“Man, you weren’t kidding about this. It’s amazing,” Jacob says after he takes a sip. We both ordered the same thing: a large vanilla latte with two pumps of toasted-marshmallow syrup. Jacob’s upper lip has a slight outline of foamy milk, and it’s strangely endearing.
I hold my oversized handleless cup with two hands and take a long, slow drink. “Right? Addictive.” Ben’s is pretty crowded, but luckily we didn’t have to wait too long. And we’re at one of my favorite tables—a wooden booth next to the window, perfect for people-watching.
Ben’s is just a block away from the bookshop, and during the walk over, Jacob and I didn’t say much to each other. But once we got inside the restaurant, we both loosened up. The fact that it’s busy helped, and our waitress is friendly. It just felt a little strange to be hanging out with him in a social setting.
“Have you been looking at schools?” I ask. This fall, college has become the go-to subject whenever there’s a lull in the conversation.
He nods. “A couple. We spent the week before school visiting big city schools and we spent the days we had off for the Jewish holidays visiting the small schools in the sticks.”
“And?”
“Definitely small school, and ideally within a four-hour radius of home.” The waitress brings over the chocolate lava cake Jacob had ordered. The cake is on a square white plate with a drizzle of raspberry sauce.
“Two forks?” she asks, holding up utensils.
“Yes,” Jacob says at the same time I say “No.”
The waitress puts two forks on the table. “Better safe than sorry,” she says with a wink before rushing off.
“Oh my gosh, this is sick,” Jacob says, taking a humongous forkful. “You need to try it.”
“Okay, twist my arm.” I pick up the other fork and take a dainty bite. “Um, yum.” We polish it off in about three minutes flat.
“So, small school, huh?” This is not what I would have expected from Jacob, but now that I think about it, I can see him liking being a big fish in a small pond. “Interesting. Is Vermont small?” I ask, gesturing to the hat that’s now on the bench beside him.
“Not really,” he says. “That’s the one school I got to see last year. When we were there for a visit, it was about ten degrees out and I got my mom to buy me the hat. I did like it there, though, so who knows? Maybe I’ll apply. I guess it depends on how I do on the SAT. I’m taking it in March. A lot of schools I like are test-optional, though.”
“Same. I took the ACT in October, but I have to take it again.” I like BU, where Liam goes, but I don’t want to go to the same school as my older brother—I want to carve my own path at a different school and find the best fit for me. But being in a city seems fun and exciting. A small school doesn’t excite me quite as much.
“So you get the same drink every time?” Jacob asks.
I nod.
He laces his fingers together like he’s about to dispense some wise advice. “I could have predicted that.”
I frown. “Because it’s a good drink?”
He shakes his head. “You don’t seem like a risk taker, and people tend to repeat their choices if they’re happy with them. Less risky than making a new choice.”
I consider this. He’s not wrong. “With a new choice, you’re not sure what you’re getting.”
He points at me with his fork. “Exactly. And by making the same choice again, you’re validating your previous decision.”
This is a lot to process over latte. “Do you want to be a psychologist or something?” I ask, wondering if he’s going to whip out a Rorschach test or start asking me questions about my childhood.
“Nah, I’m just super interested in how people make decisions. My dad works in marketing and we talk about stuff like this a lot over dinner.”
“Hmmm. Cool.” It’s weird, thinking of Jacob Marley with a family. Kind of like seeing your teacher at the grocery store when you were in second grade and realizing they both existed outside of your classroom and ate food. For me, Jacob is this guy I see occasionally in the halls at school and vaguely know as a fellow classmate. Not someone who talks about marketing principles with his father, clearly chews his cuticles, and demolishes lava cake.
“Now think about holiday shopping,” he says. “You’ve got to admit, it’s stressful.”
“True…but only if you wait until the last minute,” I say. “Personally I think it’s fun.” I point out the window at a couple walking by pushing a stroller. The parents are talking animatedly, with the dad pushing the stroller and the mom holding a couple shopping bags. Behind them is a group of middle-school girls, holding Starbucks cups and their phones, giggling. “See? Everyone is feeling the festive vibe.”
Jacob is angling for a better view. “There! See the lady with the frizzy red hair and the black glasses? Does she look like she’s feeling the vibe?” I follow his gaze and see the woman in question. She’s wearing a wool coat buttoned up to the neck, and she’s walking quickly, with what looks like a permanent scowl on her face. She’s holding a large shopping bag that she’s using like a riot shield to push past people.
“Okay, true, she doesn’t look exactly jolly,” I admit. “But maybe her shoes hurt. Or she’s hungry.”
“Or maybe she’s just stressed out from the stores and the crowds and all the faux happiness. Maybe she doesn’t know what to buy, or maybe she doesn’t have anyone to buy anything for,” Jacob says, resting his elbows on the table.
“That’s sad,” I say, wondering what it would be like to feel that way. “Christmas is my favorite holiday. I’ve never really thought about what it would be like to feel down at this time of year.” I hope that’s not your story, red-haired lady.
“It sucks,” Jacob says, sounding tired. “We had to put my dog down in October, and to be honest, I don’t even feel like celebrating Christmas.” He shoots me an embarrassed look. “I know it sounds dumb, but Wags was my bud, you know? We got him when I was five. He was always there for me. Knew all my secrets.”
I’m not sure what to say. If anything happened to Dickens, I would be beside myself. It really bothered me when my grandpa died and people told me they knew how I felt. Because they didn’t. No one knows how anybody feels when it comes to losing someone.
I reach out and give his calloused hand an awkward pat. “It’s not dumb. Do you have a picture of him?”
Jacob nods and hands me his phone. On his home screen is a photo of a border collie running toward the camera, tongue hanging out. Pure joy.
“Awwwww,” I say, letting out a little gasp. “What a cutie!”
Jacob takes back his phone and studies the photo for a few seconds before sliding it back in his pocket. “Yeah. Wags, man. He was the best.”
And something inside me shifts a bit and I realize: I may have misjudged this guy.
It was one thing to watch the pretty winter wonderland scene from inside the toasty warm café. Once we’re outside, it’s not quite as cinematic. A harsh wind has picked up. I pull my extra-long blue scarf up toward my chin and zip my coat. Snow has started to fall, a drippy wet snow that makes people pop open umbrellas and pull down their earflaps.
“Man, I hate that,” Jacob says, ducking as a guy passes holding an umbrella the size of my kitchen table. The spokes barely miss the green pom-pom on his hat.
I look at him, surprised. “I know, right? That’s what hats are for.” It’s rare that I meet someone who shares my loathing for rain gear in the snow.
He shoots a sidelong glance at me as we walk. “Should have gotten a refill on the latte,” he chides. “You look cold.”
I am shivering, but I don’t regret not getting one to go. I already feel like I have to pee, and I’d never have made it home—my bladder is the size of a cherry tomato.
“Where did you park?” Jacob asks me.
“In the lot over by the diner,” I tell him, my teeth starting to chatter.
He lifts his chin in the direction of the bookstore. “That’s my truck over there. I’ll give you a ride.”
Inside the slick white Ford pickup, it’s warm and smells like the little tree air freshener hanging from the mirror. “This is really nice,” I say, running my hand down the black leather seats. “It looks almost new!”
Jacob laughs. “It’s an old road warrior—a 1972 F100. Belonged to my grandpa. We did a lot to it—headlights, taillights, mirrors, grille, paint, door panels, armrests—everything. Even the bedliner in the back is new.”
“Wow,” I say, feeling guilty as some slush slides off my boots onto the carpeted floor mat. He’s obviously proud of the truck, and I don’t blame him. I keep my feet together, trying not to take up too much space. “You drive it to school?”
He eases out of the spot and into traffic. “It’s the only reason I get to physics on time—I have to leave at the ass-crack of dawn to find a parking space big enough to fit it.”
I’ve never ridden in a pickup before, and I soon realize how cool trucks really are. People are checking us out and it’s fun sitting up in here—it’s like our own private sky lounge. There’s even a CD player with some folksy-sounding music playing that sounds vaguely familiar.
As we inch down Main Street, drivers are doing crazy things: double-parking, stopping short, texting, and not paying attention when the light turns green. None of it seems to bother Jacob—in fact, he’s whistling. He has a strong jaw, a slightly big nose, wide cheekbones, those Alaskan husky blue eyes. I have to admit, he’s pretty good-looking. But…he also has a fair amount of acne, dresses like a lax bro, and doesn’t seem to know about two items called Brush and Comb. And while he’s the kind of guy who might give the impression that he’s solid boyfriend material, he also seems like a regular teenage boy, prone to bad decisions like sliding down a banister or mooning people out a car window. My mind leaps to all sorts of scenarios Jacob could be involved in, none of them pretty.
Then my mind drifts back to Charlie, who on both occasions I’ve seen him has looked like he walked out of a J.Crew ad after a stop at the barbershop for a haircut and a shave. I didn’t realize how important good grooming was to me, but there’s something about Charlie that’s cuddly and masculine all at once. You just know he’s always going to smell good, have soft skin, and unscuffed shoes. He’s also funny and charming—and he gets major points for appearing out of nowhere to rescue me from a snowbank. When I imagine what my prospective future boyfriend could look like, Charlie’s face is the one I see.
But it’s a face I don’t know how to contact.
And he isn’t the person I’m sitting close to in a cozy and warm vintage pickup truck.
The ride to my car takes only a few minutes, and even though we’ve hung out now for a couple hours, I’m finding myself wishing we could hang out just a little bit longer. I’m not actually starting to like Jacob…am I?
Suddenly I’m startled by a noise and, to my horror, I recognize it all too well from my dad. A burp.
I laugh uncomfortably as Jacob winces. “Sorry, my bad. That latte caught up with me.”
Immediately I come to my senses.
I’m trying to avoid my math homework. That’s the reason I want to hang out longer.
“Well, thanks,” I say quickly, popping my seat belt when he pulls up behind my RAV4. It looks especially shrimpy in comparison to the truck.
“Anytime,” Jacob says. He looks like he’s about to say something else, maybe even apologize again, but I’ve already opened the door and jumped out.
If he’s anything like my dad, there’s another burp coming, and I definitely don’t want to be around to hear it.
In the Briggs household, you can count on a home-cooked meal on Sundays, something that involves more than thirty minutes of prep and takes too long to cook on a weeknight. And if it’s in the fall or winter, it’s usually something that you crave when you’re watching Sunday football.
Because of this, it also means that my family tends to eat Sunday dinners early. Today Mom made meatball Parm heroes on toasted brioche rolls, and there’s one waiting for me in our warming drawer, along with a white ramekin of extra sauce on the side for dipping, just like I like it.
Dad and Liam are at Lowe’s getting more lights—apparently the decorating has been going on all day and Karolyn tells me I’m lucky I missed it. She’s on her laptop in her room doing homework, and my mom is on the phone with her sister, my aunt Amy, going over cookie-swap party logistics and leaving me alone in the kitchen with Dickens.
“Hey, guy,” I say as he rolls around on the wooden floor, wagging his tail. I know I’m biased, but he is the cutest dog ever—he looks just like the Westie in the Cesar dog food commercials. People actually stop us when we’re out walking him to tell us how adorable he is.
“Did they let you have a meatball?” I ask, giving his floppy ear a gentle tug. Hopefully not, because human food isn’t good for him. My mom is notorious for sneaking him treats. I scratch his firm little belly for a minute and then put a couple treats into this green rubber ball he loves and fling it into the family room. He runs after it, his short furry legs skidding on our wood floor.
I’m taking pictures of him doing all the cute dog things he does when a text from a number I don’t recognize pings on my phone.
Run into any snowbanks today?
I stare at the screen, my hands suddenly clammy. No. Could it be?
Ummmmm who is this? I type back, holding my breath.
Three little dots appear. Then: Charlie. Then: I hope I have the right number. This is Bailey Briggs, right?
“Yes!” I whisper-giggle, clutching the phone. Yup, it’s me! I type, trying to process what’s happening. And because I have to know: How did you get my number?
Detective work. 
I stare at the phone screen. What does that mean? Has he actually been trying to track me down? Dickens runs back with the ball, his dark eyes bright. “Shhh, good boy, wait,” I tell him, holding up a finger, and he obediently drops the ball and sits down. I scoot back and lean against a cabinet.
Before I can reply, another text pops up. Actually you lost your scarf the other night. It blew all the way to my car in that crazy wind. There was a label on it and I took a hunch that it was the same last name as yours
That’s weird. I don’t remember dropping it, but sure enough, he texts a photo and I recognize the drapey pink scarf immediately, complete with the tiny white label. My hand instinctively touches my neck. I have a vast collection of colorful scarves, all knit for me by my grandmother. Each time she finishes a project, she sews in a tag that says HANDMADE WITH LOVE BY JOY BRIGGS. I must have been in such a Charlie trance last night that I hadn’t noticed it slip off.
“Thank you, Grandjo,” I say softly, putting the phone to my heart. OMG I can’t believe you found it
Another text pings through. It’s Caitlin. I shake my head, willing her to stop texting at this pivotal moment of my life.
Charlie’s back. So…what’s up?
I reach over and pat Dickens’s head. Not much. Having a photo sesh with my dog. I send him a picture of Dickens looking at the camera with his head tilted the way all Westies do.
What a cutie
Haha, I could say the same about you, I think, but instead I send back a smiley emoji.
I was driving through town today and I thought I saw you
My heartbeat quickens. I hope he didn’t see me with Jacob. Oh yeah?
Mmmmm near Ben’s cafe? Walking with a tall guy in a green hat?
Shoot, shoot, shoot. So funny! Yep, that was me and—I hesitate, not sure what to label Jacob. Should I say it’s my brother? I feel terrible lying, so I go with the truth—my friend Jacob. I helped him pick out some books for Christmas gifts. I work at Winslow’s
Oh, the irony. Of course our paths would intersect when I’m walking with Jacob.
That’s a great store. Books make great gifts
Then he texts, Speaking of…the scarf seems pretty special. Handmade with love and all. I wanted to give it back to you
Thankfully no one but Dickens hears me squeal. Yes! Thank you so much I type, my eyes flicking to my cubby in the mudroom where tons of scarves, all handmade with love, are stuffed into a storage basket. Who knew one would help me see Charlie again? Maybe this is my Christmas miracle.
But my moment of bliss is interrupted by his next text.
Should I drop it off at Winslow’s?
No! They might lose it I speed-text back. And then in a moment inspired both by my Christmas wish and every seize-the-day inspirational movie I’ve ever seen, I type, We’re having our annual holiday cookie swap at my house this Thursday. Briggs family tradition and all. You should come. Also…question. What’s your last name?
There is also a number of perfectly logical reasons why inviting him is a bad idea and all of them pop into my brain as I wait for him to reply. Liam and Karolyn could embarrass me, not to mention Mom. It might be awkward. We might have nothing to talk about. Our neighbors might ask weird questions. He’s dairy- or gluten-free. He is a weirdo who hates cookies. He—
Travers.
And I’d love to
And just like that, the annual Briggs Family Cookie Swap got a whole lot merrier.