Page 8 of The Night Before Grumpmas
“Pfft, that girl always wants to be the favorite, which is why I call you that,” Grandma says, amused. “But you both know I don’t have favorites.”
“You better not,” I tease. “So how’s sunny Arizona treating you?”
“I’m enjoying it, but we’re thinking about heading to Costa Rica next year. One of the gals here says it’s not as hot down there as it is here.”
“Costa Rica?” I sit up a little, pondering who this we she’s speaking about might be. Dad mentioned last week that it seems like his mom is dating, which he’s not very happy about. Mom and I had to explain to him that it is okay if she falls in love again, but he doesn’t want to hear about it. I guess we’ll grill her later, much more later when her son is a little more open to the idea that his mom is finally moving on after all these years.
“Costa Rica sounds amazing. Please send me pictures.” I state excitedly.
“Oh, of course, dear. I’ll make sure to send you a postcard while you’re still freezing your butt off in New York,” she teases. “Or, you know, you could always come visit me.”
I snort. “Thanks for the reminder. The people in your building keep asking about you, by the way. I keep telling them you’ll be back, but I feel like they’ll kick me out by summer if you don’t appear soon.”
“They won’t even remember me by February,” she says with a chuckle. “You know how it goes. That’s how Edward, the guy from 3B, ended up living there. His grandmother retired to Florida and no one even asked where she went.”
“Yeah, well, 3B didn’t have a Jacob McCallister next door,” I mutter, glancing at the wall separating our apartments. The guy’s hot, but he’s got a stick so far up his ass I’m surprised he can walk. “If I bake one more thing, Jacob’s going to report me to the building for excessive cheeriness.”
Grandma Holly bursts out laughing. “Oh, honey, Jacob McCallister’s harmless. He’s a good boy—just a little bitter.”
“A little?” I roll my eyes, kicking my legs out on the couch. “He glares at me like I’m trying to poison him every time I bring food over. I don’t think he knows what to do with someone who’s nice to him.”
“He’s different,” she says, her voice soft but knowing, like she’s defending some misunderstood puppy.
“Oh I never thought about that. So maybe he’s got a horrible family or something,” I mutter, hugging a throw pillow to my chest, poor guy, I’m now wondering how I’m going to make everything better for him.
“No, I’ve met his parents. Lovely couple,” Grandma says, not missing a beat. “His sister, Audrey, is funny, and so is her husband, Ethan or is it Aiden. Probably Liam or . . . sorry, I can’t remember. I know he’s got a brother—Max, I think? He and his fiancée are lovely, and so is their baby, Emma. I knitted her a sweater a few months ago.” She pauses, like she’s ticking names off a mental list. “Oh, and I’ve met his friend Caleb and his wife Emmersyn. Also lovely. Noelle, it’s his job that stresses him out.”
“Well, his job and whatever else is happening in his life are stressing me out too,” I say, trying—and failing—to picture Jacob with a “lovely” family. It just doesn’t track. He’s too . . . surly. Too wound up. Too . . . grumpy.
“All work, no play. It’ll make anyone a little prickly,” Grandma muses. “He just needs someone to shake him up a little.”
“Shake him up?” I laugh, sinking deeper into the couch, squeezing the pillow tighter. “I’m not trying to shake anyone up, Grandma. I’m just trying to get through the week without him slamming his door in my face or banging on the wall to tell me to cut it out—whatever ‘it’ is that offends him.”
“He’ll come around, don’t you worry,” she insists, all confidence, like she’s talking about a grumpy old cat that just needs some coaxing. “He’s a good boy, deep down. Just a little rough around the edges.”
Rough around the edges? That’s an understatement. I glance at the wall, imagining Jacob on the other side, probably glaring at something. His coffee? His emails? Life in general?
Well, not right now, because he’s been gone all weekend. Not that I’m keeping track of him or anything. I just know because I overheard him on the phone saying he’d be in Boston until Monday morning. I wonder what’s in Boston. Girlfriend? Wife? Life partner?
I recall Valentina telling me once that every time Steve, her husband, goes without sex for too long, he gets irritable. I get it now. Between Jacob’s job and clearly no sex life, the man can’t be nice to anyone. That has to be it.
“I don’t know, Grandma. He’s pretty rough,” I say, shaking my head. “I’ve never seen someone get so worked up over an apple pie candle or snickerdoodles.”
Grandma chuckles. “Oh, honey, you just wait. He’ll soften up. You’re too sweet to resist forever.”
It’s not that I need him to soften up, I think. I just want him to stop acting like the world’s against him. His energy is exhausting.
“I think he’s immune to sweetness,” I mutter. “Pretty sure he’s got a vaccine against it.”
“He just needs a little time. Men like him always do.”
I could argue, but what’s the point? Her generation tolerated toxic men like him walking all over them. Me? Not a chance. If he wants war, I’ll be strategizing every move. I’m not just winning battles—I’ll win the whole damn war. He’ll be kneeling in front of me begging for mercy and some holiday cheer.
But as I start plotting my game plan, something hits me. “Wait, men like him? What does that even mean?”
“Grumpy, overworked men with too much on their plate,” she says, like she’s got a PhD in assholery and knows how to convert said assholes into loyal golden retrievers. “But you give him a few more weeks of your charm—and maybe a batch of cookies—and he’ll crack.”
“Crack, huh?” I snort, shaking my head. “At this rate, I’m more likely to crack than he is.”
