A Christmas Delight

3. Chapter Three

Chapter Three

I leave work both exhausted and content. Nina and I part ways in front of the Donut Delight. It’s snowing again, and I tighten my knit scarf around my neck, fitting my beanie on my head. I can barely see anything. It’s both dark and white at the same time, except for the Christmas lights hanging onto the streetlights.

I turn onto Spring Road, knowing my house is somewhere to the right a little further away, but I can’t really keep my eyes open to see it as snow rushes to my face. That won’t be enough to dampen my spirits. I’m not afraid of storms. Or the cold. I live in the cutest village, and I opened a donut shop with my best friend. I’m going to have my very own Christmas. No stupid gift from Mom this year. And if she sends me one, I’ll open it after Christmas.

Finally, I reach my house. Although not big, it’s a nice upgrade from the apartment I was in until now. Here the houses look similar, all made of old stone, with clean little front yards and white picket fences. I can’t really see the details with all that snow, though. They blend and blur together as I walk past them, heading toward my car that’s parked across the street. There was an empty, clean spot yesterday, so I took it, thinking I’d have time to shovel the snow off my driveway today. It’s dark, and I don’t really want to do it, but I’m going to have to, or it’ll freeze over. Oh, and I have that big box in my trunk.

I stop in front of what I think is my car, buried under ten inches of snow now, compared to six this morning. I really made things harder on myself by waiting. I have to clean this up if I want to open the trunk of the car. Inside which is the shovel. Very smart, Maisie. Very smart.

Taking in a big breath of icy air, I scrape the snow off my trunk with my gloved hands, big snowflakes slapping my face. By the time I do that, my knit gloves are soaked, and my fingers feel like icicles ready to snap. I’ll have to go inside the house and change my gloves before I can finish the job. I leave the shovel in the trunk for now and only grab my big box. My boots crunching in the snow, I aim for the general direction of my house, my eyes half closed as the snow assails me.

My feet almost trip on the first step leading to the porch. I regain my balance, quickly glancing around to make sure no one saw me. My arm is on fire from holding the box, and when I try to put it down, it slips and falls heavily on the porch, making way more noise than I thought it would.

It’s a struggle to pull my keys out of my bag with my wet gloves on, so I take them off, instantly regretting my decision. My fingers are numb, and it takes me three tries to insert the key into the keyhole. I turn it, but it doesn’t budge. I frown at it, trying to turn it again, with no result.

“Oh no. No, no, no, don’t do this to me, new house.”

I pull on the key, trying to get it out, but it’s stuck. I’m stuck outside.

That’s when I hear a noise and freeze on the spot. Footsteps. Inside my house. My heart in my throat, I pull at my key, but it still won’t move. I shake it frantically, my mind screaming at me to leave the thing behind and run for my life.

The door flies open in front of me, wrenching the key out of my hand. The tallest man I’ve ever seen stands in the doorway, his face crowded by shadows.

“What the hell?” he growls.

His deep voice makes me jump, and I take a step back. What the hell? I’m the one who should ask that. “This… This is my house,” I stammer.

A beat of silence follows. “Are you drunk?”

Anger rises in my chest. “Me? I’m not the one who’s in someone else’s house. Are you drunk?”

“This is my house.”

“No, it’s not. Five Spring Road, this is—”

The light turns on above my head, illuminating the man’s face. I recognize him instantly. It’s the lumberjack. Otherwise known as the town’s grump.

“This is number three,” he says. He leans over slightly and points to my right. “Number five’s over there.”

I glance at the number on the wall next to the door—number three—and a little gasp catches in my throat. Any traces of cold leave my skin, and hot flashes of embarrassment take their place as I feel my soul leaving my body. I went to the wrong house. I went to someone’s house and actually tried to open their door with my key. “Oh.”

“What was it? Whiskey? Vodka?”

I look back at him, through the snowflakes still working hard at sticking to my lashes. I see light behind him and a furnished living room that doesn’t resemble mine at all—it’s furnished, for God’s sake. Mine has boxes piled everywhere.

I swallow. “I don’t drink.”

He squints. “Drugs?”

His condescending tone would make me mad if it wasn’t for the fact that I almost broke into his house. “I am so sorry…” I pick up the box at my feet, my cold fingers aching. “I’m not drunk, just stupid, I guess. Sorry to have bothered you.”

I turn around and struggle down the three steps. I wish he would just go back inside his house and shut the door, but there’s no noise behind me, and I can easily imagine him standing there, judging me. As he should. I can’t believe I tried to get into someone else’s home.

“You’re forgetting your keys.”

I freeze, steeling myself before facing the judgmental giant a second time. Maybe the snow on his roof will fall and make me disappear, ridding the world of my stupidity.

My legs carry me back up the three steps, my box in my arms. I can see the man is waiting for me to grab my keys, but I already know I won’t be able to get them out.

I clear my throat, wishing more than ever that the earth would split open under me and swallow me. “It’s stuck.”

He raises his eyebrows.

“When I tried to open the door, the key got stuck. I can’t get it out.”

The corner of his mouth quirks up. “That should have been a red flag.”

Quiet anger warms my stomach. “I made a mistake. I said I was sorry. Can you help me get it out?”

I’m afraid my tone is harsher than I wanted it to, and the man will get in my face the way he did this morning with the driver. But before I can apologize again, he takes hold of my key, wriggles it a little, and finally pulls it out. He holds them out for me without a word. As I grab my key, I can’t help but notice how much larger his hand is compared to mine. I’m not super petite, but far from tall either, and this guy could squash me like a mosquito if he wanted. I mutter some thanks, avoiding eye contact, and quickly leave.

Key in hand and box still close to my chest, I lean to the side to try to see the steps in front of me. They’re covered in snow. I hold the box with one arm so I can hold onto the banister, but as I do so, my foot slips on the first step. I don’t fall, but my body loses its balance before I can catch myself. The box tilts to the left and slips from my arm. I can already imagine it crashing down, shaking and breaking the items inside. The town’s grump will just stand there, again giving me this seething, judgmental look. It unfolds in slow motion in my mind, as clear as day, but in the way it’s falling, I can’t stop it.

The box has barely left my arm when large hands catch it mid-fall. The giant easily puts the box on his shoulder and walks down the porch’s steps, crosses the common driveway, and heads to my house. I follow after him, hopping around because my boots sink in the snow, while he walks almost gracefully, unbothered by the storm. His side of the driveway has been cleaned today, with only fresh snow gathering on his pickup truck. My side is a mess.

He reaches my house before I do and drops my belongings on my porch.

“Thanks,” I say as I join him, dusting the snow off my beanie and jacket.

“I heard those Christmas songs you were playing last night. Try to keep them down, yeah?”

Without leaving me a second to respond, he goes back to his house. I watch him go, relieved that this horrifying, embarrassing moment is finally over.

That’s when it dawns on me.

This grizzly bear of a man, the town’s grump, is my neighbor. Out of all the neighbors I could have had, he’s the one I get. And he hates me.