Read Online Once Upon A Christmas Eve: A Novella by Katie Klein - Free Book Online Page B

can I help you with?”
    “Nothing. We’re all set.”
    “How is she?” I ask, voice barely a whisper—referring, of course, to Amanda.
    “Lovely. So be nice,” Mom replies.
    She leaves us alone in the foyer, heads for the kitchen, pie box in hand. Jonathan and I slip into the living room, where I drape our jackets over the back of Dad’s brown recliner, a bare patch on the right arm where he used to hold a drink or the remote—because even though Dad left, everything else stayed. New girlfriend. New apartment. New furniture. New life.
    We got the leftovers.
    The Christmas tree, standing proudly at the front of the room, has captured Jonathan’s attention. He stands before it, touches a wooden angel ornament, my six-year-old face pasted on the head, just below a pipe cleaner halo—a craft one of the moms came to school to help us make. “Has your hair always been this curly?” he asks.
    “Yeah,” I reply, easing next to him. “It’s longer now, though, so it’s more wavy than curly. And ‘pain in the butt’ is the most appropriate term. It’s easier to just pull it back in a ponytail.”
    He continues surveying the tree, the dim glow highlighting his every feature, reflecting in his eyes. “I think it’s gorgeous.”
    I laugh. “My hair?” I ask, disbelieving.
    “What’s so funny about that?”
    “Nothing. It’s just that I have about a dozen school photos that prove my hair is anything but gorgeous.”
    “Take the compliment, Olivia Hall,” he says, fingering a few strands at my ear that might have escaped on the walk home. “You have beautiful hair. And eyes,” he adds.
    My pulse quickens at the words, heart beating erratically. “Thank you. They’re my mom’s.”
    “I noticed.”
    He noticed. Another nervous laugh. “Um, can I . . .?” I point toward the ornament box still clutched in his fingers.
    “Oh,” he says, glancing at it. “Sure.”
    I open the lid, remove the ornament by its ribbon, avoiding presents as I circle the tree, searching for the perfect place. I find a nearly empty spot on the right side toward the top, just beside a “Pixie Dust” ornament Sam and our grandmother made years ago—a glass ball filled with flecks of glitter in every shade of green.
    It’s Jonathan who breaks the perfect quiet with a soft voice, saying: “If for some reason I forget to tell you, thank you for tonight. For everything.”
    When I turn to face him he is standing nearly on top of me—so close—and something builds as I breathe him in—the crisp night air and forest and intoxicating spices that are distinctly Jonathan—as my stomach tumbles to my knees as I realize I want nothing more at this moment than to step on the tips of my toes and kiss him. To feel his lips pressed against mine. Because the truth is I have never been kissed. Not kissed in a way that mattered. Not how I imagine Jonathan would kiss me—like maybe my lips were the last he ever wanted to touch, like I was the only girl he wanted to hold.
    No. A kiss from Jonathan would mean something.
    “I don’t know. I kind of feel like I should thank you ,” I say, voice barely a whisper.
    “Livy?”
    I jump to attention, never expecting we might not be alone. “Hey . . . Dad.”
    He stands at the threshold, an echo of an image of my father impressed into my memories. Except tonight he’s wearing black dress pants and a crisp, white shirt—just in from a day at the office, the only thing missing is the tie—whereas before he might be in work jeans and a favorite flannel shirt, dirty after having spent an afternoon replacing broken tiles in the master bathroom.
    “You had your mother worried,” he says, frowning. The part of me that hates he’s even at this house is overshadowed by the realization I have not seen my father since Thanksgiving, and the longing I feel for one of his giant bear hugs—which, just on this side of last year, he wouldn’t have hesitated in giving. Like it wasn’t his sleeping