Page 1 of How He Got the Girl
Ilovetheholidayseason as much as the next person, but this pushes the limits of my affection.
“And a happy new year.” I draw out the song’s final word with Christmas-spirited jazz hands that my friend, Daisy, insisted were part of her family’s carolingroutine.
The elderly couple in the doorway applauds our mediocre—and cringe—efforts.
“Wait just a minute, dears.” The woman disappears inside her home. Her husband awkwardly waves before shutting the door.
Even though I think it’s over-the-top, I’m willing to oblige Daisy’s family holiday traditions because I need a distraction from the fact that I’m not home with my own family for Christmas. I planned on returning to my parents’ house in Louisville, Kentucky, once the college semester ended, but the day I was supposed to travel home after my finals, a giant blizzard hit eastern Tennessee, leaving me trapped in my apartment.
Daisy’s family saved me from a lonely, blue Christmas. They live in a suburb of Knoxville and graciously invited me to spend the holidays with them. I should’ve known to expect the unexpected when her older brothers pickedus up from our apartments on four-wheelers since our cars were snowed in, but I was simply happy to partake in the holiday spirit.
I just didn’t realize howspiritedcaroling with Daisy’s family would be.
Apparently, it means embarrassing myself by singing in full Mrs. Claus attire with choreographed routines. But hey, at least the velvet dress I’m wearing is my favorite color: pink.
The front door opens again with the man holding a tray of to-go cups. The woman hands them to us.
“It’s much too cold for y’all to be outside without something to warm your bones. I thought some homemade hot chocolate oughta do. It’s an old family recipe.” She hands Daisy a cup. “Sorry, I’m out of lids.”
“It smells divine.” Daisy smiles warmly.
The woman extends a cup to me, and I inhale the mouthwatering scent of the sweet, rich chocolate mixed with creamy milk.
“It does,” I hum in agreement. “Thank you.”
Once Daisy’s parents and brothers have received their cups, we wave goodbye to the couple and head down the driveway to the next house.
My friend spins on her heels, holding her free hand out at her side to balance on the snow and ice covering the ground. “That was good, Mallory, but we need a little more gusto in the next song.”
I’m not the kind of girl who holds back her punches. I’m the friend my besties call when they need blunt honesty. A fierce protector. The ride or die to help them bury a body.
Okay, maybe I wouldn’t gothatfar, but I would totally egg someone’s house or something a little lesscriminally involvedthan burying a body.
But, in this case, I feel like my opinions on providing moregustoin my caroling performance wouldn’t be helpful or necessary, so I bite my tongue and swallow my pride. Well, as much pride as one can have while wearing a pink velvet Mrs. Claus dress.
“Gusto.” I purse my lips and nod slowly. “Got it.”
“We sing from the diaphragm,” Daisy’s younger brother says, striking a muscular pose.
“From the gut.” Her other brother clutches his stomach for emphasis.
“From theheart.” Daisy’s mother shoots all her children a look. Her father looks like he’d rather be at home doinganythingbut this. “Just have fun.” She squeezes my arm as we walk up the next neighbor’s driveway.
“Y’all really do this every year?” I ask Daisy.
She nods. “We drive to a different town around Knoxville every winter to spread the holiday cheer around eastern Tennessee.”
Daisy steps forward and knocks on the door while I take one glorious sip of the hot cocoa. It’s the perfect mix of creamy and sweet—I can taste that it’s homemade with love rather than a basic store mix. My eyes flutter shut as I hum in delight.
An older woman answers the door and clutches her hands to her chest. “Come quick, honey,” she yells behind her, before looking back expectantly. “There are carolers.”
Daisy turns and counts us into the next carol like a choir conductor. “A five, six, seven, eight.” She gets back into position beside me, immediately serious and in character. I mirror my friend’s motions, raising my arms and lowering them as I wiggle my fingers—mimicking snow falling—while we sing the opening lines of “Deck theHalls.” My level of enthusiasm doesn’t match that of Daisy and her brothers, but I’m giving it my best attempt.
I’m singing my third fa-la-la when a man steps into the entryway. I was expecting it to be an older man after she called out “honey,” but the guy watching us sing is definitelynotelderly. He looks to be around my age, maybe a few years older. His dark hair is styled messily in a way that looks intentional, and scruff covers his jawline. When his eyes find mine, I’m immediately drawn in by the striking blue pools staring back at me like waves pulling me deeper into the ocean. But his smile is the real star of the show. He smiles with his whole face, beaming brighter than the Christmas lights strung across the city.
It’s official.
He’s the most handsome man I’ve ever seen—and I’m not exaggerating in the slightest. His face should live in a “Most Handsome Men of Our Generation” Hall of Fame alongside Henry Cavill, Glen Powell, and Zac Efron.
