Chapter One
Jingle All the Way (to Work, Apparently)
Holly
There are two types of Christmas people in the world: the ones who wake up each morning to the smooth baritone notes of Bing Crosby, sipping their fresh hot cocoa, twirling a peppermint stick in it as they look down upon the frozen city at everyone bustling through their holiday shopping—then there’s me.
I’m racing through my apartment as I seek where I left the silly felt, green bootie for my elf costume after I discarded everything last night after a grueling twelve-hour shift at Macy’s.
Working in retail, especially during the holiday season, will test even the saintliest of people’s patience.
I check the stove clock, let out a string of expletives, and curse my yesterday-self for literally tossing my costume across the apartment like confetti.
A jingle cuts through the air.
I spin around just in time to see Chester—my fluffy menace and part-time emotional support gremlin—prancing toward me with the bootie dangling from his mouth. “Chester, buddy, thank you for finding Mommy’s bootie,” I coo, squatting to grab it.
He immediately lifts his lip at me like I’m the unreasonable one here.
Every time I reach for the felt disaster, he flicks his head away, taking a taunting little step back.
Of course he does. He ignores the overflowing basket of toys I bought him, the $300 cat bed he refuses to touch, but the bootie? Suddenly, it’s the Holy Grail.
“Fine. Plan B.” I straighten, scanning the apartment for the one thing that always gets him to drop whatever he’s hoarding.
Garfield.
Chester is obsessed with that orange menace. Go figure—my fat, lazy Cheshire cat worships another fat, lazy cat.
I don’t dare say the plan out loud—he understands English when it benefits him—so I casually dust glitter off my elf skirt and make my way to the remote. My green felt costume sheds sparkles everywhere as I click on the cartoon.
The theme song starts.
There’s a beat.
And then he bolts across the room like he’s auditioning for Olympic-level couch lounging. The bootie drops to the floor, blessedly freed. Victory tastes like hot cocoa and petty triumph. He knows I’ve won. I know I’ve won.
A glance at the stove clock nearly sends me into cardiac arrest. Great. Now I really am going to have to sprint if I want hot cocoa, the uptown subway, and a prayer of clocking in before Jonathan—my supervisor with the voice of a foghorn—gives me The Speech about time management.
I scoop up my phone, keys, and liberated bootie, shove them into my bag, and slip on my waterproof clogs.
Anyone who’s lived in New York knows December sidewalks are basically slushy black ice with bonus mystery puddles.
If you wear your work shoes outside, you’re signing up for wet socks and instant regret.
Of course, I live on the third floor, and our elevator hasn’t worked a single day since I moved in three years ago, fresh out of college with an English major degree and hopes of making it big.
The landlord promised us he would have it fixed by next week, 150 weeks ago.
But just like every other scum landlord in existence, he hasn’t done a single thing about it.
I’m rushing down the stairs, two at a time, checking my watch as if I could pause time.
If I rush hard enough, I should catch the next subway heading uptown.
There are only two best ways to get around this major city: subway or on foot.
Traffic is always a nightmare between the number of cars, people flying by on bicycles, and, you know, pedestrians walking wherever they feel like.
Thankfully, my apartment is only one block away from the nearest subway entrance, and they have tap-to-pay; otherwise, I’d never make it.
The frigid blast of air slams into me as I rush out the door and bound down the sidewalk.
Weaving in between people, I feel my clogs slipping along the wet concrete as I attempt to keep myself upright.
Within two minutes of sprinting, I’m flying down the subway stairs and straight into the humid-stagnant air of the subway station. You try your best to barely breathe while you are down here; otherwise, you won’t appreciate the smell that fills your nostrils.
The hum of the next subway pulling up comes from the tunnel as I dig out my headphones.
Might as well watch something while I’m riding uptown.
It’s a twenty-minute subway ride from my apartment to Macy’s in Midtown Manhattan.
While I love socializing at work and hearing people’s stories, there’s this sort of unspoken rule about the subway that you don’t socialize here unless it’s with your own travel companion, and even that is rare.
Moreover, it’s hard to hear over your subway singer, yes that’s real, and yes they really sing and want money. Don’t we all?
With my headphones in place and my seat secured, I turn on the newest Hallmark Christmas movie.
It’s such a bittersweet thing for me. I love them—every glittering snowflake, every small-town bakery, every predictable “we were destined” moment.
But sometimes loving something that much just…
aches a little. It feels like pressing on a bruise you’re not ready to admit is there.
The first musical notes of the movie fill my headphones, and I listen wistfully as the female protagonist is introduced.
This one is a baker at a failing bakery, just trying to make it by.
I’m sure some rich billionaire is going to stumble into her town and whisk her off her feet.
Where is my rich billionaire to whisk me away? Calgon, take me away?
As I watch the movie, I look down into my bag, where my manuscript sits printed in a spiral-bound book.
Edited for the tenth time and still not submitted to any agencies.
I have nobody to blame but myself for not being a writer for Hallmark.
They don’t even know that I’m dreaming of that or even who I am.
It’d help if I, you know, submitted my work and overcame my fear of not being good enough.
So for now, I’ll continue to carry it around, hoping one day I’ll have the courage to submit it.
I watch the movie, critiquing it in my head on how I would do it differently.
How it all starts to feel the same, really.
Why can’t they have fresh material that isn’t so easy to spot the storyline before the first ten minutes are over?
I adore these movies, but we can have non billionaire male protagonists, you know.
The announcement for my stop comes over the PA system, and I pull out my headphones, tucking them back into my bag, next to the manuscript.
One day I’ll have the courage, but that day isn’t today.
My watch, with an adorable Christmas-themed gingerbread face, reads a quarter to nine.
Shit! I’m going to have to run as fast as I can for that hot cocoa!
I’m hovering by the door, squished between business execs and baristas, all of us impatiently waiting for the doors to spring open.
The millisecond that they open, everyone pushes their way through, each of us rushing for our reasons, and each of us grumbling about the elbow that just jabbed into our sides as we make our way across the platform.
I love being in the Big Apple, but this daily grind is really something I wish I didn’t have to experience.
Thankfully, the subway dropped me off right up the sidewalk from my hot cocoa stand and right around the corner from Macy’s. I’ve got ten minutes to do both…I think I can make it…
I’m just cresting the top step when I see the line for the stand.
Fuck. There are at least ten people ahead of me, and that’s really going to eat into the time I needed.
Again, love this city, but does everything have to be hurry up and wait?
I quicken my steps down the sidewalk; the bells dinging in my bag as I jostle my bag against my hip.
There can’t be any more people in this line before me, and I am not going into work without it.
The snow flakes are falling in a gentle rain when I see him. The city is humming around me—horns blaring from impatient drivers, carolers are singing somewhere in the distance, and the sizzle of the sausage from the cart next to me reminds me again just how late I am.
And that’s when something catches my eye. Not something, but him.
He’s standing in the middle of the sidewalk, head tipped back to take in the massive red-and-gold window display.
He’s the kind of man who doesn’t seem to notice the chaos around him because it’s as if the world just…
bends around him to make space as if he’s a tree and the current of the city simply parts around him.
Snow dusts his bright red coat, a thin layer was already gathering on his shoulders.
His dark brown hair glistens with each new flake melting into it.
My eyes trace down a jaw sharp enough to cut through wrapping paper with precision.
The way his plump lips curve, hooking only on the side into a perfect dimple, feels as though he knows something I don’t.
My heart skips a beat when I think of what those lips would feel like against my own.
My own lips tingle, and a small gasp escapes as my gloved hand flies up to cover my mouth.
Clearly, it’s been a while if I’m imagining a perfect stranger kissing me in the middle of Manhattan.
He doesn’t even know the thoughts racing through my mind as I take in his build beneath that red coat. He’s definitely the carved-from-marble type, not the soft-and-squishy-like-me type. Guys like him don’t even know shapewear exists, let alone muffin tops and emergency stretchy pants.
I shake my head, forcing myself to look away before I fall any deeper into my own nonsense. The last guy I dated made sure to remind me exactly where I rank on the desirability scale—he couldn’t see a future with a “fat girl like me.” So yeah… romance hasn’t exactly been my strong suit this year.
And then the universe really twists the knife—a stunning blonde starts beelining toward him like she’s been cast for the opening scene of their Christmas love story. Of course she is. Of course she’d be perfect for him.
I can already see the gorgeous children they would make.
I can hear the Hallmark narrator now: They chatted over warm cups of cocoa as they realized they have the same dream.
“Are you going to move forward?” The person behind me grumbles. I realize the line has moved forward a few paces, and I have completely forgotten about being late for work.
“Ye…yes.” I stutter as I duck my head and rush forward to the person in front of me.
I don’t want to watch this romance unfold, but at the same time, it’s as if I’m watching my very own Hallmark movie play out. The playwright in me is already scripting the conversation between them and exactly what cafe they will go to next.
Like a tigress, she’s moving in on her prey with stealth and determination onto the unsuspecting man who hasn’t even seen what’s coming for him.
I can’t help but snort when she comes to a stop in front of him, popping her hip as she flicks her hair over her shoulder.
She’s unleashing her full peacocking on him.
Hoping that each of her carefully plotted out movements will win his affections.
As if he’s blinking out of a dream, his face slowly lowers from the building that’s had his full, undivided attention to the woman fluttering her eyelashes at him.
It’s almost comical, really. He’s staring at her with the same level of confusion he was giving the Christmas decor in the window display.
Almost as if he doesn’t understand why she’s bothering him.
Does he not realize how drop-dead handsome he is?
“What can I get for you, miss?” The barista asks, drawing my attention away from what is sure to be the beginning of the perfect Christmas romance. I’m glad, though I’m not sure I want to bear witness to something I’ll never experience.
That man would never give me the time of day, let alone begin a beautiful Christmas romance with me.
It’s better that I stick to my fictional book boyfriends and pretend that I’m the female protagonist being swept out of my small town and into his luxurious king-size bed in his insanely large penthouse for a bachelor.
“Four hot cocoas with whipped cream and chocolate shavings, please.” I tell her as I hand over the cash for them.
I’m not even going to check to see how late I am today.
It’s too late now, might as well deal with the consequences while sipping my hot cocoa.
I shake myself, tugging my beanie tighter against my unruly amber curls.
“There’s no time for emotional character studies or imaginary dream stories, Holly.” I mumble to myself.
The barista gives me a questioning look, and I only shake my head slightly. I will not spill my internal monologue to the street-cart barista. She only shrugs her shoulders before handing over the drink tray full of my hot cocoas, and I thank her before ducking out of the way.
Spinning around, I rush towards the door of Macy’s, only to be met with a crowd of people streaming down the sidewalk towards me.
I’m pushing my way through when I feel my foot slip on the edge of the sidewalk, and I know there’s no saving myself from what’s about to happen.
I’m going down, and I’m going to land in the streets of NYC.
This is it, guys. My last moments on Earth will be in a pile of green felt, sequins, and hot cocoa. It’s a tragedy.
I can hear a horn blaring, someone’s yelling, and I can’t help but squeeze my eyes shut.
My last thought?
Who’s going to feed Chester and turn on his Garfield episodes?
That’s the sad existence of my life.