Chapter 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

What have I done?

The arrangement with Pierre is questionable, but I’m not going to lie, it feels like a very good thing. However, this is so unlike me.

A hum makes my body buzz with anticipation. I’m like a bumble bee that’s had way too much nectar.

If I were still at school, I’d regret putting myself out there with Pierre. However, winter break me isn’t sorry for proposing kissing lessons with him.

Something pokes me in the ribs. “Ouch.”

Anna withdraws a piece of evergreen swag. “Help me decorate the banister.”

I reply, “But we’re not going to be home on Christmas day. What’s the point?”

“We still have five days to enjoy the decorations until everyone disperses,” Ilsa answers from her perch on a ladder as she strings lights around the arched opening between rooms.

Dadaszek got busy with team meetings, so we didn’t end up getting a tree as planned. Then my sisters and their spouses got distracted, so decorating has spread out over a few days.

“Aren’t you a bah humbug,” Anna says.

“I thought fixing you up with Richard or Nolan would knock you out of this rut.” Ilsa plugs in the lights as if illuminating something about me that only they saw.

“I’m not in a rut.”

“Turns out you were riding high on your own love story,” Anna sing songs.

Ilsa adds, “Didn’t see that coming.”

Because it isn’t true.

“Pierre and I weren’t in love,” I fire back before lowering my voice. I never know whether our father is lurking. “We were, um, hanging out.”

Ilsa scrunches her nose. “That’s so freshman year. It’s time for you to leave college.”

“Tell me about it,” I mutter.

Even though I’ve only been back in Cobbiton for about a week, it’s as if I lost some of my luggage in transit. I feel strangely lighter like I left some baggage behind. But what was weighing me down? I made the brave decision to transfer out of law school for the graphic design program, and yet that doesn’t quite give me the boost I’d hoped for. But it is progress in taking charge of my life.

A sigh escapes. My sisters each hold a piece of sparkly, silver garland and wrap me up then draw me to my feet. A Christmas carol remix with a dance beat plays through the speakers, and we start to bop.

As a smooth voice croons about true love at Christmastime, a surprising and unbidden thought floats through my mind like the faint snowflakes outside.

Maybe part of me truly does like Pierre. That can’t be right. It’s probably first-kiss syndrome .

It was a really good kiss, though.

I can’t fixate or obsess over him.

There’s no way I can actually like the Frenchman.

I have to convince myself otherwise. He’s not good for me. Plus, I have to focus on school and finish up in the new year. Meanwhile, he’ll probably go back to making every puck bunny’s fantasies come true.

Later, while my sisters and I fill out Christmas cards, I accidentally start to doodle Pierre with his hockey stick lassoing a figure that looks faintly like me.

It’s time to take drastic measures.

Setting down my green pen, I ask my sisters, “What made you pass on all the guys before your husbands came along?”

“Circumstances,” Anna says thoughtfully.

“Commitment issues,” Ilsa adds.

That doesn’t exactly help.

“What’s that?” Anna asks, pointing at the card I was supposed to be sending to Aunt Beth and Uncle Howard. I quickly snap it shut.

“Nothing.”

“Looked like a doodle.”

I frown. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The last time you doodled was when you still had a crush on Ricky.”

Definitely not true. “Ew. Gross. Don’t talk about him. Ricky ate ham directly out of a can.”

Ilsa sticks out her tongue. “He did?”

“Probably.”

Pierre must as well. It’s also likely that he has loads of earwax and doesn’t do his laundry as often as he should and drools when he sleeps and—and his ears are nicely sized to his head and I’d love to see him in socks and he smells so good he must do his laundry on the regular and his eyes are dreamy . . . despite the list of possible icks, I cannot get the guy out of my head or off my heart.

Calvin, Anna’s husband, appears in the doorway. “Mr. Badaszek is home. Says we’re going to get the tree.”

We weren’t able to the other day as planned because Cal had something with his family and then we had a couple of days of cold rain that I desperately wanted to be snow.

“You can call my father Tom,” Anna says, planting a kiss on her husband’s lips.

“I could, but old habits die hard. He’s always been Mr. Badaszek.”

“And you’ll always be Bannanna,” she replies in a tone that is best described as in love .

Everyone laughs as the couples march outside ahead of me. I can’t help but want a little bit of that. If Pierre and I actually had a fling in Los Angeles, what would it have been like? Would we have shared long brunches at outdoor bistros? Strolled hand in hand through Exposition Rose Garden? Talked well into the night under the stars?

When I go to the Christmas Market later, I’ll see if CandleGram sells an in-love scent. Maybe that’ll help me get my head on straight.

I freeze in the doorway.

“What?” my sisters ask at the same time as if detecting a disturbance in the “Triplet Force.”

“Nothing. I’m not in love.”

They exchange a quizzical look and get in Kangaroo Jack’s truck while I ride with Dadaszek.

As before, he’s playing Christmas classics which do little to blot out the thoughts I had prior to getting into the passenger seat—the ones that have a lot to do with the guy I’m supposed to hate. Okay, I only suggested that so I’d be less likely to fall . . . you can’t be in love with someone you hate .

“Glad you’re home, Badaszek,” my father says, backing out of the driveway.

“Me too, Dadaszek.”

“How are classes going, anyway? We’ve hardly had a chance to talk.”

I all but aspirate my saliva. Does he mean Kiss Class? They’re not yet in session. Then I realize he’s asking about college which comes with its own set of problems I want to avoid.

With a cough, I answer, “Classes are classes.”

“I was talking with Joel Meyers, a CSU alum who graduated from the law program, gosh, years ago now. Anyway, he’s looking for an intern this summer. It means you’d stay in California, but?—”

Nervous sweat nips my neck, choking off my voice. I sputter, “Oh, cool. Please thank him for me. I’ll—” My phone beeps with a message. I remind myself that Knight in Shining Armor isn’t Nolan. It’s my knight in an ugly Christmas sweater, aka Pierre.

Knight in Shining Armor: You inspired me to start a new tradition. I grabbed an Elf on the Shelf from the store and left it on the Zamboni sitting on top of a basket of corn cobs and fruit. This morning, it appeared in the locker room sitting on top of a pyramid of hockey pucks.

Me: Epic! What did you name the elf?

Knight in Shining Armor: I went with Puck because of hockey and the mischief maker in Shakespeare.

Me: That’s perfect.

Knight in Shining Armor: Do you have any ideas for what I should do next time I get my hands on it?

Me: My sister’s husband gets credit for this, but you can plastic wrap the toilet, toss in a few Christmas candies—the peppermint starlight mints could work, or chocolate chips—and position the elf on the edge. I’ll let your imagination fill in the rest, but it seems like locker-room humor.

Knight in Shining Armor: Good one. I’ll use it. I’ve got a joke for you. Why do elves make good listeners?

I giggle.

“Want to share what’s so funny?” my father asks.

“Oh, um, my text pal made a punny joke.” I tell him and return squarely to reality in the truck.

“I told that one at practice this morning.”

I stiffen in my seat. “I didn’t know you told the guys’ jokes.”

“It’s the holiday season, and with nearly back-to-back games before and after Christmas, I’m trying to keep up morale because most everyone won’t be able to travel home this year. Speaking of that, I booked your ticket to Colorado for the Blizzard game on the twenty-sixth so we could be together since Anna, Ilsa, and their respective husbands are going to the Caribbean.” His tone drops with faint sadness at our family being apart.

“They’re sure to send a postcard that says, ‘ Wish you were here .’” And, boy, would I rather lie on a sandy beach in the tropics than be with my father and Pierre at the same game.

“So, what was the answer to the joke—why do elves make good listeners?”

“Because they’re all ears,” my dad says .

I’m afraid he’s paying especially close attention to everything I say and my lie about Pierre drives down deep with guilt.

When we pull up to the Christmas tree farm, the pine scent breezes past today’s problems, bringing with it memories of being a child and carefree.

My sisters go to the little cottage for hot cocoa as per tradition to keep their hands warm while we search for the perfect evergreen, which feels pointless since we’ll only be home on Christmas Eve.

After I get my cocoa, I find my father waiting for me by the entrance with a bow saw in his hand.

“Hey, Badaszek, everything okay?” he asks.

I fidget with the paper cuff around my cup. “Yeah. Why?”

“I feel like that’s something your mother would’ve wanted me to ask right now.”

Tears pierce my eyes but freeze in the cold.

He claps me on the back. “I’m sorry if I was hard on you and Arsenault the other day. He’s a good kid from a good family. Country boy up in Quebec. I think coming here, and becoming a hotshot hockey player went to his head. You know how I am, keeping a short leash on the team so they don’t get into trouble.”

“Dadaszek, I’m sorry for, um, not being entirely truthful.” I can’t quite come clean about our massive lie, but it’s a start.

“I understand. Ricky hurt you. That’s what your sisters say, anyway.”

“Thanks, Anna and Ilsa,” I murmur to their backs as we make a slow approach to where they jump up and down and point to a Frasier Fir.

“They care about you. I do, too and want to see you happy whether that means finishing school and starting your career, getting married someday and having a family, or a combination of the two. ”

I tip my head toward my father’s shoulder in this rare showing of his softer side. “Thanks for saying that.”

“Just not with the Frenchman,” Dadaszek adds, voice low in warning.

With a frigid swallow despite my hot cocoa, I answer, “Of course not.”

After we cut down the tree and put it in Dad’s truck, the guys ride with him to head home and get it in the stand while Ilsa and Anna insist we make a stop at the Christmas Market.

Every year, Cobbiton’s town green transforms into a winter wonderland complete with pop-up shops selling handmade chocolates, cheese, and chips—though not all at once. There are soaps, knit socks, and customizable Christmas stockings. Plus, local creations that mostly involve our town’s main commodity: corn. You’ll find corn husk wreaths, dolls, and trivets. Kettle corn, herbed corn, and candy cane corn. Christmas tree corn aments—not to be confused with the 4 th on 4 th contest—corn-themed nutcrackers and snow globes, and so much more.

Some vendors make Lebkuchen—Ilsa’s favorite. Giant salted pretzels—Anna’s fave. As for me, I like the kartofell, the tornado potato spiral on a stick. Also, the baumstriezel is really good. That’s a cinnamon chimney cake. I’d never pass up schneeballen which is a snowball pastry traditionally covered in powdered sugar or chocolate.

But our claim to fame is the living Christmas advent calendar countdown. On one side of the town square is a massive structure with little windows and doors, each designated with a number. Starting December first, each day one opens to reveal a quaint Christmas scene created by a Cobbiton resident or sponsored by a community group. For instance, when I was a kid, our Junior Explorers club created a penguin scene for day number seven.

Ilsa frowns. “Mrs. Gormely said this is the last year for the countdown and possibly the market. The Cobbiton Community Activities Commission doesn’t have the funds to continue.”

“That’s so sad,” I say, feeling deeply, strangely carved out by this news.

Even though I haven’t lived at home since leaving for college, knowing that everything is the same here in Cobbiton brings me comfort when I’m not sure what my future is going to look like.

“So sad,” Anna adds.

I sigh. “If only we could save it.”

“Times change,” Ilsa says.

Isn’t that the truth? Even though my sisters and I are still very close, they’re married now. Their husbands are a central focus, and rightly so, but that also means the dynamic of our relationships is different. They no longer text our chat with the latest news. Calvin and Jack hear it first. The four of them are going to a tropical island while Dadaszek and I are headed to the frozen tundra of Colorado.

Not only do I feel slightly left behind, but a certain kind of loneliness presses against me from inside even though I’m surrounded by holly jolly festivity. A country band called “Cowboy Kringle” performs, people two-step, and others clap along.

I see how easily I could get lost in the past or cling to it. But I don’t want to have a blue Christmas.

I lift my elbows, and Badaszek One and Two link arms with me and we enter the market, prompting us to reminisce about coming here over the years and when we participated in the Christmas pageant as children.

“I can’t wait to bring our little one here someday,” Ilsa says.

We all go still. “Your little one?” Anna asks.

“Is there something you’re not telling us?” I ask. Perhaps my sister isn’t so much focused on the past as she is on the future.

“Oh, look! It’s your Knight in Ugly Christmas Sweater Armor.” Ilsa points at a man with brown wind-ruffled hair.

He pays for an ornament at the Dala Horse shop and glances our way. I catch his gaze and his smile chases his dimple.

Slotted between my two sisters, I try to make an about-face to avoid Pierre, but they resist my attempt to turn us around by stopping short. Their gazes land in the exact place I refuse to look. They lock on him and march me forward. I drag my feet, issuing protests from between clenched teeth.

“Guys, this isn’t a good idea.”

If Anna or Ilsa see me interact with him, they’ll get suspicious. This is why I suggested that I pretend to hate him. My stomach drops directly to the center of the earth.

“I want to see what the big fuss is about,” Ilsa says.

“And why you kept him from us,” Anna adds.

I gaze up at the sky and groan.

“Am I seeing triple?” Pierre asks when we reach him.

“Ha ha. We’ve heard that one before. And the umpteen jokes that start with, ‘A woman who was pregnant with triplets. . .’” I’m about to refer to the corny joke from earlier, but that would incriminate me in texting Not-Nolan.

“Did you get your tree?” Pierre asks.

I close my eyes because he just incriminated us as being in communication.

“Sure did. How about you?”

“You know I didn’t,” he says as if our private messages are public.

Not that I usually keep things from my sisters, but this is top secret. Never mind Do Not Open Until Christmas . This one is staying hidden in the back of my closet forever .

“What are you doing here?” I ask with a bite to my voice to keep up the charade.

He wiggles the bags in his hand. “Got some gifts to send to my family.”

I say. “Speaking of family, we’d better get back home to do, um, stuff.”

Anna’s brow crimps. “Stuff like?—?”

“Finding you a hot date for New Year’s Eve?” Ilsa trills.

My cheeks match the Dala Horses behind Pierre. “I was thinking more like spending quality time with our father.” I yank on their arms, eager to get out of here so neither one of us blurts anything stupid.

“I meant—” Ilsa starts.

“We should get some candied nuts for everyone and head back. Byeee,” I call to Pierre, hurrying my sisters away. With a backward glance, Pierre stands there, wearing an infuriatingly cute smirk.

When we get home and decorate the tree, no sooner have we hung the last candy cane than Dadaszek has to head to the arena for an impromptu meeting.

My sisters and their husbands pull out the Game of Life, one of our favorites when we were kids. The problem is we only have four plastic cars, meaning only four can play.

A sinking feeling sends me to the couch by our glowing tree. I think about how Not-Nolan said he didn’t have one. Celebrating Christmas without a tree seems sad and lonely. I could do something about that.

At the sound of the wheel spinning to determine the first player’s career path, I sneak out the back door .

After a quick pit stop at a Christmas tree lot and the market, I pull out my phone and do something daring.

Me: Where do you live?

Knight in Shining Armor: Is this the start of a joke or . . .?

Me: I have something I need to drop off. It’ll take less than two minutes. If you’re not home, I can leave it outside your door.

Knight in Shining Armor: 563 Buellton Ave. Number 8B. I’ll be there.

Even though I’m merely chugging along in the minivan with over 150,000 miles on it, I feel like I’m scaling the first rise of a roller coaster. Nervous anticipation builds inside as I get on the highway that feeds the city proper. My stomach flutters as I take the exit. My throat tightens as I look for parking. When I get out of the car and gather my supplies, my breath comes in short supply.

The doorman of the high-rise greets me warmly as he holds open the door to a lobby outfitted with marble, mirrors, and classy Christmas decorations. This isn’t where I expected Pierre to live. Based on his reputation, I figured he called a frat house home, even though that makes no sense given his position on a prominent hockey team.

The elevator and the tinkling music do the opposite of calming the jumpiness inside. I glimpse myself in the mirror—one of many surrounding me.

I smooth my hair, quickly apply some Chapstick, and wish I’d worn something cuter than this practical going-to-a-Christmas tree farm outfit. Then again, he saw me in it earlier at the market. And it’s not like I’m going to stick around and take off my jacket.

Drawing a deep breath, when I reach 8B, I lift my hand to knock and the door flies open. Pierre wears a smirk and socks.

My stomach tumbles, my cheeks instantly darken, and our gazes lock.

For a long, lingering moment, Pierre looks me up and down. Then he startles, belatedly realizing that I’m gripping a tree like a shield.

Hands clammy, I thrust it toward him.

He says, “This doesn’t look like official Knights business.”

“As my text pal, I didn’t like the idea of you not having a Christmas tree.”

“That’s thoughtful, but I was hoping that as your Kiss Class instructor, you came by for lessons.”

My body ignites and I wonder if my festive shirt is flame retardant. No one talks to me like that. Not like, How dare he! But the most attention I get from a guy is , Can I borrow your first-period notes?

“I shouldn’t come in.”

“We don’t have to kiss.”

His flirty eyes sparkle. The way they make me feel tells me that if I step foot over this threshold, that’s exactly what we’ll do.

And I want to, even though it’s probably a bad idea.