Page 1 of The Night Before Grumpmas
Chapter One
Noelle
People loveto romanticize starting over. Like it’s some kind of grand adventure where you find yourself, have deep epiphanies, and maybe meet a mysterious, dark-eyed stranger in a coffee shop. Cue the montage.
But what they don’t tell you about is the panic. That gut-twisting, heart-thudding “what the hell am I doing?” kind of fear. The kind that doesn’t feel adventurous at all—it feels like you’ve just eaten a questionable burrito and now you’re waiting to see if it was a bad decision or a really bad decision.
Yeah, no one talks about that part.
Right now, that fear is sitting low in my stomach, heavy and uncomfortable, like a bad meal that I’m still trying to digest. It makes me wonder if this was a huge mistake, if I’m about to screw up everything in spectacular fashion.
Sure, starting over sounds liberating in theory. A fresh start. A blank slate. But in reality? It’s more like stepping off a cliff and hoping there’s a trampoline at the bottom. And honestly, I’m not even sure I’m the trampoline type. I’m more of the “fall flat on your face and pray no one saw” type.
When I decided to move to New York City, I thought starting over meant wiping the slate clean. New beginnings, right?
New me, new life, and everything that comes with the switch. But now that I’m actually here, staring at my new reality, it’s clear the slate isn’t clean at all. It’s a mess—full of smudges, cracks, and boxes labeled “misc.” in my panicked handwriting. And let’s be real, I’m way more terrified of what’s inside those boxes than I am about the life I was so eager to leave behind.
Ugh. Did I seriously leave Maple Ridge thinking everything would magically be better? Different? It’s like I tricked myself into believing the move would be the equivalent of a life makeover, complete with montages and upbeat music. Spoiler: there’s no upbeat music. Just the hum of the city and occasional honking that makes me jump every time.
Honestly, there are moments when adults should not be allowed to make their own decisions—especially under stress. Like in my case. Someone should’ve stopped me. Anyone could’ve stepped in—Mom, Dad, the postman, someone should’ve said, “Noelle, just stay. Ignore the gossip, put on a brave face, and keep going.” But nope. They let me shove all my boxes into a moving truck and drive it to Manhattan like it was the most rational thing in the world.
This is how instead of cozying up in a little cottage near Maple Ridge’s town square, I’m here, at my grandma’s rent-controlled apartment in Manhattan, carrying boxes that contain the entirety of my life and probably some trash I wasn’t sure I should throw away and ended up bringing with me.
Val, my sister, might have been right. I should’ve listened to her. She practically begged me not to do this. She even offered to help me move to California with her. But no, I refused—it’s way too far from home. I like it here. It’s the perfect distance from my former small-town life: far enough to avoid the constant stream of gossip, but still close enough that I can drive back and check on Mom and Dad if I really have to. Not that I plan on doing that anytime soon.
I yank the last box from the moving truck, balancing it on my hip as I trudge up the stairs to Grandma’s apartment. By the time I reach the door, sweat is trickling down my back, my arms burning, but I drop the box onto the floor with a satisfying thud. I swipe my forehead with the back of my hand, already feeling sticky and gross.
Okay, maybe this wasn’t my best idea ever. But at least the apartment smells like lavender and old books. It smells like her—like Grandma Holly.
I close my eyes for a second and can almost picture her, settled in her favorite armchair, knitting something absurdly colorful, probably for someone she met once in line at the grocery store. Her laugh would fill the entire room—warm, contagious—making this cramped little space feel like home.
Grandma Holly has always been that way. Filling spaces, hearts, and stomachs with love. She’s a force of nature. Even now, she’s sunning herself in Arizona, fully retired but still calling me every week to check in. “Honey, that cousin of yours and that two-timing, lowdown jackass of an ex-fiancé are behind you, leave them in the past. You dodged a bullet, you should enjoy the life you deserve without them in it,” she’d remind me.
She means well, but no matter how many times she says it, her words don’t quite erase the sting of Chad’s betrayal—or the endless gossip swirling around Maple Ridge.
Now it’s just me. Alone. With a mountain of cardboard boxes.
“Welcome to the big city, Noelle,” I mutter, brushing my hands off on my jeans and scanning the room.
It’s not bad, honestly. A rent-controlled apartment in New York is practically a lottery win. Subleasing Grandma Holly’s place was a no-brainer. Everything had seemed to align—the job offer at the nonprofit, Grandma needing extra cash to enjoy retirement. It all aligned. She’s the one who convinced me to do this. “You need a fresh start, and I need someone to keep the place warm while I’m off in the desert.”
Plus, this place isn’t just stuffed with Grandma Holly’s old things—it’s got her spirit, too. The peeling wallpaper, the ancient cabinets, the couch that looks like it’s been here since the seventies. It’s like she’s still here, tucked into every corner. That’s the only thing keeping me from freaking out right now.
Now it’s just me, my thoughts, and the overwhelming task of unpacking a life I’m not sure how I’m going to start. Still, it’s mine for now, and I’ve got to make it work.
I try not to let the memory creep in, but it does anyway, slithering up like a snake I can’t shake off. Maple Ridge—the picturesque little New England town where I grew up—was the kind of place where everyone knew everyone, and life was predictable. Peaceful, even. That is, until I caught my cousin Eleanor, who was at my cheating ex-fiancé’s house, naked and riding him reverse cowgirl.
Yeah, that part wasn’t so peaceful.
I grab a box labeled kitchen and start unpacking—anything to distract me from the bitter taste that rises every time I think about them. Leaving Maple Ridge wasn’t just a choice—it was survival. You can’t throw a rock there without hitting someone who knows all your business. And between the pitying looks from the neighbors and the awkward run-ins with Chad and Eleanor every Sunday at church, I had to get out. Fast.
New York is . . . different. There’s no familiar scent of pine in the air, no winding dirt roads lined with trees. Everything here is loud, big, and fast-paced. It seems like I’ve traded porch swings and quiet evenings for the screech of subway cars. Honestly, I’m still not sure if that’s an upgrade or a punishment.
“Okay, let’s get organized,” I mutter to myself, opening the box and pulling out a stack of plates. I place them carefully into Grandma’s ancient cabinets, half expecting the shelves to crumble under the weight of anything newer than the 1970s.
This place hasn’t seen an update since—well, probably since Grandma moved in decades ago—but it’s got charm. Sort of. The green linoleum countertops scream retro, and the floral wallpaper is peeling at the seams, but there’s something oddly comforting about it. Like the city can’t quite reach this little pocket of time that’s been frozen for years.
I’m halfway through unpacking when my phone buzzes on the counter, snapping me out of my thoughts. It’s a text from Mom.
