She Drives Me Crazy(47)

Now it’s Irene’s turn to be flustered. “Oh hey, hi! Great to see you. Merry Christmas. Feliz Navidad. Happy holidays.”

“You’re babbling,” I say under my breath.

She looks pointedly at me. “Hot chocolate?”

“Um—yes. Mom, Dad?”

“Be home by midnight,” Mom says, winking.

“Enjoy your romantic winter wonderland!” Dad says, but I’m already tugging Irene’s hand and leading her away.

“Sorry about them,” I mutter.

“I love them,” she says easily.

Somehow we’re still holding hands. I drop hers and clear my throat. We tuck ourselves into her car, where she blasts the heat and turns on my seat warmer. It feels familiar and new at the same time.

“I didn’t know you were Catholic,” I say as we pull out of the church parking lot.

“I didn’t know you were, either.”

“Both sides of the family. Irish and Polish.”

“Both sides for me, too. My grandparents are from Kerala.”

“Cool,” I say, though I have no idea what that means.

She smirks because she knows it. “How’s that AP European History working out for you?”

“Shut up. I’ll do some Googling later.”

At Sweet Noelle’s, she swings around the drive-through and orders two hot chocolates with whipped cream.

“I can pay for mine—” I say.

“Don’t start,” she says, pulling out her wallet. Her voice is almost tender, but she clears her throat and corrects it. “I have extra cash right now. Some nerd is paying me to date her.”

“Ha, ha.” I can’t say anything else because she’s catching my eye with a smirk that can only be described as flirtatious, and I feel like my stomach is full of sunbeams.

“Do you know the best street for Christmas lights?” Irene asks. She’s driving with one hand, sipping from her hot chocolate with the other. Her nails are painted a perfect Santa Claus red. I wonder what would happen if I reached across the console and took her hand again.

“I do not,” I say, trying to stay cool.

“Well, lucky for you, I do.”

We end up on the other side of town, close to the square. Irene winds the car down one street, then another, in complete control of where we’re going. I picture her family driving out here every year to see the lights. Is it a sacred tradition for them? Has she shared it with anyone else? Did she bring Charlotte here?

“Check it out,” she says, turning onto the final street.

We’re bombarded by a straight row of Christmas lights, so bright that the road itself is lit up from the reflection. At least a dozen houses are in on the magic, some of them draped in bright, solid gold, others bedazzled with flashing colored bulbs. It’s overstimulating in the best way.

“Wow,” I say, leaning forward in my seat. “Does Honey-Belle know this exists?”

“Who do you think showed me?”

“Should’ve known. It’s totally her brand.”

Irene laughs contentedly. “This is why I love Grandma Earl. We do what we want with zero pretense about it.”

I look over at her. “Not everyone feels that way.”

“They should.” She says it with her usual conviction, her eyes on the dazzling display in front of us. “This place is special. The people are special. I feel it every time we cheer at a football game.” She glances at me. “Or a girls’ basketball game.”

“Well played.”

She pretends to bow. It’s so corny, so unlike her, that I laugh out loud.

We inch the car forward, taking in each house as we pass. Irene decides her favorite is the twinkling ranch house with Charlie Brown cutouts that appear to be ice skating. Mine is a blinding two-story with reindeer silhouettes across the roof. The radio plays “Last Christmas” by Wham! and we reach to turn it up at the same time. Our fingers brush and I feel the electricity on our skin, radiant enough to power this street full of lights.



* * *



“Are you in any rush to get home?” Irene asks as we’re driving back.

“No, why?”

“Let’s stop at my house for a minute. I got you something.”

My heart beats faster. “Like a gift?”

“No, like anthrax.” She side-eyes me. “Yes, a gift.”

We park in her driveway, a place I’ve been many times, and walk into her home, a place I’ve only wondered about. A disjointed part of my brain, the one that lives in an alternate universe where none of this ever happened, cannot process what I’m doing here, sneaking into Irene Abraham’s house on Christmas Eve.

The house is warm and soft lit. The color scheme is different from my family’s home: more sepia and tangerine, wood tones and marble surfaces. There’s an ornate kitchen chest with a porcelain elephant centerpiece. I count two espresso machines on the counter. Irene pulls off her boots and places them on a shoe rack near the door, then gestures for me to do the same. A golden retriever pads over and Irene kneels down to rub her ears.

“Hi, Mary.”

I laugh. “Your dog’s name is Mary?”

She rolls her eyes. “My brother named her when he was learning about the Nativity. My dad calls her ‘Holy Mary, mother of Dog.’”