shuhaige
Chapter 1
Fa la la fucking la.
I can’t lay in bed all morning avoiding the day, and yet here I am.
The Christmas lights strung on the large snow-covered hedge outside my window do little to get me in the spirit of what needs to happen for the day. The reflection of the twinkling lights dance on the frosted windowpane, creating a myriad of colors. But it all feels hollow.
I draw in a deep breath, tasting pine and cinnamon from the scented candle I’ve kept lit since first waking in a failed attempt to get me in the mood for work.
Chloe Hallman, social media influencer, can’t exactly be a Scrooge during the holidays. Especially when you’re the brand ambassador for Moth to the Flame Designs, a jewelry company that makes a huge portion of their annual profits this time of year.
But right now, I’m a stark contrast to the polished, always cheerful Chloe Hallman who adorns Instagram feeds and social media timelines. The festive cheer, the joyful banter, and the lively pictures of me draping costume jewelry on with cherry cheeks are all part of the job. Chloe Hallman is a brand, an icon of merriment in the wintry days of December. But that’s not me, not today. Today, I’m just Chloe.
With a sigh, I throw back the cozy quilt and swing my legs over the edge of the bed. My feet touch the icy wooden floor as I rummage through my closet for a suitable outfit—something green and red perhaps, with a touch of gold. A laugh that should feel natural surfaces as I pull out a rather ostentatious Christmas jumper.
Remind me again why people love these things?
My phone rings, and I know there are only a few people in my life that would call me rather than text. Glancing at the screen, I see it’s Aunt Sue. Of course it’s her.
I hesitate for a moment before answering, the gaudy jumper still dangling from my other hand.
“Hi, Aunt Sue,” I say, trying to inject some cheer into my voice.
“Oh, sweetie! I’m so glad I caught you. I know you couldn’t make it to Thanksgiving this year, but we’d really love to have you for Christmas. I know flights are atrociously expensive right now, but I saw Southwest was running a deal to Phoenix and they really have increased in their customer service, and . . . yeah, anyway, I thought I’d give you a call.” Her voice is as warm and syrupy as ever.
I grimace, glad she can’t see my face. “I really appreciate the invite but—”
“I know you said you’re allergic to cats, but they have great medicine for that now and—”
“Aunt Sue,” I interrupt, pinching the bridge of my nose. “It’s not just about the cats.”
There’s a pause on the other end of the line, and I can almost hear the gears turning in her head. “Oh,” she says, her voice dropping an octave.
“It’s a really busy time of year for me with work.”
There’s an awkward silence. “I know your mother wouldn’t want you to be alone during the holidays,” she begins. “And—”
“Aunt Sue, please,” I cut her off, my voice sharper than I intend. I take a deep breath, softening my tone. “I know you mean well, but I’m not alone. I have friends here, and plans.”
It’s not entirely a lie. I have friends, even if our plans are more of the “maybe we’ll grab a drink” variety than anything concrete.
“Well, if you change your mind . . .” she trails off, hope still lingering in her voice.
“I’ll let you know,” I say, knowing I won’t.
We spend the next ten minutes catching up and having small talk, but I can still sense her disappointment.
As I hang up the phone, a wave of guilt washes over me. I’m not allergic to cats, for one. And I could easily make the trip to Phoenix. My excuses are weak. I know Aunt Sue means well, but the thought of spending Christmas with my extended family, surrounded by reminders of my parents and how much we all loved the holiday season, is more than I can bear.
I toss the gaudy jumper onto the bed and sink down next to it, running my fingers over the scratchy fabric. Mom would have loved this monstrosity. She always had a flair for the dramatic when it came to holiday attire.
A sudden shout from outside interrupts my thoughts. I quickly make my way to the window, pressing my face against the frosted glass to get a better look. Outside, my eighty-two-year-old neighbor is lying in a heap of snow with a shovel next to him.
I watch as Mr. Haven groans, attempting to pull himself off his snow-lined walkway. His elderly body disagrees with his effort, and I wince in sympathy.
“Stay there, Mr. Haven!” I shout. “I’m coming out to help.”Content provided by NôvelDrama.Org.
Shoving my feet into the nearest pair of boots, I barely pause to grab a coat before rushing out the door. The frigid New York winter air hits me like a punch in the stomach, but I push through it, trudging through the thick layer of snow from last night’s storm.
“Are you hurt? You should have asked me for help,” I chide as I look his body over for any visible injury. “What are you doing shoveling your walk by yourself?”
“Was trying to get the path cleared before the mailman comes. Didn’t think I’d be taking a tumble.”
I glance over at my shoveled walkway. There isn’t hardly a speck of snow on mine curtesy of the landlord. Why in the hell he’d shovel my side in our row of connected townhouses and not Mr. Haven’s, made no sense.
“You should have knocked on my door, Mr. Haven,” I scold as I attempt to get him off the ground. His hand trembles in mine, frail and cold, making me feel guilty for having been sulking indoors, cocooned in my flannel blanket by the warmth of the cinnamon-scented candle.
“Let me help,” a man who is walking his dog calls out from the other side of the street. His bulky figure is almost hidden beneath layers of thermal clothing, cheeks reddening in the cold, and a beanie pulled down low over his ears. The dog is a large husky, its tail wagging excitedly at us. “Are you hurt?” he asks as he ties the dog to the porch railing and kneels down beside Mr. Haven.
“I don’t think so,” Mr. Haven responds, his voice shaky from the cold, or perhaps from the fall.
“I’m a firefighter. If you’d allow me, I’d like to check you over to be sure nothing is broken before we get you standing?” he offers, his own breath frosting in the air as he speaks.
His eyes are kind, a bright green that stands out against the white winter wonderland. They flicker toward me, offering a small smile as he continues his examination of Mr. Haven, whose color seems to be returning.
“I’m Jack,” the stranger introduces himself after ensuring Mr. Haven is not seriously injured, extending a gloved hand toward me. His name slips from his lips with an air of familiarity as if it’s been etched into the corner of my mind.
“Chloe,” I reply, shaking his hand and trying not to shiver from something other than the snow-laden breeze. “And this is Mr. Haven. Someone who should not be out here shoveling his own walkway.”
Jack’s eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles, or maybe grimaces—hard to tell. “Right, then, Mr. Haven,” he says, helping the man to his feet once again. “How about you take it easy for the rest of today?” He picks up the shovel and adds, “You let Chloe help you inside, and I can finish up what you started.”
Mr. Haven tries to protest, but he’s clearly outmatched by both of our determined expressions. With a bemused shake of his head, he concedes, leaning heavily on my shoulder as we make our way slowly toward his front door.
The husky, evidently finished with its bout of curious sniffing, darts forward to meet us at the entrance. Blue eyes glinting, it nuzzles into Mr. Haven’s unsteady grip, drawing a genuine smile from the old man.
I glance over my shoulder at Jack, who is now industriously shoveling, his broad back moving with the effort. The snow seems to have picked up again, fat flakes falling steadily and muffling the sounds of the city.
“Thank you, Jack,” I say, my voice carrying over the wind. He pauses to acknowledge my appreciation with a nod and a wave of the hand before continuing on.
Inside, Mr. Haven’s home is warm and comforting, smelling of old books and coffee. I help him take off his heavy coat and hat, guide him to his recliner by the fireplace where his calico cat, Miss Patches, is curled up. She raises her head at our entrance, letting out an indignant meow as if scolding us for disturbing her peace. As Mr. Haven settles into the cushions, I notice a faint sigh of relief escape his lips.
“I’m going to make you some tea to warm you up,” I tell him, heading toward the kitchen. I fill up the kettle with water and set it on the stove, the gas flame dancing under the cold metal. “So why didn’t you wait for the landlord to shovel your path?”
“That old coot?” he says from the other room. “He’s good for one thing only and that’s cashing our checks at the beginning of the month.”
“That’s not true,” I argue. “He shoveled mine. In fact, he always does.” Not only has he been shoveling my walkway after every storm, but he also hung the Christmas lights outside my window. Granted, it was a single and simple strand of lights on my tall shrub, but I appreciated the effort.
“Ha! Not that lazy fool. I’ve known Lionel for years, and that man hasn’t stepped a foot on this property since . . . who knows?”
I reenter the living room with the steaming mugs. “But if he didn’t, then who did?” I ask, handing Mr. Haven his tea.
Mr. Haven chuckles, cradling the mug between his gnarled hands. “Maybe Santa’s elves. Or you have yourself a helpful stalker.”