Page 24 of All About Christmas

When it used to rain and I would beg my father to drive me to school, I would get the typical Dutch phrase, “You’re not made of sugar, are you?” thrown at me. A statement that could be defended because my consumption of candy at the time meant that I was composed of at least fifty percent sugar.

So that was the slogan I repeated like a mantra as I stepped out the door for our monthly family games night and a light drizzle fell from the sky.

Once I got on my bike though, I had to squint my eyes from the sudden onslaught of rain that immediately began pouring down from the clouds above.

I am not made of sugar. I am not made of sugar .

That was back when I was making progress.

With every push of the pedal on my bike, I was getting closer to a crackling fire, Christmas cookies baked by Dad, and the warmth and comfort of dry clothes.

What a difference ten minutes can make. Now, I’m standing still on the side of the road with not only a flat tire, but also a loose chain.

My learned mantra against the rain doesn't work as well against ditches of water that inattentive motorists dump over me as they tear through deep puddles. Now I stand here repeating “I’m wet anyway. I’m wet anyway,” instead of “I am not made of sugar” .

The light from the lamppost above me is dim due to the rain, so I can’t clearly see what I’m doing. I consider crying out in misery, but then my phone rings in my pocket. Assuming it’s one of my fathers asking where I am, I answer without looking at the screen.

“Yes?” I say grumpily, just as a big truck flies past and drives right through a big puddle. For the umpteenth time, I get the brunt of it. “Asshole!” I yell after him.

There’s a moment of silence on the other end of the line, but then a dry voice replies, “Look, I know I’m not your most favourite person on earth, but that was uncalled for.”

I let the voice sink in for a moment. “Olivier?”

“Yes, who else?” In the background, the sound of a car can be heard.

“Sorry. I wasn’t talking to you; I was talking to a truck driving at full speed through a puddle while I’m standing by the side of the road with a flat tire and loose bike chain.”

Olivier says nothing for a few seconds, then, “Was that you?”

“What?” I say, bewildered. “Since when do you drive a truck?”

“No, I mean: are you standing along Amsterdamsestraatweg with an upturned bicycle?”

“Um, yes. Why?”

“I was just driving by there. Wait, I’ll swing back and pick you up.”

“No, you really don’t have to...” I start, but he’s already hung up. I decide to secure my bike to a lamppost with my chain lock. After all, I’m guessing Olivier doesn’t have a bike rack on his tow bar.

Not long after, a Tesla stops along the edge of the curb, and the passenger-side door is pushed open.

“You getting in?” echoes Olivier’s voice through the sloshing rain and honking cars behind him.

Quickly, I scramble inside and pull the door shut behind me with a satisfying bang.

The warmth in the car immediately soaks into my clammy skin, and I shiver with pleasure for a moment.

Olivier starts the engine again and, before I know it, we’re gliding down the road.

“Where do you have to go?” he asks. “I’ll drop you off.”

“Oh, There’s no need...”

Olivier throws me a quick glance that immediately silences me.

“You look like a wet owl and you’re completely frozen.

” He fiddles around a bit on his car’s touchscreen display and presses a few buttons.

I feel the seat under me getting warm, and I sink into the chair a little.

This feels wonderful. Like having just been chopped out of a block of ice and immediately stepping into a warm bath.

I’m so grateful that I forgive him for his wet owl remark.

“Unless you were planning to bike to Groningen, it can’t be that far. So, where do you have to go?”

“Aah,” I sigh when the backrest also warms up.

Olivier chuckles. “Well?”

I mutter my father’s address, and Olivier types it in on his navigation. A cool female voice tells us the route is being calculated, and I look to the side.

“Thank you,” I finally say.

“No problem. I was just in the neighbourhood. I was wondering who was crazy enough to jump on a bike in this weather.” He chuckles. “The answer doesn’t surprise me at all.”

I cross my arms and peer outside. The wipers swish across the windshield, preventing us from driving blind.

“What were you calling about?” I want to know.

“Oh, yes, well, I don’t know if you’ve booked a hotel yet, but the one José recommended is full.” He turns right and drives into Maarssen. “So, I, um... I was wondering if you might have booked another hotel. And if so, which one it was.”

“Oh, shit. I haven’t booked yet either.” I let out a sigh. “It’s always super busy around those Christmas markets.”

“I’ve noticed that,” Olivier nods. “But we’re leaving next week, so I think it would be good to sort that out soon.”

“Yes, I’ll take care of it tomorrow.”

During the last leg of the drive, Olivier turns on the radio. Christmas hits start blasting from the stereo system.

“I can book for you tonight, too,” he offers. “We have to declare it to Norbert anyway. It’s not a big deal.”

“Oh, um... please, that would be great. Thank you.”

Olivier nods briefly and then turns onto the street of my parents’ house before pulling into the driveway. He stops next to the awning, probably to prevent me from having to walk through the rain again, although I can’t imagine I could get any wetter than I already am.

I thank him for the umpteenth time this evening, and just as I open the car door, the front door to the house opens and Dad sticks his head out curiously.

There’s a smudge of flour on his cheek, and his hair is sticking up in all directions.

Thanks to his walking cast, he’s still quite mobile.

He bends his knees a little to look inside the car.

“Holly?” he says in surprise when I get out. “Who brought you?”

Before I can even answer, he’s already at the driver’s side door and tapping on the window. Olivier lowers it.

“Good evening, sir,” he says politely.

Dad looks over his shoulder for a moment. “I thought you were riding your bike? You’re not made of sugar, are you?”

I look at my father, insulted. “I was on my bike, but I got a flat tire and my chain flew off. Olivier happened to be nearby.”

Dad’s mouth forms into an understanding O. “Well then you have to join game night!” he exclaims, and I cringe. I should have seen this coming.

“Thank you, sir, but...”

“I won’t take no for an answer. I baked cookies, and it’s way too much for the four of us. And that’s saying something since Peter is here.”

Olivier casts me an uncertain glance through the windshield.

Dad opens his door. “Come. It’s raining cats and dogs.” When Olivier continues to hesitate, he adds, “Or do you think you won’t like my Christmas cookies? Because I would take that as a personal insult.”

Dad once again applies his masterful manipulation techniques superbly.

Olivier breathes a deep sigh and turns off the engine. “One round then.”

“See, that’s what I like to hear.”

We follow my father into the living room, and when Papa catches sight of me, he slaps a hand in front of his mouth. “Child! What happened to you?”

I let out a deep sigh, all too aware that a small puddle is forming around my feet. Dad quickly hands me a towel, and I dry my hair and face. My butt is a lot drier than the rest of my body because of Olivier’s seat warmer.

“I had trouble with my bike. And then a truck drove by. Like, full on through a huge puddle.”

“Oh, girl.” Papa stands up and grabs another towel, since the other one’s now soaked through. “You look so sad.” He casts a quick glance at Dad and his eyes begin to sparkle.

“No!” I shout before I’ve even had a chance to say anything else to Papa, but he ignores me. “Hey, Hubert, are you in the mood for a sandwich too?” he says with a broad smile.

I cast an anxious glance at Olivier, who watches the scene, bewildered.

“Well, now that you mention it.” Dad rubs his hands. “I do fancy a Holly Jolly Jelly-sandwich.”

With my eyes closed, I make a quick prayer in the hope that a hole will appear beneath my feet, through which I fall and get teleported to Mars.

Or the North Pole. Or any other random place where Olivier won’t witness this spectacle.

Unfortunately, when I open my eyes again, I am still in my fathers’ living room, with the two of them walking toward me with arms spread wide, and I look straight into Olivier’s broadly grinning face.

“Dad... Papa...” I moan as they enclose me in a huge bear hug—a slightly damp version because I’m still not completely dry. “This is really unnecessary...” Despite myself, I start laughing again. I just can’t help it. It always works.

But the fact that I’m now smiling again does not stop me from also feeling deep embarrassment when I look at Olivier, who seems to be having the time of his life. His grin has now assumed absurd proportions, although I also see another, indefinable emotion lurking in his eyes.

When they release me again—thank God Peter was not there for the layer of PeterButter—I feel my cheeks glow as if Thomas Edison had personally designed them. I hardly dare to look at Olivier.

He tilts his head slightly, his dark eyes twinkling with pleasure. “I suddenly have answers to so many questions,” he says, far too cheerfully.