Read Online Once Upon A Christmas Eve: A Novella by Katie Klein - Free Book Online
Authors: Katie Klein
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decorating the tree, so . . . yeah. Kenny and Dolly. Family tradition.”
I laugh. “I won’t judge.”
“What’s yours?” he asks.
“Michael Bublé. The CD is in my car as we speak. Favorite Christmas song?”
“The Eagles. ‘Please Come Home for Christmas.’ It’s so beautiful and sad all at the same time. Yours?”
“‘Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.’ For the exact same reasons.” I step off the ledge and into the road, heading back toward that blinking light.
“I’ve never met anyone who shared my affinity for depressing Christmas music before,” he says.
“Not depressing. Just . . . thoughtful. Life isn’t always ‘playing in the snow’ or ‘toys in every store.’ There have to be songs for the rest of us.”
“All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth,” he says.
“Exactly,” I agree. “That one hasn’t applied for many, many years. Least favorite Christmas song?” I ask.
“‘Simply Having a Wonderful Christmas Time.’ I swear, the stations in Hamilton play it a thousand times a day. By mid-December I’m beginning to seriously consider poking a hole in my eardrums in an effort to save myself. Yours?”
“‘Baby It’s Cold Outside,’ because there is some creepy, date-rape thing going on with that song,” I reply. “I mean, let the girl go home already. She doesn’t want whatever it is you’re giving her to drink. She doesn’t want to stay with you. Let her go.”
“I’ve never thought of that,” he admits.
“Listen to the lyrics. Girl is like, ‘I’ve really gotta get home,’ and the dude is saying whatever he can to convince her to stay. It’s freaky, like ‘I’m going to lace your hot chocolate and tie you up and keep you in my closet until I need you’ freaky.”
Jonathan laughs out loud. “I can’t believe I’ve never noticed this before!”
We reach the intersection, the flashing light, take a left. “I just destroyed that song for you, didn’t I,” I say.
“Yes, you did. I’m going to listen to it as soon as I get back to my aunt’s. I’m not kidding.”
“All right, so we’ve covered the songs. . . .” I trail off, thinking. “Favorite Christmas movie?”
“ It’s a Wonderful Life ,” he replies.
“That’s kind of cliché, isn’t it?”
“They’re Christmas movies. They’re all kind of cliché.”
“Okay. Well, I can’t do just one. So I’d say my top three are White Christmas , Home Alone , and The Muppet Christmas Carol .”
“Aww, man! The muppets are the best !” he says, throwing his head back.
“I know, right? ‘Light the lamp, not the rat!’” I quote.
He bursts out laughing at this, remembering, and at that moment I decide there is no more beautiful sound in the world than a genuine laugh from a place of contentment, and no better feeling than the triumph and accomplishment that comes from being the source.
“God. You are so cool,” he says, exhaling smoke.
A surge of pleasure sears my cheeks, though my nose remains frozen. “Frosty or Rudolph?”
“Frosty,” he says.
“Frosty,” I agree.
“Colored lights or white lights?”
“White,” I answer.
“Colored.”
“I knew you were going to say that! Um . . . I already know you like real Christmas trees. Tree toppers? Angel or star?”
“No preference,” he replies.
“Yeah, me either. Christmas decorating. Before or after Thanksgiving?” I ask.
“After.”
“Definitely. But, like the Friday after. As soon after Thanksgiving as possible.”
“Of course,” he says. “Finish the meal, clear the plates, decorate the tree.”
My house appears on the right. It’s not historic—only about forty years old. Craftsman style, built to look like the rest of the neighborhood, though the sizes and colors vary. It’s not as big as the Andrews’ and not as beautifully decorated as the Kendrick’s, but Mom thinks it’s “quaint,” and there is a wreath on the front door and candles glowing in the windows, the
I laugh. “I won’t judge.”
“What’s yours?” he asks.
“Michael Bublé. The CD is in my car as we speak. Favorite Christmas song?”
“The Eagles. ‘Please Come Home for Christmas.’ It’s so beautiful and sad all at the same time. Yours?”
“‘Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.’ For the exact same reasons.” I step off the ledge and into the road, heading back toward that blinking light.
“I’ve never met anyone who shared my affinity for depressing Christmas music before,” he says.
“Not depressing. Just . . . thoughtful. Life isn’t always ‘playing in the snow’ or ‘toys in every store.’ There have to be songs for the rest of us.”
“All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth,” he says.
“Exactly,” I agree. “That one hasn’t applied for many, many years. Least favorite Christmas song?” I ask.
“‘Simply Having a Wonderful Christmas Time.’ I swear, the stations in Hamilton play it a thousand times a day. By mid-December I’m beginning to seriously consider poking a hole in my eardrums in an effort to save myself. Yours?”
“‘Baby It’s Cold Outside,’ because there is some creepy, date-rape thing going on with that song,” I reply. “I mean, let the girl go home already. She doesn’t want whatever it is you’re giving her to drink. She doesn’t want to stay with you. Let her go.”
“I’ve never thought of that,” he admits.
“Listen to the lyrics. Girl is like, ‘I’ve really gotta get home,’ and the dude is saying whatever he can to convince her to stay. It’s freaky, like ‘I’m going to lace your hot chocolate and tie you up and keep you in my closet until I need you’ freaky.”
Jonathan laughs out loud. “I can’t believe I’ve never noticed this before!”
We reach the intersection, the flashing light, take a left. “I just destroyed that song for you, didn’t I,” I say.
“Yes, you did. I’m going to listen to it as soon as I get back to my aunt’s. I’m not kidding.”
“All right, so we’ve covered the songs. . . .” I trail off, thinking. “Favorite Christmas movie?”
“ It’s a Wonderful Life ,” he replies.
“That’s kind of cliché, isn’t it?”
“They’re Christmas movies. They’re all kind of cliché.”
“Okay. Well, I can’t do just one. So I’d say my top three are White Christmas , Home Alone , and The Muppet Christmas Carol .”
“Aww, man! The muppets are the best !” he says, throwing his head back.
“I know, right? ‘Light the lamp, not the rat!’” I quote.
He bursts out laughing at this, remembering, and at that moment I decide there is no more beautiful sound in the world than a genuine laugh from a place of contentment, and no better feeling than the triumph and accomplishment that comes from being the source.
“God. You are so cool,” he says, exhaling smoke.
A surge of pleasure sears my cheeks, though my nose remains frozen. “Frosty or Rudolph?”
“Frosty,” he says.
“Frosty,” I agree.
“Colored lights or white lights?”
“White,” I answer.
“Colored.”
“I knew you were going to say that! Um . . . I already know you like real Christmas trees. Tree toppers? Angel or star?”
“No preference,” he replies.
“Yeah, me either. Christmas decorating. Before or after Thanksgiving?” I ask.
“After.”
“Definitely. But, like the Friday after. As soon after Thanksgiving as possible.”
“Of course,” he says. “Finish the meal, clear the plates, decorate the tree.”
My house appears on the right. It’s not historic—only about forty years old. Craftsman style, built to look like the rest of the neighborhood, though the sizes and colors vary. It’s not as big as the Andrews’ and not as beautifully decorated as the Kendrick’s, but Mom thinks it’s “quaint,” and there is a wreath on the front door and candles glowing in the windows, the
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