December 7th
Hollis
Jay
Hi.
Hollis
Hi. I don’t see Marv’s number.
Jay
I thought maybe we’d give him a break since you already said you wouldn’t be near him with weapons.
Hollis
So you’re texting me to say hi? How very un-Jay of you.
Jay
I can be un-Jay. And maybe I’m excited to see you tonight.
Hollis
Eager. It suits you. Does Jay the beertender wear his antler hat on dates?
Jay
There will be hats.
Hollis
I’m not sure how I feel about that sentence.
Jay
You should wear your Thanksgiving outfit, it will pair well with said hats.
Hollis
I’m cancelling tonight.
Jay
Cancelling is against the rules.
Hollis
Is it weird I miss Marv’s ambiguous texts?
Jay
Marv has an appeal even I can’t explain. Should I invite him on the date?
Hollis
Not if you want me to wear the Thanksgiving outfit.
Marv with a gun is a line I won’t cross, which is why I skipped today’s Holiday Club meetup of squirrel hunting in exchange for sleeping in and freaking out.
I’m going on a date.
With Jay.
Tonight.
When he picks me up, I pretend I didn’t pack a duffle and toss it into his back seat. He looks at me, mustache twitching. “You planning on staying a while?”
“That,” I say, voice pinched as I white knuckle the handle of the passenger door, “is because I’m a messy eater.”
“What a coincidence,” he says as he starts to drive, reaching across the center console and slipping his free hand around my thigh. “Me too.”
It takes maximum effort to not react to his touch, that innuendo, nor the visual both have conjured up, which involves his face between my legs.
I’m so nervous through his recap of hunting with Marv, what I tell him about the week with my kids, and everything else we discuss on the drive, it’s a mystery to me what is actually said.
He might as well be speaking in Japanese.
I haven’t been on a first date in twenty years, and I’ve never brought an overnight bag on one. Ever.
What kind of slut are you, Hollis?
“We’re here,” Jay says as we park.
I look through the windshield. “Puddy’s House of Pancakes and Oddities?”
He grins as we get out and stand at the door, bright retro lights of the sign lighting our faces.
He looks exactly like himself—tattered jeans, frayed-edge jacket, tousled head of hair, and mustache trimmed to Jay-perfection—but hotter by at least nineteen degrees.
Maybe it’s the anticipation of what’s yet to come or what line we’re crossing by being at wherever we are just the two of us, but he’s mouthwatering.
“I thought you might like to know what kind of place has oddities and pancake batter on hand,” he says, bumping my shoulder with his. “A peddling paradox.”
My words from the wagon ride.
I swoon; it’s stupid.
“But before we go in—” He reaches into his coat and pulls out—is that a poinsettia corsage? “I got you something.” At my confused look, he explains, “It’s tradition. Every time I take you on our first official date, I get you a corsage. Didn’t you know?”
As I bite my cheek to keep from smiling, he pinches his tongue between his lips and slips the ghastly corsage onto my wrist. The bright red flower and the flashy gold sprigs sticking out around it are absolutely hideous.
Again, I swoon; again, it’s stupid.
“Have I told you I like traditions?” I ask with feigned surprise.
He strokes his mustache in mock contemplation. “I wondered if you might.”
We both smile like we can’t not, and he takes my hand in his, pulling me inside the restaurant.
It’s cluttered chaos. True to its name, oddities are everywhere, shelves upon shelves lining every wall surrounding an open area filled with tables where a few people are eating.
Polka Christmas music plays a little too loudly, and the whole place smells like pancakes and syrup.
In every corner, Christmas trees covered in vintage ornaments are shoved.
In between, there are cases of glass bottles, creepy dolls, nutcrackers, and snow globes.
One entire section is dedicated to top hats. And fishing lures. And puppets.
“How did you find this place?” I whisper, clinging to his arm as a hostess wearing a top hat adorned with candy canes leads us to a table in the corner.
“I get my nieces and nephews their Christmas gifts from here every year,” he says, sliding into the same side of the booth as me instead of across the table.
My shoulders tense at the silliness of it.
Like us sitting so close will translate to everyone thinking we’re bragging about being here together.
But when Jay looks at me playfully, the tension dissolves.
Because it is silly, and we are here together, and dammit I love both of those things.
The atmosphere is like a Christmas-themed circus. It’s utterly wild, makes absolutely no sense, and is completely perfect.
“What on earth do you buy here?”
He chuckles, eyeing the red paper lantern painted with gold bells hanging over our table. “Oddities and pancakes, of course.”
I snort a laugh, perusing the menu. The waitress arrives and we both order pancakes, bacon, and hot chocolate.
When she’s gone, I angle my position so I’m facing him in our singular booth, and he drapes an arm over the back. Every look, laugh, and touch reads like a big fat flirt.
“You like me,” he says, fingering the hair around my face.
“Hm.” I gesture with my corsage-adorned wrist. “You’re the one showering me in gifts, I could say the same.”
“I do like you,” he says easily, eyes not leaving mine. “I really liked you on Thanksgiving.”
I slap him on the arm making him grunt. “That,” I say, flustered as the waitress delivers our hot chocolates, “was not what you think.”
Jay pulls out a flask and pours whiskey into each of our mugs.
“I think a lot of things,” he says, smiling wolfishly over the top of his mug. Hot chocolate clings to his mustache, and I reach out and wipe it with my thumb.
He grabs my hand at his face and kisses my palm.
It’s sweet.
And.
I swoon, not even caring if it’s stupid.
“So,” he says, setting his mug down. “Hollis the Writer, you still missing parades and bazaars and bad movies this season?”
I fill my cheeks up with air then deflate them with a slow exhale as I consider this question.
Parade versus surprise tree farm. Movie in the park versus the drive-in.
Bakesale versus beertending. The truth isn’t a revelation: I haven’t missed any of it.
I’ve noticed it as I’ve reread every weekly article I’ve submitted to my editor these last weeks.
The parades don’t matter. Most of it doesn’t.
But the kids, that’s an entirely different story.
“I miss my kids,” I tell him honestly. “I really miss my kids. Everything else so far?” I shrug.
“Looks a bit lackluster now that I’m removed from it.
” I stare at my mug of hot chocolate and trace the retro pattern of holly leaves on its side with my finger.
“I don’t know if they like any of the things we’ve ever done, now that I talk to them about it.
” I laugh softly, folding and unfolding my napkin on the table.
“I don’t know if I’d be saying any of that if I hadn’t met you—and Marv—so thank you for that. It’s been what I needed.”
I brave a look at him, and his lips tug to one side.
“You’re what I needed,” he says with a playful nudge my way.
“Oh, really?” I tease. “How’s that?”
The waitress brings our plates of pancakes and bacon and the biggest bottle of maple syrup I’ve ever seen.
“I needed,” Jay says, not hesitating to pour syrup on both our plates, “to learn not everyone who likes It’s a Wonderful Life is a complete moron.”
“Ha. Ha,” I say flatly as I take my first bite of pancakes. And—“Holy buttery goodness, Batman. Why are these so good?”
He makes an agreeing sound, smiling as he chews; there’s syrup in his mustache.
“That thing on your lip is obnoxious,” I tell him before my next bite.
He grins, says, “Might be, but you love it,” and fills his mouth with more pancakes then moans.
And that is our date: Me with a corsage, him with a mustache, both of us laughing as we eat pancakes in an oddity shop with spiked hot chocolate.
We talk about everything—how he learned to brew beer in college with a DIY kit he got for Christmas one year.
How my writing career started in high school where I wrote essays for hire for most of the football team.
How he runs for fun and I find that news completely offensive.
How the mustache came to be—a lost bet on a football game—and how he would miss it if it were gone.
He tells me about his sister, Caroline, and how when she drinks too much wine, she confesses that she and her husband, Ben, smoke pot out of their master bathroom window after the kids go to bed then proceed to have kinky sex.
About his younger brother, Brent, who sometimes tells his wife he’s going to work out but really goes to Jay’s camper and plunders his fridge for beer in an effort to escape his screaming kids.
About his parents who have gotten into pickleball.
“They sound great,” I tell him. “Don’t you miss them around the holidays?”
“They dole out this kind of crazy all year,” he says with a wry grin.
“Do you think you’ll—I don’t know—ever want to have a Thanksgiving with them instead of Marv?
” The way he talks about his family it’s evident he loves them.
Even not knowing them it’s hard to believe this man sitting in front of me doesn’t spend the biggest holidays of the year with them.
“Or if you meet someone you want to be with—” His smile turns to something slightly more serious at what I’m implying.
“Not me,” I add quickly. “I’m not saying me, I’m saying anyone .
. . I’m saying—I don’t know what I’m saying.
” I’m rambling like an idiot and screw my eyes shut. “Never mind.”
He’s quiet as I take a long sip of hot chocolate, and I wonder if I’ve overstepped.