Page 13 of Naughty-ish

“No.” Maybe? “I don’t know.” I sigh. “It isn’t Mitch specifically. In fact, I don’t want to give him credit for anything lately. It’s just all this . . . holiday stuff. I used to love Christmas. It’s the happiest time of the year.” I mock. “But something has taken the jingle out of my bells.”

Nick laughs again, harder still.

I squint at the darkness around us and the lights of passing cars. “Maybe I’ve just turned into a giant icicle.” I’m frozen inside.

“Then we need to warm you back up to the ideals of this time.”

“Idea, you mean,” I state, as if I’m correcting one of my children when they mispronounce a word.

“No, the ideals. The beliefs. The beauty of Christmas.”

Glancing over at him, I tilt my head. “You don’t seem like the I-believe-in Santa-Claus type, even if you play one in real life.” I laugh at my own joke.

“I do believe in Santa Claus.” His voice is level.

I choke on my laughter when I realize he isn’t kidding. “You can’t be serious?”

“Why not? What’s wrong with a little magic in our lives? A little hope?”

This from an alternative rock lover? The stereotype isn’t fair. Who am I, with my shitty anti-Christmas mood, to judge him? If a grown man, who looks like a biker, yet dresses as Santa, wants to believe in the mystical man, so be it.

The subtle scream of a heavy metal song on low volume fills the cab as we continue down the road until Nick hits his blinker again, signaling his exit from the highway. To my right is a long brick wall with bright lights illuminating the name Chicago Botanic Garden which isn’t officially located in Chicago city proper but is still linked with our fabulous city.

“I’ve always wanted to go to their Winter Wonderland Light Show,” I admit, as we pull up the exit ramp.

Nick hums as we turn in the direction of the garden and then gets into the line of cars waiting to enter the area.

“Nick,” I shriek with sudden excitement. “You had a date for the Winter Wonderland Light Show?” I sigh as we near the parking lot attendant. “Poor woman who missed this,” I add.

Nick aligns with the attendant, pays the parking fee, and pulls forward into the lot. He purses his lips, twisting them side to side before saying, “My date was my mom. She has the flu.”

“Your mom?” I cough on the excuse. He’s using his mom as a cover for his canceled date.

Nick parks in a spot but doesn’t cut the engine. Instead, he hits the phone button on the dashboard and a dial tone fills the truck cab. The contact on the dash reads Mom.

Oh God.

“Nick?” A groggy sounding female answers on the third ring.

“Hey, Mom, how you feeling?” Nick immediately asks.

“Honey, I’m not doing any better than two hours ago when you called me. I’m sorry I had to cancel, but I just don’t think I should be out in the cold.”

“I don’t want you in the cold either.”

The concern in his voice melts my icicle heart a little. He cares about his mom and that’s a huge check in the good guy column.

“I’m sorry you paid for the tickets and now you’ve lost out on using them.”

“Actually, Mom, I found someone else to take with me.” Nick faces me, dangles his wrist over the steering wheel and arches his brow. “I asked my neighbor.”

“You’re on a date?” The excitement in his mom’s voice crackles under the smokiness of what I imagine is a sore throat. “Oh my gosh. Is this the single mom you said was hot—”

“Okay, Mom. You’re on speaker phone, and I gotta go.”

No, don’t go. I want to hear what his mom was about to say. Am I the single mom she mentioned? Was she about to say he calls me a hot mess? Or was it something else? Does Nick think I’m good looking? He called me hot before, but he was joking, right?

And what’s with all the questions? I’m not a teenager desperate to know does he like me, check yes or no, in the appropriate box of my classroom note.