by Traci Finlay
“So how do you like it?” Jack asks, his hand guiding my lower back through a crowd of people.
I take a deep breath and turn to him with a fake grin the size of a scythe. “This place is fun!” I force. “It’s like Christmas in the middle of summer. I wanna go to that huge Christmas store. Bronner’s.” I stop for a pair of Clydesdales pulling a carriage across the street and point down at the pamphlet I’m holding entitled, Frankenmuth: Michigan’s Little Bavaria.
It’s an adorable little town, but the truth is, I hate Christmas. Loathe it. And if Jack had taken me to this little tinsel town in December, I would’ve formed a riot. But the fact that candy canes and wreaths are utilized as summer-month decor fills me with a whimsical rebellion, a faux Christmas that leaves me feeling fanciful and childlike without having to indulge in authentic Yuletide depression.
When I think of it that way, I actually like the place.
Besides, it’s the most charming little tourist town I’ve ever seen. Cadillac is a concrete industrial factory compared to this. The streets are lined with little German buildings: a cheese haus next to a sausage haus, candy stores boasting of world-famous fudge and salt water taffy, a clock company with swarms of elegant grandfather and quirky cuckoo clocks, an antique toy store and museum, a restaurant named Tiffany’s, and more petunias than I’ve ever seen are riddled amongst the Eurocentric town.
Jack smiles proudly. “I knew you’d love it. Wait until you see it at night. The lights are all over the city.” We pass a gift shop with a music box in the window tinkling “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” as a woman wearing a dirndl stands outside the Bavarian Inn, waving and calling, “Willkommen!” to passersby.
“Hey, come in here for a sec.” Jack pulls me into a vintage ice cream parlor. The smell of waffle cones and cotton candy hits my nose and chokes my spirits. This reminds me too much of Ashby’s, and the magical aura to which I’d earlier succumbed is spoiled by hints of reality gouging at its shimmery veil.
I gaze out the window as Jack orders from a blond teenager with pigtail braids wrapped around her head. I scan the heads of people walking by as they bob in and out of taverns and cottages and bed & breakfasts…
“What are you looking at?”
I nearly plow into a row of gumball machines, turning to see Jack holding a spoonful of ice cream in my face. “Ian, you scared me.” And I did not just call him Ian. My cheeks heat up as I attempt to measure his elusive barometer level.
He detours the spoon into his own mouth and nods slowly. “Okay,” he says. “Okay, follow me.” He drags me by the wrist—I hate being dragged by the wrist, why do he and Nikka keep doing that?—down the street to a plot of grass that’s either an elegant bus stop or the world’s smallest park.
He forces me down onto a picnic table and shoves a lump of ice cream in my mouth as he sits next to me and leans his back against the tabletop. “Do you like it?” he asks.
I nod. “That’s Mackinac Island Fudge, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” he says, clearly disappointed. “You’ve had it before?”
I giggle. “I do live in Michigan, and I did work at an ice cream parlor for a while.” He sighs and tosses the cup into a garbage can, and I kick myself for annihilating my one chance at redemption. I feel like I need to keep talking. “We used to go to Traverse City every year for the annual cherry festival, and they made this homemade black cherry ice cream. Have you ever tried that?”
“No.”
“Oh.” Shut up, Charlotte.
My eyes follow a windy path to a brown and white cottage on a water-milled river, petunias of ferocious magenta spilling over the window box. “This place is really pretty,” I comment, then, biting my lip, I look at Jack.
He’s eyeing me, and he’s plotting. I see the wheels turning in his head. I look back to the watermills. They’re much more pleasant to watch turning—they’d never be pissed if I accidentally called them Ian.
“I know you’re worried,” he says. “As much as I try to get your mind off it, I see you looking around, waiting for him to pop out of nowhere.”
I hang my head. Jack’s going out of his way to make this a special day for me, and I keep screwing it up. “I’m sorry. I’m really trying not to. I just wish there was a way to speed it up a little.”
“I understand,” he says, rubbing his hands on his knees. “You know what I was thinking?”
I watch a little girl lapping on a giant lollipop holding her dad’s hand. “What?” I ask absently.
He clears his throat. “I was thinking of all those stories you’ve told me where Ian just shows up out of nowhere. I kinda see a pattern. Do you want to see him, Charlotte? You wanna see if it works?”
I jerk my head toward him. “Is he here?”
He puts his hand on my arm. “Relax. I doubt it. But I think I figured out a way to find out.”
“How?”
“Well, this maniac seems to manifest any time you’re about to kiss someone. I mean, if you want to get all this off your mind and do what you have to do.”
“That’s true,” I whisper, and my hands start to shake.
“Do you want to see him? To tell him you know about your dad?”
I nod, and it’s not clear whether I’m nodding because I want to see Ian or because I want to kiss Jack, but that’s pretty much a no-brainer…
He places his fingers on my jaw and steers my head toward his, tilting down to press his lips into mine. I shut my eyes and lean into him, my pulse quickening at the intensity of his mouth moving over my own. His tongue is cold with ice cream, but his lips are warm, and any sensitivity he lacks in words or demeanor is damn well compensated in the way he kisses. Good God.
I finally pull away and look around, calming my quivering hands. “He’s not here,” I whisper and look back at him.
Inches from my face, he masks a sly grin and shrugs. “It was worth a shot.”
“Jack!” I shriek, shoving him and rocketing off the picnic table. “You took advantage of me!”
He laughs. “Come back here,” he jokes, reaching for my arm, but I jerk away. “It’s not funny. You purposely made me vulnerable toward something you know I’m sensitive about, with no intention to rectify it.” I storm away from him, and once again, stop at the corner with no place to go. I exhale, and my body deflates like a five-day-old birthday balloon. I look at Jack, who’s standing where I left him, exactly how I expect him to be—slanted, amused, and sexy as hell, and I’ll be damned if I didn’t just kiss Jack Swaring.
He starts toward me, and I turn away, hiding the warm, thick blood swirling through my face. “Hey,” he says, placing his hand on my shoulder. “When are you going to realize that whenever you’re left with no place to go, I’m always right behind you?”
And that’s my undoing. I turn around and look in his eyes, detecting equal parts humor and seriousness.
“Look, I’m sorry I took advantage of you. But I think you should know that your face is red.” He laughs again, and I turn away. “You liked it!” he teases. “Admit it.”
I can’t remember how to speak. Jack and his kissing screwed with me, and I don’t know up from down right now. I just want to kiss him some more, and keep kissing him until the world makes sense again.
“Oh, come on, Charlotte! Did you really think your brother would just come bursting out of nowhere the moment I kissed you? Like he’s been spying on us all day? Maybe he’d jump out from behind Frosty over there, wearing an alpine hat and short little Lederhosen, right?”
I cover my mouth because Jack is making me smile and how dare he?
“He’d rip off his Norweger suspenders and start whipping me with them. Maybe smash a beer stein over my head. And kick me with his Berchtesgaden shoes.”
My shoulders jiggle through my angry façade.
“Mad little Charlotte isn’t laughing, is she?” he taunts, trying to spin me around, but I resist.
“Stop, Jack,” I manage through poorly masked giggles. He latch
es onto my wrist and tugs, and I finally give up and face him. My face is glowing, I feel it.
His eyes see only me—those stormy eyes that were always so intimidating are now empowering. I guess that’s what happens when you kiss a thunderstorm. “Admit it,” he repeats, pulling me into him.
I blow a wisp of hair from my face. “You’re a very good kisser,” I confess.
He raises his eyebrows expectantly and gives a little bow. “You’re welcome.”
I punch him hard in the arm. “Take me to the Christmas store, now. And no more of your little tricks. Not in front of the Virgin Mary.”
I fork at my chicken and slurp a swig of Coke through my straw. I refuse to look across the table, vowing that if he smirks at me one more time, I’m going to kiss the server, just to get the upper hand.
“What’s wrong?” I hear him say, and I accidentally glance up. But his face is poised, his demeanor solemn.
I lay my fork on my napkin and sigh. “Well, I was thinking. About what you said before you—” I glance up at him again—“defiled me.” I grin, and he winks at me. “I’m wondering if there really is a way to just … summon him. I’m so over this.” I tear my straw wrapper into jagged little trapezoids.
Jack rubs his chin thoughtfully. “There isn’t anyone you can call? No one at your house?”
“No. My house is completely empty right now.” I think of my bedroom with all my clothes and track medals and pictures of Chrissy and me rotting away.
And then there were none…
“Jeez, Charlotte. Don’t you have any friends you can call? Or did Ian forbid you from having a social life, as well?” Jack swirls the ice in his glass.
“Dana!” I holler.
Jack starts and looks around the restaurant. “The name’s Jack,” he whispers.
I shake my head excitedly. “No, I can call Dana! Can I use your phone to call Dana?”
He fishes it from his pocket, muttering about how sad it is that Dana has no last name or identity, much like Madonna or Abraham.
I punch in Dana’s number, praying it’s the same one from years ago.
“Hello?” she says.
“Dana?” I’m actually smiling.
“Yeah?” Dana answers as Jack comments how a dollar for every time he’s heard the word Dana chirped in the last twenty seconds would cover tax and tip on our meal.
I wave him off. “Hey, it’s Charlotte.” I wince and pull the phone away as Dana screams loudly enough for Jack to roll his eyes and exclaim how foolish it was to assume that Dana’s a friend from Cadillac and not a severe weather siren.
“Charlotte, I’ve been worried sick! I thought you were dead!”
I grunt. “I’m not dead. Not yet, anyway.”
“What happened? Last I saw you was when you came to The Five and got mad at me—again. Next thing I know, you’ve disappeared. Did he try to kill you like I said?”
I glance around and lower my voice. “He chased me around the house with an axe.” I’m really getting sick of saying that truth; they’re bizarre words that weren’t made to form in tandem off my tongue.
Dana draws a dramatic inhale. “Did he hurt you?”
“Naw.” I wish I had a dollar for every time Dana’s asked me that. That’d cover the remainder of the bill.
“Where did you go?”
“I ran to Lake City, then hitched a ride to Bay City the next morning. I stayed there a couple weeks until he found me, then took off to … should I be telling you this? I don’t want to get you interrogated.”
Dana pauses. “Charlotte, I haven’t seen Ian since the night he … you know we don’t talk.”
“But he might think you know where I am and come looking for you,” I suggest.
Dana laughs. “Listen to yourself, honey. Has Ian ever needed help finding you?”
“Well, no. So what’s going on there?”
“Well, there is something. Have you talked to anyone here lately? Have you heard?” Dana asks.
“Heard what?”
“I don’t think I should tell you over the phone. You need to come home and see for yourself.”
I brace my hand on the table. “What’s wrong?”
Dana’s breathing hard. “I can’t say, Char. You have to trust me. Please come home.”
“Dana, so help me, if this is some stupid scheme to get back at me—”
“I promise, it’s not, Charlotte. I swear on my life. If I had any idea how to get ahold of you, I would’ve called you days ago. When can you get here?”
I look at Jack and set my jaw. “In a few hours. Call this number if you need to get ahold of me. And Dana, only in an emergency.” I end the call, place the phone on the table, and deliberately slide it across to Jack, mafia-style. “You have to take me home,” I announce, folding my hands and eyeballing him like I’ve just demanded an outrageous ransom.
He blinks. “Why?”
I shrug, assuming my natural citizen profile. “Dana said there’s something there I need to see.”
He looks at me suspiciously. “What is it?”
“I don’t know, Jack,” I say, irritated. “I have no idea.”
“It’d better not be your brother with a jackhammer!”
“Dana wouldn’t call me home if he were there. She was the one who prompted me to leave.”
Jack slides out of the booth. “Remind me to shake the hand of this Dana chick. She really ruined my life.”
I stick my tongue out at him. “Shut up and take me home.”
It was Christmas Eve, and I muted the television as soon as a jingly rendition of Deck the Halls opened for a Kleenex commercial. I grabbed the corner of Razzle Dazzle’s afghan and drew it over my feet, glancing at the thermostat as my breaths ballroom-danced in coupled vapors from my mouth.
Ian would be home from work soon, and I still hadn’t folded the laundry. I knew he’d yell at me, but I didn’t care. I was too cold and grumpy to fold stupid laundry.
“Open up!” I heard through a vibration of knuckles against the window. I trudged to the door and swung it open to Dana’s eyes protruding from her scarf-enveloped face and a duffel bag propped on her shoulder. “It’s freezing outside,” Dana said as she stomped the snow off her boots, and I shivered from the icy wind that welcomed itself into the house.
“I know, and I think our heater’s broken again.” I retreated to Razzle Dazzle and wrapped myself in the afghan.
Dana hung her coat on the rack and hauled her bag to the couch. “Want me to call my uncle? He’ll fix it for you for cheap.”
“No. Ian will do it. What’s in the bag?”
Dana gave an exaggerated wince, pulling her lips back from her teeth. “Don’t be mad, okay?” She grabbed the zipper and slowly opened the bag.
“Dana, if that’s what I think it is…” I slammed my hand on the arm of Razzle Dazzle as she pulled out a rectangular box wrapped in snowflake paper. “Get it away from me!” I yelled. “I told you we don’t do Christmas anymore! I don’t know why this is hard for you!”
Dana’s face fell. “I know you don’t, Charlotte. But I do, and I always buy gifts for the people in my life. So just consider this a thank-you gift for being such a good friend.” She held the box out to me, and I shook my head with my hands tucked beneath the afghan.
“I’m not a good friend. And you better not have gotten anything for Ian. Not unless you want him to break up with you on Christmas Eve.”
She made a face and retrieved a smaller box wrapped in metallic red paper with a dark green bow. She twiddled it at me. “No?”
I gritted my teeth. “You’d better put both of those back in your little bag and take it out to your car, because Ian will be home any minute, and I’m in no mood to clean up broken glass and listen to him screaming, thank you very much.”
Her nostrils flared. “You don’t have to get so mad. I’m…” She flung the box back into her bag. “I’m really trying here.”
I glared at her. “Trying what?”
Dana exhaled, sending her bangs fanning upward. “Trying to make your guys’ lives as normal as possible.”
I smirked. “Well, perhaps you missed the clause in the contract you signed when deciding to involve yourself in our lives. We aren’t normal. Nothing about us is normal, and if you still want to wedge your way into our existence, you’re going to have to accept that and roll with the punches. The main one being that we don’t participate in holidays.”
She nodded as another round of arctic wind gusted through the door along with Ian in a thick winter coat. We glanced at each other as he hollered about the weather, and he hung his coat up before walking to Dana and kissing her. “When did you get here?”
She cleared her throat. “Just now.”
He turned to me and watched me stare silently at the muted television. “What’s the matter?” he asked, looking back and forth between his sister and his girlfriend.
I didn’t answer.
“Hey, Chuck! What’s wrong?” he repeated, then turned to Dana. “Are you guys fighting?”
Dana shrugged a shoulder and shifted uncomfortably.
Ian grinned. “What did she do to you?” he asked, sitting next to her and pulling her into a protective hug. “You tell me what my bully sister did to you. I’ll whip her good.”
I rolled my eyes and stood. “Go ahead, tell him. The broom’s in the closet,” I called as I marched into the kitchen, the afghan wrapped around my shoulders.
“Jeez, what happened?” I heard Ian say as I threw open the back door and gathered a few pieces of kindling from the porch.
Dana was sugarcoating my bad attitude by the time I stormed back into the living room and dropped the logs into the fireplace. “Ian, the heater’s broken again,” I announced. I stood and squared myself to them. Both stared at me with American Gothic faces. I sighed and turned to go to my room.
“Wait a minute,” Ian called.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I said, but he shot off the couch and intercepted my escape by snatching my arm.
“Are you really that mad at her?” Ian asked.
“No, it’s not about Dana.” I jerked out of his grip and turned to my friend, who had shriveled on the couch. “I’m not mad at you, Dana. You just don’t understand. You’ll never understand what this time of year is like for Ian and me.” My voice quivered, and Ian collected me in his arms. I melted into his chest.
