Stuck With My Christmas Crush (Sweet Christmas Kisses)

2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Charlie

I regret my decision to take Belleview Road, to avoid the snarl-up on the main highway, almost immediately, as a loud clunk from somewhere underneath Bertie is followed by an ominous whirring sound. Then, there’s no power as my foot pumps the accelerator and I coast over to the side of the road. And stop.

Part of me is thankful that this broken car drama didn’t happen while I was on the four-lane highway. But as I take in the empty road, up ahead and behind, this situation sucks every which way I look at it.

I find my phone and call Lou to tell her what’s happened. Her phone clicks straight to voicemail, so I leave a message in my best calm, I-can-handle-this voice.

“Hey Lou… So, it’s all on me if I get hacked to pieces, huh? Taking an alternative route to avoid traffic and then this happens. Alright. So maybe I shouldn’t have said the ax-murder bit out loud. Haha. I hope you guys got home safe. I’m going to call roadside assistance now. Love you. See you very soon. Muah!”

I hang up the call and take a moment to breathe and assess my predicament. Bertie’s engine trouble might be something as simple as a busted fan belt. Do cars even have fan belts these days? I remember an old black and white film where the very glamorous heroine fixed her broken down car by removing her pantyhose, tying the elasticated length into a loop, thus stylishly replacing the busted fan belt without chipping a nail, removing her headscarf, or wayfarers. I pop the hood in preparation to investigate, although I have no idea what I’m investigating.

Maybe Bertie stopped because he’s out of gas? Unlikely, as I filled up this morning. Unless someone siphoned it out while we were performing at the event. I’ve seen that somewhere too, although I can’t remember where. Also, I know what happens when Bertie is out of gas. It has happened before, and it was nothing like this. When Bertie ran out of gas, he just stopped. There wasn’t the clunk or the whirring. I suddenly feel a bit overwhelmed by being broken down at the side of a very quiet country road. But I’m determined to remain positive and not to give in to despair or my over-active theatrical imaginings.

As if holding my phone is keeping me calm, I scroll through my contacts and find the roadside assistance number. I hit dial and wait. The ringtones fade in and out which isn’t a good sign regarding connectivity, but at last, someone on the other end of the line picks up.

“Road Recovery. How may I help you today?”

The friendly operator takes my details and tells me that there’s a three-hour wait for a recovery vehicle to come and assist. She asks if that would be okay. I say, not really, but what choices do I have? Then, she says that I should stay with the vehicle and have my phone switched on to receive calls from the recovery vehicle driver.

“That’s all fine and dandy,” I say trying to sound upbeat and positive but knowing I probably don’t because my phone is almost out of charge. “It was charging in the car but now the car is non-functional, so that’s not happening anymore.” I check the screen to see I have two bars remaining .

“We’re doing what we can ma’am and we’ll be with you as soon as possible.”

The operator hangs up as a late-model dark blue Chevrolet pickup passes me, heading in the direction of Ridgewood. It must have come out of a driveway because it definitely wasn’t on the road behind me. The Chevy stops and makes a U-turn. I hold my phone poised to dial the police, hoping the two bars of charge will be enough to make an emergency call. The Chevy stops in front of Bertie. My heart is pounding in my throat when the driver's door opens and a tall, well-built guy gets out. He walks towards me. I’m frozen in my seat, but then I pull myself together. Shoulders back. Chin up.

The handsome driver asks if I’m okay and if I need any help. I’m still untrusting but then a little girl hops down from the backseat and asks me if I was the fairy at her friend’s party.

How cool that she remembers. It takes me a while to think back to a birthday party for a little girl called Isabel. She was six years old and her cat, Custard, caused a commotion because he jumped on the food table to eat the carrot cake. I think he was just interested in licking the cream cheese frosting, and not eating the cake. I’m pretty sure cats don’t like carrots .

Thinking about Custard and the carrot cake commotion suddenly jolts my memory, and I recognize the handsome Chevy driver. I thought he looked familiar, but my current headspace had attached his features to a police identikit image of a serial killer, and not the hot guy who turned up at a little girl’s summer birthday party as I was leaving. I’m trying not to stare. He didn’t have a beard then, and he wasn’t wearing a roll-neck sweater and puffer jacket. I only caught a glimpse through the van window as Lou was driving away, but I remember him, for sure.

There are some things that are so rare and beautiful - such as a four-leaf clover; or a pink sapphire; or the Northern Lights; or a unicorn; or a hot guy at a kid’s birthday party – that you just don’t forget.

Lou, who was also performing at that party, spotted him too as she pulled away from the curb.

“Gosh, what a nice-looking man,” she said with obvious appreciation.

“Where?”

“Honestly, Charlie. You’re a terrible liar.” Lou steers the van into the traffic. “I saw you looking.”

“Louise. It’s a fact.” I say adamantly. “There are no sexy guys at kids’ birthday parties. And, if there were, we shouldn’t be looking. It’s not right. ”

“No, my friend. It is not a fact. There are sexy guys. But they are, mostly, all taken.” Lou leans an elbow across to nudge me. “But you are allowed to look. That is a fact.”

“No, Lou. I am a highly trained professional performer, and I don’t notice such banal things. Checking out hot guys is beneath me. I don’t stoop to such base levels, especially when I’m wearing fairy wings and glitter.”

We drive on in silence for a moment, then Lou says, “Acknowledging the beauty of a person, male or female, is like admiring a painting, or a piece of art. You can appreciate the pleasing aesthetic...” She glances at me and smiles. “…from a distance.”

Louise knows me too well. I try not to notice ‘pleasing aesthetic’ in a man because the last time I did, it was disastrous. I ended up an emotional wreck from a relationship that was taxing from the start, to a breakup that was messy and awful, at the end. I never want to go through that kind of pain and heartache ever again.

Luckily, my wonderful friend and her partner, Calvin, had a spare room at their place for me to escape to. And hugs and a fridge full of food. It’s a temporary address that I still reside at two years down the track. I am so grateful for their love and care.

Still, my roommate status is only until I get things figured out. But every time I raise the subject of moving on, Lou shakes her head and says, “Why? We love having you here.” She tells me my contribution in rent helps pay the mortgage. So, I’m still in their spare room. And happily so. For now.

I pull my faux fur jacket up around my shoulders as my mind reflects on that sunny August afternoon. As Lou and I drove away, I said, “Well done,” out loud. Like Phoebe in the episode of Friends with Brad Pitt, when she sends up a prayer to the heavens acknowledging the creation of a truly excellent male human. Yes. Well done on creating a gorgeous man, however out of reach.

So, from a safe distance, I hold the memory of the hot guy from the summer birthday party like a secret treasure I can take out and look at any time I want. Like a beautiful picture on a gallery wall - his handsome face; his broad shoulders; his dark, wavy hair; the light in his eyes when they met mine through the van window. Pow! The image is crystalized in a freeze-frame that I can replay over and over in my mind. No one else needs to know.

Standing beside my broken beetle, at the side of the road, the vivid realization slowly dawns like a fuzzy image through a viewfinder coming into sharp focus. My eyes widen, and I close my mouth because the hot guy from the summer party is the same hot guy standing in front of me now. The drumming in my chest is for a different reason than hopeless despair.

Although, the handsome man on the roadside in front of me could still be a savage serial killer, after weighing up the facts and evidence – the little girl and the kind offer of a jump start - the probability might be illustrated with a diagonal down-sliding graph, where the point of absolutely positive one-hundred-percent chance of death and mutilation is high up on the y axis, and descends to a point on the x axis, at an absolute zero chance of death and mutilation.

My hand covers my mouth and a wave of relief washes over me. I almost faint.

The little girl is concerned about leaving me at the side of the road, but I convince them that I’m fine and help is on the way.

“Merry Christmas,” I say as I wave goodbye.

Maddie gets back into the cab, but the hot guy stays. We stand facing each other, caught in a moment where neither of us moves along. He seems hesitant to leave. Then my phone rings, which breaks the moment. It’s the roadside recovery people.

“I’d better get this,” I say with my best bravest smile. The hot guy smiles, nods, then turns to leave.