Page 3 of One Night, Two Holidays

“I didn’t say that—I’ve got a traditional Jewish Christmas Eve dinner getting cold inside.”

“Well, don’t let it get colder on my account.” He pauses, and I curse myself, realizing my mistake. Before I can come up with a way to resuscitate this conversation, he says, “Have a good night…you didn’t tell me your name.”

I smile—no reason to ask my name if he doesn’t intend to use it. “It’s Nessa.”

“Like Elphaba’s sister?”

My smile grows. “Wickedfan?”

“Haven’t seen it,” he admits. “But I had a patient last week who’s obsessed.”

“That’s sweet, but no—it means miracle in Hebrew.”

“That’s really pretty.” He nods like he’s filing that fact away. “I’m Jack, by the way.”

“Well, Merry Christmas Eve, Jack. Tell your mom I said not to be too hard on you.”

He lifts his hand in a friendly wave before trudging through the snow, past the two snow people he didn’t get a chance to decapitate, and into the front door of our building. I shut the window but keep my nose pressed against it, watching for another light to turn on. A few moments later, it does—a corner unit one floor down.

So, Jack lives on the first floor. I smile, adding this little fact to the others. But the warm glow doesn’t last long. Without anyone to share the story with, the night suddenly feels even more lonely than it did an hour ago.

CHAPTER 3

December 24, 7:13 pm

JACK

My studio apartment has never screamed “home sweet home”—and usually, I’m not here enough to care. But tonight? It feels downright bleak. I just got off the phone with my parents, and even though they both tried to sound upbeat, I could hear their disappointment. Not that I blame them. I’m crushed, too.

I promised them I’d keep checking the airport status, and as soon as it opens, I’ll book the first flight home. With any luck, I’ll get a flight out early tomorrow and arrive before our traditional Christmas morning brunch: quiche, cinnamon rolls, and sausage.

My stomach growls, reminding me of how empty I feel inside. I haven’t eaten since the free lunch at noon journal club. I open my fridge, only to see a wilted head of lettuce, a dried-out block of cheddar cheese, and some condiment bottles staring back at me. Luckily, I have a few frozen meals in the freezer, so I grab one, stick it in the microwave, and lean against the counter.

My mind drifts to the cute girl upstairs. Nessa. Cuteandfunny.

She was smart to get her dinner order in early, before the snow started piling up—no one’s delivering anymore in this weather, that’s for sure. Would it be weird to go up and knock on her door?

Super weird, I tell myself. And intrusive. The last thing a woman wants when she’s home alone is some guy she’s barely spoken to showing up unannounced. Still, I wish I’d gotten to know her sooner, before my life got so…heavy. Before I got so damn tired. My mind conjures an image of us sitting in her apartment, bantering back and forth like we did a few minutes ago.

Maybe after the holidays, when I’m not feeling so beaten down, I’ll find some way to talk to her properly.

I’m reaching for a glass of water when the lights snap off, plunging the place into darkness. I blink, confused. Then I open the fridge—no light. The microwave’s dead, too.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mutter to no one.

Alone on Christmas Eve, and the power goes out. Could this night get any worse?

Fifteen minutes later,I’m realizing the answer is yes. Yes, it can get worse.

Not only is the power still off, but the cold is creeping in fast. I’d turned the heat down when I thought I’d be leaving, and now, with the wind howling outside, it’s dropped close to freezing already. I put on my coat and hat, then wrap myself in the comforter from my bed—the only blanket I’ve got. I imagine myself slowly freezing through the night, my fingers and toes turning black with frostbite.

Other problems: I don’t have any candles, and my phonebattery is down to 42%. If it dies, I’ll lose my only light source, and I’ll have no way of tracking the airport updates.

Nessa probably has candles—the nice, scented kind, I bet. Something warm and inviting, like vanilla or cinnamon. I don’t know why, she just seems like the type who’d keep her place homey and comfortable. I’m sure she has extra blankets, too. And flashlights.

If I have areasonto knock on her door, that makes it less weird, right?

Before I can talk myself out of it, I grab my phone and—still wrapped in my blanket—head out my door and up the stairs, then knock on her door.

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