I hit my head against my steering wheel, thunking it again and again.
Dumped for a cat. Thunk. Evicted by a scrooge. Thunk. Merry freaking Christmas. Thunk.
My car, a decades old, canary yellow Ford is so cold the steering wheel is like an ice chunk and the vinyl seats are like ice cubes.
The engine is on, coughing phlegmatically in the winter cold, but it takes a good twenty minutes for the engine to stop wheezing and hacking and start heating.
I let out a sigh and a cloud of winter mist hangs in front of me. I shiver and rub my gloved hands over my arms. I’m in my snowflake scarf, my fluffy boots, and my puffy coat, but it’s going to be a bit before I’ll feel even remotely warm.
My windshield is covered in a thin layer of frost. The LED Christmas lights hanging from my rearview mirror flash, and the red and green lights flickering in the cold confines of my car are like a portent of trouble to come.
This part of Midtown is quiet. The only noises I hear outside of my frosted, grumbling car are the snowplows scraping the streets and the salt trucks rumbling past.
It’s a light snow, it won’t be more than two inches, and right now the flakes fall fat and light, like angels’ feathers floating down from heaven.
But all the same, the night and the snow have driven most people inside. Back to their homes to have mulled cider, or hot cocoa, and cuddle on the couch with a book and a blanket.
Thinking of home makes my gut clench, a panicky, desperate sort of feeling. Tomorrow all of my neighbors are going to receive the worst Christmas present ever.
I think about Maria and Daryl Lawson. They have two girls, Felicity who is eight and Bianca who is four. This past year, Bianca was in and out of the hospital; she had pediatric heart surgery. I helped Maria decorate their apartment, so that Bianca could have the best Christmas ever.
At home.
If Gabe Cavanaugh delivers those notices it won’t be the best Christmas ever. Not even close. The Lawsons deserve a happy Christmas.
So does Mrs. Givenchy.
She spends every day taking care of others and then she comes home and does little things for her neighbors—dropping off cookies, picking up their newspaper, delivering homemade soup if she hears they’re sick. Her husband died five years ago, at seventy-one, and she says what keeps her going is her work and the family she’s made in our building.
The Tsangs, they are the kindest couple I know. They plant flowers in the building’s window boxes in the spring, summer, and fall, and in the winter Mr. Tsang delivers poinsettias to every home in the building.
I’ve lived in my building for six years, ever since I graduated from college, got myself a job as an interior designer at a furniture store, and then saved, saved, saved until I could start my own business.
It’s my home.
I sniff, my nose numb from the cold. My car smells like gingerbread and ice. I’d usually find the smell comforting, but now it reminds me of Gabe, and it just makes me feel helpless, powerless.
There’s nothing I can do to help my friends.
Nothing.
And tomorrow, I was supposed to drive up to Romeo with my fiancé to spend a joyful Christmas with my family.
When they find out I was very wrong about Jason’s big question, my brother Felix will laugh, my dad will grunt and say Jason wasn’t good enough for me, and my mom will get a worried expression and say, why don’t you move back to Romeo, where you’ll be sure to find your soul mate?
The thing is, I don’t want to move back to Romeo. I like my home (sob). I like my business. I’ve worked hard. It’s successful. People love what I do. I’m good at it. And isn’t it possible that I might find true love here?
My phone rings, “Deck the Halls” blaring loudly in my car. I tug it out of my purse, expecting my mom. Instead it’s an unknown number, but the area code is for Romeo.
“Hello?”
There’s Christmas music on the other end and lots of voices.
“Who is this?” a woman with a very familiar voice asks. “Hello? Hello?”
“Hello? I’m here. Miss Erma, is that you?”
I swear it is. Miss Erma is famous in Romeo. She’s the reason my parents are married, thus she’s the reason I exist. I’m pretty grateful to her for that.
The rest of the town is grateful too, considering she’s matched about eleventy-thousand people with their soul mate. Miss Erma is the major reason my mom keeps asking me to come home. Because if I’m not near Miss Erma, how will she see my soul mate?
Mom logic.
Miss Erma makes a humph noise and says, “Of course it’s me. Who else would it be? I call you every week.”
Errr. No. “Umm, Miss Erma? This is Natalie Fiorre.”
I haven’t actually spoken to Miss Erma since last year’s Christmas Parade. She asked me if I’d made the mistletoe earrings I was wearing (I had).
The snowplow rumbles by again, scraping the pavement and making my car shake and vibrate as it rolls past. My car is moving from its wheezing, freezing stage to its nearly warm but not quite stage.
“Natalie! I didn’t know you started working at the pizza parlor. I thought you were an interior designer.” Then before I can respond, Miss Erma says loudly, “Wanda, you won’t believe it, Natalie’s working at Romeo Pizza now! Who’s Natalie? Natalie Fiorre! Jerry and Roberta’s daughter, the curly-haired one that went to New York to be a designer. Well I don’t know why she’s working at the pizza place, you’ll have to ask her—”
“Miss Erma, I’m not…” I pinch the space between my eyebrows and shake my head. “I’m not working at the pizza parlor.”
“Well why are you answering their phone then?”
“Umm. I answered my phone. You called me.”
“No. I called Romeo Pizza and you answered. Hang on, Wanda, I’m getting to it. Okay. Natalie, I know you’re new, so I’ll go slow. Wanda wants a thin crust, no sauce, extra cheese, pineapple on one quarter, green peppers on one quarter, and sausage on the other half. And I want a thick crust, extra sauce, cheese, feta, olives, and bacon…oh wait, not bacon, Wanda says I’ll like the chipotle sausage. Is that chipotle sausage any good?”
I blink, holding my phone to my ear, and shake my head. “I…I have no idea. I guess it would be?”
“Hmm. You should learn the toppings if you’re going to work at the pizza place.”
“But…I’m not. I’m Natalie. I’m not Romeo Pizza. This isn’t their number.”
The music is loud on her end, and as I speak, there’s a cheer.
“What did you say?” Miss Erma asks. “It’s our holiday party tonight. It’s a great time, but the food is terrible. Lucky for us, we have you.”
Okay.
Got it.
I’m going to have to call Romeo Pizza and put in Miss Erma and Wanda’s order.
The frost on my windshield is thawing, the ice melting, leaving clear glass behind. The air is less ice and more gingerbread, and my nose isn’t quite so numb.
I can drive home now, get some sleep, head to Romeo in the morning. Figure things out.
But…I have Miss Erma on the line.
She’s smart. She’s wise.
“Miss Erma, I have a question.”
“Yes, dear?”
“I met someone today. He hates Christmas. He broke his ex-girlfriend’s heart, he turned away charity, he makes his employees work overtime on Christmas day, he called my decorations a vulgar display, he’s the epitome of a modern Scrooge. And tomorrow he’s delivering eviction notices to everyone in my building. And I was wondering…what I should do?”
“Do?” asks Miss Erma.
“Yes,” I say, gripping my phone tightly, “What should I do?”
“Hmm. What’s his name?”
“Gabe Cavanaugh,” I say, his name as soft as a snowflake melting on my tongue.
“I suppose what you should do is bring him home for Christmas.”
I blink, shocked, the still cold vinyl seat pressing against my thighs. “Sorry?”
“Isn’t that what happened to Scrooge? The ghosts dragged him around, making him see the error of his ways? Well, drag him around. Give him some Christmas spirit. That’ll fix everything.”
“Christmas spirit?”
“Mhmm.”
I shake my head, trying to think about what Miss Erma is recommending. “Are you saying I should force him to experience Christmas?”
“Did I say that? Hmm. Well, I’m sure an opportunity will fall into your lap. Like a Christmas present appearing under the tree! What’s that, Wanda? Oh, Natalie, Wanda says she wants an order of garlic knots too. How long will it be until our pizza gets here?”
I frown, “Umm. Forty-five minutes?”
“Perfect. Good luck,” Miss Erma says, her voice warm, “and good luck with your new job. Merry Christmas!”
“Merry Christmas,” I say automatically, and then Miss Erma is gone.
I smile to myself, the quiet of the car surrounding me, then I look up Romeo Pizza’s number and phone in Miss Erma’s order.
After I’m done, my car is warm, my steering wheel is no longer an icicle, and the road has been plowed and salted. I can head home.
I’ll crawl into my bed and sleep the night away. Then rested, I’ll head up to Romeo.
But forcing Gabe Cavanaugh to experience Christmas cheer?
That’s not gonna happen.
While Miss Erma may know a lot about soul mates, I guess she doesn’t know as much about scrooges.
I highly doubt that some candy canes and mistletoe are going to thaw his heart.
I shift my car into drive and put my turn signal on. As I’m about to pull out, there’s a forceful, impatient knock on my passenger door.
It’s Gabe Cavanaugh.