Chapter 5
Shira
I’m not sure what Jonny did to the over-fifty female population of this town, but they clearly haven’t gotten over it. At least when the woman at the taqueria said Jonny was trouble, she said it with love in her voice. The woman today was just mean.
Sure, he’s an aggressive flirt. And fine, he seems a little cocky. But Jonny’s been nothing but kind and helpful to me since the day I met him. Which, granted, was less than a week ago. But still. I couldn’t ignore the way she was talking to him.
And what’s my reward for being such a mensch? A maybe-date with said troublemaker for the town’s Christmas tree lighting. What even is my life?
According to my friends—who were thrilled to find out that Jonny is an uncle-to-be and not a dad-to-be—I’ve got to lean into my main character energy; to forget about any inhibitions and fling like I’ve never flinged before.
In other words, act less like myself and more like Talia. Unfortunately, I’m the one who packed my suitcase, and instead of my friend’s low-cut, midriff showing wardrobe, I’ve got my own boring tops and light sweaters for the mild Texas winter.
The town square is buzzing with holiday cheer when I walk up. It seems like everyone in Azalea is here, jockeying for position and trying to get the best view of the tree. It’s not Rockefeller Plaza big, but it’s at least twenty or thirty feet high.
I should have let Jonny pick me up—Chicago dating rules be damned.
There’s no way I’m going to find him in this crowd, and I have no clue which of the tents is the one selling hot cocoa.
Scanning the square, I notice (not for the first time) just how white this town is.
And most of the men are wearing a Carhartt jacket like Jonny’s.
It’s like a real-life Where’s Waldo—which reminds me, I should get a few more copies in stock.
I’m seriously considering giving up and going back home when I spot him walking toward me, a little girl with blond pigtails bouncing on his shoulders.
So, it’s not a date, then.
That’s okay, I try to convince myself. Less pressure, no expectations. I can just have fun and pretend to be a girl who goes to Christmas tree lightings. Maybe one of the other Carhartt guys will be down to hook up.
“Well, hello there,” Jonny says, grinning as he approaches. “If it isn’t the prettiest bookseller in all of Azalea.”
“The only bookseller,” I say, even though the compliment makes me feel tingly, like there’s champagne running through my veins.
“Say hi, Emma.”
“Hi, Emma,” the little girl repeats, cracking herself up.
“Remember what I said about that hot cocoa?” There’s a playful warning in his voice.
“Hi, Uncle Jonny’s pretty friend,” she says.
“Much better,” he says, then leads me toward the hot cocoa stand where we were supposed to meet.
I recognize one of the kids behind the table from the 4-H stall at the Christmas Market (which I had to look up because where I grew up, in the northern suburbs of Chicago, people paraded their Gucci bags around, not their livestock).
“Three hot cocoas,” Jonny says, giving the young man a twenty. He waves away the change but does ask for a tray to carry them, which I take, so he doesn’t drop his niece from her precarious perch.
“Everyone’s excited to meet you,” Jonny says as we walk around the square’s perimeter, where people aren’t packed in quite so tight.
“Who’s everyone?” I ask, nerves making their appearance known again.
“Oh, just my family.” He takes a sharp right through the crowd, where a small group of kids and adults are gathered around a park bench.
“I want my hot cocoa!” Emma shouts, drawing everyone’s attention.
Jonny bends to let her off his shoulders, and when he stands again, he says, “Everyone, this is Sarah. Sarah, this is almost everyone!”
He explains that his dad and his sister are both on bed rest for different reasons, but I meet his mom, who is warm and welcoming.
Then Jonny introduces me to his older sister Bianca, her husband, and their kids—Maggie, the one who loves fairies, plus twin toddler boys named Liam and Logan, squirming in the double stroller.
Next up is Jonny’s brother, Isaac, who looks like a sterner, older version of Jonny, and his wife, Annabel.
Jake (the one who said “hell” at the bookshop) belongs to them, as do Emma and a chubby baby girl who’s fast asleep in Isaac’s arms. There are hugs and handshakes and too many voices talking at once, and I’m overwhelmed in the very best way.
I’m talking with Jonny’s mom and Bianca about the bookshop when Jonny places a warm Styrofoam cup in my hand. He steps behind me, and his breath tickles my ear as he says, “I put a little Bailey’s in ours.”
Trouble indeed.
The ceremony starts about thirty minutes later, and I’m feeling all warm and cozy thanks to the spiked hot cocoa and the hospitality of Jonny’s family.
They really are lovely—all of them tall and sturdy and friendly, constantly teasing each other and laughing like something out of an old sitcom.
As an only child of two only children, I’ve always been fascinated by big families.
The pastor of the town church (or is he a Preacher? A Reverend? A Priest?) welcomes everyone and thanks the sponsors, including the new and improved Christmas Market. Jonny’s mom looks at him, beaming with pride.
My parents could learn a thing or two from Mrs. McKay—being so proud that her son is a handyman for one of the companies sponsoring this event.
I can’t remember the last time I felt that kind of support from my family; maybe when I won the school spelling bee in third grade?
That was probably my last crowning academic achievement before I broke my parents’ hearts, revealing myself to be more of a book nerd than a nerd-nerd who was (and still is) allergic to math.
“And now,” the pastor/preacher/priest says, his voice booming, “it is my great honor to introduce our choir, the Azalea Angels. I hope you’ll join us—sing like no one’s listening and loud enough for the Lord Himself to hear.”
The crowd cheers as the choir kicks things off with “Oh, Christmas Tree.” I thought I knew the lyrics—it’s impossible to grow up as a kid in America without having a passing knowledge of popular Christmas songs—but after we sing about the lovely branches, I’m lost.
Jonny, however, is singing loud enough that people in heaven must be reaching for their earplugs.
What he lacks in talent, he makes up for in pure Christmas spirit.
An older couple sitting on a nearby bench gives him the side eye, but his nieces and nephews are delighted.
I am, too—especially since he’s pulling attention away from me and my lack of lyrical knowledge.
Next, the choir starts “Deck the Halls.” I’m not the only one who doesn’t know all the verses, but I do my best to make up for it when it comes to the fa-la-la-la-las.
Jonny’s enthusiasm is contagious; he throws his arm around my shoulder, and I lean into his side.
For one glorious moment, it almost feels like I belong here: in the middle of a small Texas town with a big, loud family, kicking off the Christmas season with bowels of holly. Wait—that can’t be right?
Oh, screw it. I tip my head back and join in another rousing round of fa-la-la-la-la.
Unfortunately, the spirit dissipates as soon as the choir starts in on the next song, “O Come, All Ye Faithful.” Even though I do know a lot of the words, it feels disrespectful to sing about something I don’t believe in.
I can feel Maggie watching me, looking confused about why I’m not singing.
“Bathroom,” I tell Jonny. “Be right back.”
“I’ll walk with you,” he says.
“No, it’s okay. Stay here, I’ll come back.”
“Promise?” He holds his pinky finger out.
Grinning, I shake my head but wrap my finger around his. “Promise.”
By the time I make it back, the choir is singing “White Christmas.” Finally, a song I know every single word to. I also happen to know it was written by Irving Berlin, a fellow member of the tribe.
It feels like a scene from a holiday movie—the only thing missing is actual snow, which is meteorologically impossible since the temperature doesn’t seem to drop below the mid-forties. Yet as if on cue from a director waiting in the wings, a fluffy white substance starts falling from the sky.
It can’t be.
I reach up to touch it and smile as the soapy mixture melts in my hand. The moment still feels infused with magic, and I glance behind me at Jonny, who’s watching the scene unfold with the same amazement as his young nieces and nephews.
He sees me looking at him and flashes me that disarming smile of his, then reaches over to wipe soapy bubbles from my nose. We’re facing each other, eyes locked, as the song ends and someone on stage starts the countdown.
10.
9.
8.
The butterflies in my belly flutter.
7.
6.
5.
My gaze drifts down to Jonny’s lips.
4.
3.
2.
I take the tiniest step toward him…
1.
The Christmas tree lights up, and I startle, taking a giant step back. There are enough lights wrapped around the tree to make it feel like it’s the middle of the afternoon.
The crowd erupts with applause and cheers, waking Jonny’s littlest niece, who starts crying in her daddy’s arms.
Soon, two of the other kids join in, a chorus of complaints about being tired and hungry. It’s decided that the party is over, at least for the McKays.
I turn to say goodnight to Jonny and thank him for what ended up being a truly wonderful night when he says, “Can I walk you home?”