut ribbon from the floor and fluff the money in the donation jar.
When the bell at the shop’s entrance rings, I glance over. And when I see who it is, my eyebrows shoot up. It’s Jacob Marley, this guy from my grade at school. We were in biology together in ninth grade. The main reason I know him is because he had gone out with this girl, Jessica Dolecki, that I dislike. She has thick wavy blond hair, a pushed-up nose, and a high-pitched laugh, and she always wears a Canada Goose jacket. I think Jacob is on the track team—or maybe he’s a wrestler?—but other than that, I don’t really know him. He’s wearing dark track pants, sneakers, a gray sweatshirt, and a Boston Red Sox cap.