Page 35 of All About Christmas

“Christmas Eve is big business, man!” shouts Dex through the wind.

He has his head bowed against the snow that now sticks to his head like a toupee.

The reindeer antlers he wears shake from the bumps in the road.

“Public transit no longer runs, and people still want to celebrate Christmas Eve with their loved ones.”

I can barely hear him because there are speakers on both sides of my head blaring “Jingle Bell Rock.” The string of lights hanging from the edge of the canopy changes colour so often that it almost makes me nauseous.

“But what about your Christmas Eve, Dex?” I almost scream. “Don’t you want to be home with your family right now?”

Dex lets go of the handlebars for a moment to straighten his hat, and I brace myself, afraid that we’ll tip over and end up in the thick layer of snow that’s gathering on the bike path.

No doubt there has been salting done to the roads, but you’d have to dump the entire Dead Sea across the street if you wanted to dissolve all this snow.

“My mother made me promise to be home by nine. And tomorrow, I’m not allowed to work. But right now, I can charge three times my rate, so Xbox, Switch and Wii, here I come. ”

He makes a sharp turn onto Amsterdamsestraatweg. The bike tilts a little to the right, and I grab onto the sides of the seat, afraid that I’ll end up lying in the snow somewhere.

“But why this rush?” Dex calls over his slender shoulder. It’s a wonder we don’t tip over backwards because he looks about as heavy as a tuft of angel hair. I almost feel guilty for agreeing to let him ride five kilometres with me in the back. I decide to give him a generous tip later.

“I, um...” My teeth sink into my lower lip, but I soon release it. If we do go down—and there’s a good chance we will—I’ll have accidentally pierced my lower lip. “I need to tell someone something,” I say.

What, I don’t quite know yet. This would be a good time to think about exactly what I want to say to Olivier, but I guess I’ll just have to come up with it on the spot. Right now, I’m far too busy trying to survive this ride to concern myself with the sappy words I will soon be spouting to Olivier.

What my brain does have time for, however, is making up hypothetical situations in which he says things like: “Yes, I got over you a long time ago,” or “Oh, that chocolate heart? I didn’t mean I’m in love with you. You won that one because I asked Paula to marry me yesterday. Coincidence, huh?”

But that’s not true. It’s not true, I keep repeating in my head. I can sometimes drive myself crazy with my own thoughts.

“Oh, how exciting,” Dex says. “Telling someone something. Is it important?”

“Um... yes. Yes, I think so.”

“We’re not recreating the finale of a romantic comedy here, are we?” chuckles Dex.

I laugh. “Who knows, Dex, who knows.”

“Are you going to declare your love to someone?”

“Maybe.” I shake my head at his curiosity.

“Well, then it’s the finale of a rom-com, right?” he says, as if it’s as plain as day.

“That’s only if the other half also says yes,” I point out to him. “Otherwise, it falls into a different genre.”

“Hm. I’m more of a Transformers person anyway. There’s one that I think is super cool. He has this Energon-axe. He can use his arms like this...”—he raises one hand and chops his arm around a bit—“...to defeat all his enemies.”

I have to restrain myself from telling him that he has to keep his hands on the handlebars, especially in the snow. But since that sounds an awful lot like someone who turned thirty last spring, I keep my lips sealed.

“That’s cool,” I force myself to say, channeling the ever-laid-back twenty-something in me.

We cycle past houses where Christmas trees sparkle behind the windows.

The lucky ones with front yards have decorated them with light-up reindeer, sleighs with Santa Claus on them, and star ornaments.

Many families sit on the couch wearing ugly Christmas sweaters and watch TV, a show in which two people lounge on the Oudegracht canal and toast with a mug of hot chocolate.

The Christmas special is usually almost as well watched as a World Cup final. At least the three times the Netherlands participated.

“We’re almost there, neighbour!” Dex kicks his legs out. “Look—there’s Hoog Catharijne already!”

Without slowing down much, he steers to the left, my heart skipping a beat as the two of us balance only on the left wheel.

“Dex!” I exclaim. “Watch out!”

“It’ll be fine, neighbour,” he says soothingly as he crosses the road and quickly glances over his shoulder.

“Dex!” I repeat, even louder now as he rushes towards the entire camera crew without looking in front of him. “Look in front of you!”

But it’s too late.

“Shit!” he exclaims and then slams on the brakes full force, something I was not prepared for.

The canopy above me collapses with the sudden force.

And before I know it, I’m catapulted out of my bench with the violence of a rocket launch.

I float through the air for a brief second and then land in the white powdery snow which fortunately breaks my fall.

People fall silent and, for a few moments, only Michael Bublé’s voice can be heard.

Well, Michael , I think, as I spit out some of the cold white stuff, there is definitely snow. A. Lot. Of. Snow.

“Shit!” Dex’s voice can be heard from nearby. “Sorry, Holly. Are you okay?”

“Uhhhh,” I groan and move my legs. Aside from deep, deep shame, I don’t think the damage is too bad.

And just when I think it can’t get any worse, I look up. Right into the lens of the camera and into the face of a widely grinning Mark, who encouragingly raises his thumb. His lips soundlessly form the words: we’re live!

Dickhead.

“Holly?”

And yes, lo and behold, there’s the voice that makes this total charade even worse.

In my completely unthought-out fantasy, I would be stepping out of a golden carriage in a beautiful gala dress.

My hair would be perfectly styled, and my makeup would be second to none.

Visual persuasion simply works best with men.

Instead, Olivier plucks me off the ground like a squished fly. He sets me down on my feet and knocks some snow off my coat.

“Are you okay?” his eyes dart worriedly over my face. “Are you in pain?” His gloved hands cup my face as he looks straight at me. The wool tickles my cold skin.

“I, um...” I mutter.

“I think you’re still in one piece.” A relieved sigh escapes from his mouth, forming a thick cloud of condensation.

Then his gaze slips from the pedicab to Dex—Dex, who looks at him guiltily.

One of the horns of his antlers hangs askew.

Then Olivier turns to me again. “In what fever dream did you decide it was a good idea to climb on that thing and come here through the snow?”

“Hey!” exclaims Dex, deeply offended. “There’s nothing wrong with Hot Wheels!”

Olivier ignores him and looks straight at me. “That’s extremely dangerous, Holly. Why would you even come here?” His eyebrows creep together. “Or did something bad happen? Do you have something important to tell me?”

I swallow and nod. “I heard you resigned.”

The crease in Olivier’s brow deepens. “Um, yes. That’s right. How...” He glances quickly at Pippin, who is leaning against the green railing of the street and looking around with a feigned innocence. “Oh.”

I smile weakly. “Why did you resign?” I ask.

He emits a humorless laugh. “Well, that seems pretty obvious, doesn’t it?

” he says. “I didn’t agree with the way things were going.

And I refused to get the job that way.” He slips his hands into his pockets.

Some tiny ice crystals cling to his long eyelashes.

“But I don’t understand what that has to do with. ..”

“I should have believed you,” I interrupt him. “I’m sorry.”

Olivier’s eyes grow large for a moment. “You’re sorry?” he asks in disbelief.

I nod vehemently. “You were absolutely right. I’ve come to know you over the past few months as someone with integrity and honesty.

Someone who stands up for people whose position is different from his own.

” I swallow. “And yet I didn’t believe you when you said you didn’t know.

” I shake my head and lower my eyes. “And then the heart on my desk...” I’m overcome with guilt again, and I look at him remorsefully.

He has an inscrutable look in his eyes, and his jaw tightens.

“Oh that...” He scratches his head for a moment.

His hat slides back and forth. “Yes... I, um... Don’t take it too seriously.

” His cheeks turn red. “I totally understand if it was a little too overwhelming. I bought it on a whim and... well, like I said, it’s not that important.

” Now he’s looking at the ground, his brow tense.

“It is important,” I say fiercely, and he quickly looks up again.

“What?” he asks softly, and a hopeful expression appears on his face. “What... What do you mean?”

“Well...” I swallow. “Before I say this, I’d like to clarify something: you put that heart there for me, right?”

Olivier bursts into laughter. “Yes!” he exclaims, taking a step closer. With his long fingers, he wipes a hair that was stuck to my lip gloss out of my face. “Who else would it be for?”

I shrug my shoulders awkwardly. “So that means... that you, um...”

Olivier has regained his confident demeanor now that he realizes where I’m going with this. “Yes, Holly,” he says, and that damn dimple reappears in his cheek. “I fell for you. Hard. Even harder than you just did.”

The corners of my mouth curl up and form such a wide smile that my frozen cheeks hurt. “That’s convenient.”

“How so?”

“Well...” I begin. For a moment, I feel once again like the shy schoolgirl who has put a love letter in her crush’s locker for Valentine’s Day. “I’m also in love with...”

I can’t even finish my sentence. Olivier’s hand shoots forward and closes lovingly around my neck, after which he pulls me toward him with a fluid gesture and presses his lips to mine in a kiss that surely belongs at the end of a rom-com.

“Hey,” I mutter against his lips. “I wanted to tell you I’m in love with Christmas.”

I feel him smile. His warm breath blows across my face. “Oh, shut up,” he says, chuckling. His fingers slide into my hair, and he opens his lips.

“Woohoo!” sounds from all around us.

I deepen our kiss and the cheering swells. Olivier’s hands slide around my butt, and he lifts me up. Using my legs, I clamp tightly around his waist. The wool of our coats crackle with tension.

The cheering seems to come not only from the streets, but also from the houses.

“Hey!” echoes Pippin’s laughing voice through the din. “We’re a G-rated show, aren’t we?”

I open my eyes, and behind Olivier I see Mark, who still has the camera pointed at us with a wide grin on his face.

But I don’t care that we have now become a segment on our own show. Right now, nothing else matters to me more than the man to whom I now cling to like a baby koala.

“All I Want for Christmas Is You” suddenly blares from the pedicab, where just a few moments ago “Frosty the Snowman” was playing. The song wasn’t even halfway through, meaning Dex changed it himself.

I detach myself from Olivier for a split second and cast a quick glance at Dex, who seems to be doing his best to hide his huge grin.

“I still like Transformers better, but this is pretty fun, too.”