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“Wrapping books is my favorite,” she says. “So simple. Nothing at all like wrapping an animal. Trust me when I say, don’t ever try wrapping a dog.”
I raise my brows. I am not going to ask. I have a feeling that if I do, I will never get home with enough time to watch my Christmas movie, and I have a favorites countdown that I am religious about. Still, I’m touched that she’s going to such effort for me and for no apparent reason, so I smile and agree with her.
She finishes and hands me the expertly wrapped notebook. When my fingers touch the gift, the door from outside opens and swirls of snow blow in. It feels magical—like a sign. No, like fate. Goosebumps run down my arms, and for a second, I feel like a kid who actually believes in that sort of thing. I’m losing my mind. The holidays make people crazy every year. This time, it’s me. Clearly, I was up too late with yesterday’s movie and have been on my feet too long today. I need to go home ASAP.
I thank the kind cashier woman, ready to run with my bag of candy canes in hand.
“Wait,” she says. “Don’t forget to write your Christmas wish list as soon as possible! There’s only sixteen days left until the big day. It’s important you give kismet time to work its charm.” She smiles, but even though she is done talking, I hear her unsaid words in my head.You don’t want to be watching Christmas movies alone forever.
I’m scared about the state of my mind. I should’ve bought my chocolate therapy. I give her a polite wave and hurry away. Before long, I navigate the snowy roads to my home—the left side of a duplex with charming red doors and a dated couch inside calling my name.
But even after I unload my candy canes, eat my leftover enchiladas, change into my sweats, and crash on the couch with my remote, I can’t seem to focus on my movie. Did my roomies have to make plans at the same time? I won’t see either of them until Monday. No one is around to distract me from myself. The word kismet keeps dinging around in my head like a pinball machine with Mrs. Cashier Claus pulling the lever on repeat.
I make myself popcorn, but the salty snack doesn’t distract me. I even try stretching on the floor, knowing how it usually relaxes me. It doesn’t work this time.
I hit the off button on my movie before the end and eye my wrapped notebook. Just because someone told me to make a Christmas list doesn’t mean I have to make one. My life doesn’t depend on it, and frankly, neither does my Christmas. I don’t really need anything. I have a great place, two fantastic roommates, and a classroom full of kids to love. Besides, who wouldn’t want a quiet weekend all to themselves?
Without the buzz from the TV, the room is eerily still. My Christmas tree and other decorations normally cheer me, but not today. In one swipe, loneliness licks the satisfied smile from my face. I do my best to fight it, but the emptiness of the room presses on me.
I grab my phone and check the time. I need a lifeline, and I’m calling a friend. Jocelyn is still at her cousin’s wedding and has tons of responsibilities over the makeup and hair, so Gabby it is. She gets to be the lucky roomie who can’t get out of hearing my woes, even if she’s having a weekend sleepover with her sister. Hopefully, her practical mindset will talk some sense into me.
Gabby answers with a cheerful, “Hey Brie! Is it too quiet over there?”
“Maybe.” She knows me too well. I feel a little lame calling her when she’s supposed to be spending time with her Irish twin who is rarely in town. Not to mention I saw Gabby at lunch since we work at the same elementary school. “I need five minutes of adult conversation."
"I will never say no to a plea like that."
"Thanks. Tell me what fun things you have planned with Sophia, and I'll leave you alone.”
I listen politely as she fills me in. She adds a funny thing a student did today. She teaches music so her stories include kids from kindergarten through fifth grade. When she turns the question around, I tell her briefly about my experience at the store, ending with the gift of the notebook, but leaving out the kismet part. I doubt she’s heard of the term. And why would she? Gabby isn't fascinated with fate like I am.
“What a sweet and slightly strange cashier. Have you started your list yet?"
“You were supposed to tell me it's a ridiculous idea. Besides, I don’t need anything.”
Gabby huffs. “You're entitled to a little ridiculous. A Christmas list is about what youwant, not need. You’re an elementary teacher, for heaven’s sake. This is preschool stuff.”
I give a short laugh. “But I’m also an adult, and last I checked, Santa isn’t real. Making this list isn’t going to magically get me everything I want.”
“Wow, you’re a romantic. You can’t talk like that. People are going to start confusing you with me.”
I pick at a thread snag on my worn hot-pink sweats. If being a sentimental sap who dreams about love more than what is healthy, then yes, I’m guilty of being a romantic. “Even romantics lose their faith once in a while, Gabby. Besides, I read about the discontentment factor in one of those books you loaned me. You of all people should know, it doesn’t do a person any favors to focus on what you lack.”
“Keep it simple,” she advises. “It could be a good distraction for you. You're always thinking about what everyone else needs. It's your turn."
I smirk. “Fine, I’ll writeI want a manacross the top in bold letters.”
Gabby laughs. “Your words, not mine.”
“I guess it wouldn’t hurt to write a little list. I do believe in the spirit of Christmas.” How easily convinced I am. Maybe I’m not a romantic. Maybe I’m a sucker.
“That’s my girl,” Gabby says through the phone. “Make yourself some hot cocoa and call me later. We’re about to start a ping-pong tournament, so I’ve got to run.”
I end the call, and before I can stop myself, I grab the notebook and a few colored gel pens. I unwrap my gift and spend way too long decorating my wish list title across the first page with holly berries on the corners. My slippered feet are up on a large brown-leather ottoman, but for some reason, I’m uncomfortable.
If I’m meant to be single forever, I can’t change it by wishing for it. But if I can . . . which I can’t . . . I wouldn’t wish for just any man. I would go all out and wish for the only guy I’ve ever loved.
I’d wish for Rockwell Davenport. A die-hard romantic would label him the cinnamon roll type. The good guy who cares about everyone, respects women, and has the manners of a gentleman. Yep. He’s a cinnamon roll. Ultra yummy, inside and out.
