Fourteen. Who’s a Jolly Good Fellow? Everybody, Apparently #2
My dad cruises toward us on the scooter and comes to a stop, taking out two extra-large candy canes for Alice and Henry, who squeal with delight.
“Thank you, Grandpa!” Henry shouts as Alice jumps up and down.
My dad blows us all kisses, and my mom reaches over to squeeze my hand like she’s fifteen and just got asked out by her favorite pop star.
“Dad’s a natural Santa,” I say, watching as more of Sweetville claps and cheers for his Vespa antics. It’s hard not to be a little caught up in the glee of the moment.
“He is. And even though you’re not a natural baker, how is the competition going?”
“Okay, I think,” I tell her. “I wish I had more to offer Corey—he really deserves to win.” Then, because I have to tell someone, “And do you remember Fiona, who worked at the restaurant with Grant?”
Mom nods. “The kind of leggy one?”
That’s an understatement akin to saying the firefighting Santas have okay arms. Fiona defines “leggy” just as the firefighters are pictured in the dictionary next to “biceps.” “Yeah, her,” I say.
“She’s Grant’s partner. Not that I care who Grant is partnered with…
” I so do but I so shouldn’t. “I’m just a little surprised they’re still in touch. ”
Mom waves off what I’m saying as if it’s all nonsense. “Jill, you can’t possibly be worried about this Fiona person. You’re a big-time writer with a beautiful face. All she has on you is an easier time reaching high shelves.”
I’m a bit shocked to hear Mom so passionately put Fiona down, and especially in this Heartfelt dimension. “It shouldn’t really matter, anyway,” I say. “Grant can make cookies with whoever he wants.”
Now Rachel taps my shoulder. “And isn’t that who you’re making cookies with?”
The next Santa in the parade is Corey, hanging out the open door of a SweetHart’s Bakery van, distributing wrapped cookies to the crowd.
Just like in high school, he fills out his Santa suit to a tee.
His jacket is slightly open, exposing a muscular expanse of chest beneath a white T-shirt.
His dimple shows, peeking out from a spot where his fake beard is charmingly askew.
When he sees me, his dimple deepens and his smile gets wider. He palms half a dozen cookies, hops down from the slow-rolling van, and jogs to me, pushing the treats into my hands.
“What? All these?” I say.
“You’re definitely on my nice list, and I know you’ll share,” he says.
Then he winks. I look down at all the cookies I’m clutching and then back at Corey, who takes a few quick strides and leaps back into his van farther down the parade route.
He looks toward me once more and waves. Maybe I didn’t completely screw things up yesterday. “See you later!”
As the SweetHart’s van elicits cheers from the crowd, the next Santa—in a red convertible—moseys past. It’s Santa Santa, the CVS drunk and the guy I’m taking to be my guide here.
He looks from me to the cookies I’m holding and then back up at me.
He nods and gives me a thumbs-up. Then, sleigh bells, the sigh, and “Open your heart.”
“Did you hear that?” I ask Rachel.
“Hear what? Everyone agreeing Corey is the cutest?” Rachel says, poking me on the arm.
Okay, so they can’t hear the Heartfelt intro noises. But I heard them after Santa seemingly endorsed my progress with Corey. I must be on the right track.
“It’s so nice of him to think of all of us,” Mom says. “And he’s so handsome.”
She’s right. Thoughts of Corey put me in a daze, and I wish my high school self could see me now.
Corey Hartwell, singling us—well, me, but us if you include past me—out.
And yet, as flattered and stunned as I am, when Alice pulls on my sleeve to request her cookie, my mental imagery has switched to Grant, holding eye contact with me in the competition fridge.
Once more, I scan the crowd in search of him. But there’s no sign of my ex. And none of Fiona. Are they the only two people in Sweetville not here?
I check the crowd on my side of the street, but instead of Grant and Fiona, I see Allie with her two kids. They’re color coordinated—kids in green, Allie in a silvery parka.
Mom sees where I’m looking. “Isn’t that Allie? Oh, maybe you want to say hello.”
I shake my head. “It’s a day for families, and she looks busy with hers.” It’s not that I don’t want to see her. It’s that I don’t know how to be around her anymore.
“I just remember how much you girls loved each other. Remember your Christmas break sleepovers? How you’d make candy pizzas with the chocolate from your stockings?
Or when you were teenagers and you’d watch romantic comedies all night and scream when the couples finally kissed? You’d wake us all up.”
I do remember those moments. But I realize that in the past few years, I’ve let myself forget that Allie is more than just someone’s wife and mother, that she’d been my very best friend?
“I remember,” I say. “I’ll try to see her before I head back.”
“Good. Just because you’ve moved forward doesn’t mean you can’t look back, too.”
It’s like Mom sees right through me. Even Sweetville Mom sees through Sweetville me, aware that I can’t stop thinking about what might have happened if I had never left for LA or if I could do my entire relationship with Grant—and Allie, for that matter—over again.
The problem with moving forward isn’t that you can’t look back; it’s that sometimes you’re looking back but the people you’re looking for aren’t looking for you.