Page 83 of Shut Up and Jingle Me
THIRTY-ONE
ELI
The drivefrom the airport to the house feels like stepping into another world. No snow, no wind biting at my face—just the late afternoon sun spilling through the windows and the smell of ocean and salt in the air.
Mom’s humming along with the Christmas station, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel, while my little sister keeps firing questions at Max from the passenger seat.
“So, if you’re not from Michigan, where are you from?”
“Do you like snow that much?”
“Is Eli good at hockey, or does he just tell us he’s good?”
Max handles it all with this quiet patience I didn’t know he had. His deep voice rumbles every time he answers, steady and kind, and it’s doing things to my heart I’m absolutely not prepared to unpack in front of my family.
When she asks if he’s my boyfriend, though, he glances at me, green eyes flicking to mine before he says, “Something like that.”
Mom hums under her breath like she’s satisfied with the answer.
I can’t help the way my smile spreads. By the time we pull into the driveway, the sky’s blushing pink and gold, andeverything in me feels too full—like if I exhale, happiness will spill right out of me. The air is humid and sweet, carrying that coastal scent I always forget I miss until I’m home again.
Mom’s still humming along to the Christmas station as she parks, and my sister’s halfway out of the car before the engine’s even off. “Come on, slowpokes!” she calls, racing up the porch steps.
I roll my eyes but can’t stop smiling. “She’s been like this since Thanksgiving,” Mom says, shooting me a fond look as she gets out. Then she glances back at Max. “And don’t mind the mess. We did a little decorating, but the real chaos starts tomorrow when Eli’s dad drags out the rest of the boxes.”
Max gives a quiet, polite nod, hands shoved in his pockets. He looks so out of place in the warmth—Michigan in human form—but he’s trying. That thought alone makes my chest go tight.
Inside, the house smells like cookies and cinnamon and something buttery in the oven. Home. It wraps around me instantly.
Mom waves toward the stairs. “Eli’s room is all ready for you two. Fresh sheets, clean towels, the works. I figured you’d want to rest a bit before dinner.”
I catch the subtle way Max goes still beside me—just a tiny hesitation, like he’s not sure what to do with the idea ofussharing a room so casually acknowledged.
Once Mom and my sister disappear toward the kitchen, I turn to him. “Hey,” I say softly, “if you’d rather take the guest room, I can ask her to make it up. It’s no big deal.”
His eyes meet mine, green and steady. Then his hand comes up, cupping my jaw, thumb brushing over my cheekbone like I’m something fragile. “No,” he murmurs. “I want to stay with you.”
I grin, heart thudding. “Careful, Calder. Keep talking like that, and you’re gonna start sounding like an actual boyfriend.”
His mouth curves into the faintest smile. “For the next three weeks?” he says. “That’s exactly what I plan to be.”
And just like that, my house—my safe, sunlit, ordinary home—feels like something entirely new.
I can’t stop smiling as I lead him upstairs, past the wall of family photos Mom insists on updating every year. There’s one of me missing my front teeth and holding my first hockey stick, another of my sister in a tutu with frosting on her chin. Max glances at them as we pass, something unreadable flickering through his expression—softness, maybe. A hint of longing.
When I push my door open, it hits me howmeit still is. The navy walls, the glow-in-the-dark stars from middle school, the framed posters of teams I used to idolize—all of it screaming teenage nostalgia. My old roller blades hang from a hook beside the closet. There’s even a medal draped over my desk lamp from when I was nine and thought second place was the end of the world.
Max pauses in the doorway, taking it all in. “Wow,” he says, voice low with something that sounds a lot like amusement. “You weren’t kidding when you said you were born for the rink.”
“Don’t act like you’re not impressed,” I shoot back, kicking my duffel toward the closet. “This is a shrine to greatness.”
He huffs a laugh, shaking his head, but it’s the good kind—the one that tugs the corner of his mouth upward.
When I turn around, he’s still standing there, cap in his hand, eyes tracing every inch of my room like he’s memorizing it. “What?” I ask, trying for casual.
“Nothing,” he says, setting the cap on the dresser before crossing to the bed. “Just… didn’t think I’d ever see where you came from.”
The way he says it—quiet, almost reverent—hits me straight in the chest. “Well,” I say, stepping closer, “welcome to the chaos.”
