Page 14 of The Night Before Grumpmas
By the time eight rolls around, the café is quiet, the morning rush over, and I’m more than ready to head home. I untie my apron, stretch out my stiff neck, and exhale. Time to change gears.
I have just enough time to run home, swap my coffee-stained clothes for something slightly more professional, and then head to my real job at Safe Horizons. It’s my first official day, and the nervous energy bubbles up again as I grab my things. The coffee shop shift was easy, almost routine by now, but this? This feels different. Bigger.
As I step out into the cool morning air, a shiver runs through me—partly from the crisp breeze, partly from the anxiety knotting in my stomach. You’ll be fine. I tell myself, taking a deep breath. It’s just a new job. But this one matters. It’s not just about handing out lattes with a smile. It’s about doing something that actually counts for the future of many teenagers, and I don’t want to screw it up.
I push the thoughts aside and pick up the pace, heading for home. One quick change and a fresh start. You’ve got this, Noelle.
Chapter Eight
Jacob
It’s Wednesday.That middle-of-the-week stretch where everything feels a little too much. Too much work, too much noise, too much life. By the time I finally make it home, the only thing I want is silence. Blissful, uninterrupted silence. Maybe I’ll pour a drink, throw on a game—I have to make sure my clients are in good form—and pretend the rest of the world doesn’t exist for a while.
But when I turn the corner to my floor and spot that damn familiar little box sitting on my doormat, my mood—already hanging by a thread—drops like a fucking rock.
Not again.
There it is: another perfectly packaged, homemade meal courtesy of my far-too-cheerful-for-her-own-good neighbor, Noelle. It’s like she’s made it her life’s mission to sabotage my pursuit of silence and solitude. I can already feel the irritation bubbling up as I walk closer. I glare at the box, willing it to disappear, as if my scowl alone could make it vanish into thin air.
Spoiler: it doesn’t.
I stop in front of the damn thing, my jaw clenching so hard I’m pretty sure I hear my teeth grind. Yesterday, she didn’t leave anything—and it was fucking glorious.
Okay, fine, maybe not glorious since I had to let the takeout delivery guy into the building. Noelle wasn’t answering her doorbell, something about “a bath and wine and salts” and how I wouldn’t understand because, in her words, “the word relaxation probably isn’t in your vocabulary.”
I mean, she’s not totally wrong, but still, the nerve. Like I don’t know how to relax? It’s just that my version of relaxation doesn’t involve soaking in scented bubbles and pretending life is some kind of dream sequence.
My version involves quiet. No intrusions. No food wrapped up like some Instagram-worthy project waiting on my fucking doormat.
I stand there, staring down at the box like it personally insulted me. Why does she keep doing this? It’s not like I asked for meals or gave any indication that I enjoy unsolicited acts of . . . whatever this is. Hospitality? Charity? I don’t know, but it’s starting to feel like she’s running some kind of experiment to see how long it takes before I snap.
Between now and probably never.
I stare down at the thing, taking in the neatly wrapped package, tied up with a little string like it’s straight out of one of those Pinterest posts Audrey keeps saving and even printing to improve her life.
I’m about five seconds away from kicking it across the hall out of sheer frustration, but something stops me. There’s a little handwritten note on top, folded neatly with my name on it.
Of course.
I pick it up, fully prepared to toss it without a second glance, but the scent hits me before I can. Chicken pot pie. The kind my mom used to make when I was a kid, back when life was simple and uncomplicated. When dinner wasn’t something you grabbed out of a takeout bag, sitting at a restaurant, or the freezer aisle but an actual homemade meal. I hadn’t had something like that in years since she barged into my life with her overly cheerful self.
Then there’s dessert. Chocolate cake, if the smell is anything to go by . . . I can’t ignore it.
The irritation pulses a little harder. Why does she do this? Seriously, why? Is she trying to annoy me into submission with home-cooked meals? Does she think this is some heartwarming sitcom and we’re about to have a touching moment over pie? Because that’s not happening.
I start to bend down to grab the box, deciding maybe I’ll just toss it in the fridge and forget about it, when something catches my eye. Mr. Henderson’s door. Across the hall. He’s got the same setup. The same neat little box with a neat little note, just like mine.
Huh.
I blink, feeling something strange crawl under my skin. For some reason, it doesn’t sit right with me. The thought plants itself firmly in my head, and I immediately hate that it even bothers me. But it does. Because if she’s leaving food for Henderson too, that means this isn’t some personal vendetta against my grumpiness. She’s not singling me out—this is just who she is. She’s giving him a meal. And me too.
Which also means I’m not special.
Why the hell does that annoy me?
I let out a low growl, picking up the box with more force than necessary. “Fucking Old man Henderson,” I mutter under my breath, glaring at his door as if somehow it’s his fault that I’m in a bad mood.
I shouldn’t care. In fact, this should be a relief. If she’s feeding the entire building, then maybe I can stop reading into it like some kind of attack on my personal space.
