Story 12, pt 1 | A Meet Cute For Christmas
Tired of living in the shadow of her quarterback brother's very public romance, Gigi enlists her brother and his pop-icon girlfriend to set her up for Christmas.
Happy December! We’re kicking off the month with a two-part holiday romance. This plot is my direct response to cheesy, dissatisfying holiday rom-com movies and wishing for something more substantial that was still a blast. More “The Holiday” and less “I Fell In Love With A Snowman.” I made that latter title up, but they’re not that far off.
I am VERY curious for your feedback on this story because I think it could be the start of a novel. Once Part Two drops next week, I want to know what you liked and didn’t, what you hope happens, everything!
Happy reading!
A Meet Cute For Christmas, pt 1
It was either when Lee Brice released his holiday song “Single Bells” or when Netflix dropped a trailer about a woman who falls in love with a snowman who turns into a human that I finally snapped. It probably didn’t help that the entire world was openly obsessing over every development in my quarterback-superstar brother and his pop-icon girlfriend’s new relationship over the last year. They were the stuff of rom-com dreams and, as I could personally attest, genuinely adorable.
I didn’t want to be single anymore, and it was time to do something about it.
Walking down the chilly NYC streets en route to the grocery store, I dialed my big brother with purpose. He picked up immediately; he was good like that. No matter how busy he got with work or with the press storm of the last year, when I called, he was fully present. If he couldn’t talk, he didn’t pick up, but he’d always call back when he could.
“Griffen, last week, you asked me what I wanted for Christmas. Now I know. For years, I’ve not allowed you to set me up. Nothing I’m doing is working on the dating front, and I’m tired of being single. I want you to set me up as your Christmas present.”
Like the exuberant jock he had always been and the vocal leader he had grown into, Griffen let out a loud whoop on the other end of the line. I smiled to myself – I knew he’d be into this. “Oh, hell yes!! I love this idea. This is going to be awesome. Finally!”
“But a proper setup, okay? Don’t just find a random single dude with a pulse. Take your time and find someone you think is an actually good fit for me. Like, don’t rush to do it by Christmas, just because we’re calling it a gift.”
“Got it. I’ll get Ali to help me, she’ll be pumped,” Griffen said.
I should have anticipated he would bring the one-and-only Alison Stone into it. I loved her, too, but adding her to the mix inherently made things more loaded. Not her fault, just something I had to get used to. It was getting less surreal to have her around. Slightly less surreal.
“Hm, what would she want to know?” Griffen pondered aloud and snapped when he got something. “Right! What are you looking for in a dream guy?”
“Nothing too crazy. I just want a nice, normal guy. No one famous. And you know our rule: no dating football players, obviously.”
“Never a football player! That’s been our rule since high school. And definitely never a teammate, I don’t even want to think about the locker room in that situation.” I could practically hear him recoiling at the thought.
“Tell me if this is an annoying ask. You’re mid-season, and Ali’s on tour. But I don’t want a designer bag or a car or whatever you might have been thinking.”
“Gigi, I’ve always got time for you. We’re three weeks out from Christmas. And you’ll be at Ali’s and my big holiday bash in Tribeca next week, right? That could be the perfect time for me to make some intros, see who you’re feeling. I’m gonna brainstorm this right now. I’ll text Ali to get her thinking, too. I’m so excited. It’s time you met someone.”
We hung up, and I picked up my speed on the final blocks to the grocery store. It was evening in Manhattan; the dark exposed you to the cold cut of the wind but provided a pure backdrop for the holiday lights from décor, store windows and apartments alike.
Entering my neighborhood grocery, pushing through that entry aggressive hit of heat, I popped in my airpods and zoned in on my shopping list. A long time ago, I learned that chaotic NYC scenes can be tamed by listening to classical: a cab ride in traffic, the supermarket, any time I’m commuting or shopping really. The store had holiday tunes going, so I pumped up my volume.
As I picked up my cart and started moving through the store, I considered what pandora’s box had I just opened by inviting my brother’s intervention. I mentally reassured myself: there was no one I trusted more, and my efforts over the last decade had yielded nothing. If anything, it’s a sign of intelligence and resilience to chart a new course when one discovers the old ways lead nowhere. Right?
My brother and I have always been close, despite our age difference and even though we’ve taken very different paths in life. He’s Griffen Jaymes, one of the most celebrated, winningest quarterbacks in NFL history, and I’m in marketing. Back in high school, he was the super-popular, charismatic star of the football team, homecoming king, friend to all, stranger to none – the works. He graduated and went on to a big college team, taking his clout and connections with him, just as I started my freshman year as the relatively unknown Genevieve Jaymes, going by Gigi, the nickname big bro gave me as a baby. I’ve long held a theory that popularity grows exponentially with each younger sibling – consider the Kardashians as a case study or think of a dynasty family from your own high school – but that didn’t really take for us. Like, at all.
For example, every Valentine’s Day, our high school had this tradition where students could buy roses for each other leading up to the holiday, which were then delivered in homeroom on the day of. It was either a fundraiser or some kind of social oppression tactic to keep the unpopular in their place.
Every year, my various homeroom teachers would read off the long list of recipients’ names and pass out the roses. The girls would squeal in delight, the guys would play it off or play it up, depending on maturity or lack thereof, and I would sit at my desk, maintaining a careful mask of feigned dignity as I never received one rose. Looking back, I could have, should have flipped the script and sent roses to my friends, but that thought didn’t occur to me then.
I hated that tradition. On so many levels, it didn’t matter. Except that it hurt. A little. And publicly. I always felt like an overlooked loser.
That was the beginning of me being unlucky in love. Nothing terrible happened. I didn’t suffer through any overly devastating relationships or breakups or boy drama. It’s just that nothing happened. Which is its own kind of slow devastation. No one asked me out in college. After graduating, I did some online dating, but that was just awkward and unproductive. I didn’t love sifting through strangers’ bathroom selfies to identify mildly tolerable guys who mostly just needed life coaches. It wasn’t inspiring.
At the same time, my brother’s star was on the rise.
In countless respects, it was helpful we had a “normal” childhood before my brother blew up in college, got drafted in the first round and took his team to the Super Bowl in his rookie year, because it was then that our lives started changing – after we were grounded as a family, unaccustomed to the attention and fame. I would say his success didn’t really change us fundamentally, but it came with an unavoidable, fascinating and complex set of challenges. Even trying to figure out how to attend the Super Bowl occasionally is just a weird change of pace.
A dozen years into his career, when we had settled in on the ride of a pro career, Griffen started dating Alison-freaking-Stone, only the biggest pop star on the planet, who was in the middle of a two-year-long world tour, dropping a new album and, oh yeah, breaking the internet every time she showed up to Griffen’s games. They were all googly-eyed for each other – on live TV, which only stoked the flames of fan obsession. In a sisterly way, I found their relationship annoyingly overly saccharine, but in equal parts, I couldn’t be more thrilled for them. I shouldn’t be surprised that he would be a doting, loving boyfriend, because he’s been an awesome big brother. Sure, I didn’t expect his fame as a football player, much less when his starry rom-com life went public, vaulting everything to an unprecedented level.
Fortunately, I’ve happily managed to stay out of spotlight, on purpose. But some days, it was tough to ignore that they had this fairy-tale, charmed romance, and I was struggling to get a date.
I would soon be turning 30, and my whole can’t-get-a-date story was getting old to me. I wasn’t in a rush to get married or anything, but wouldn’t it be fun to go on a date, to flirt with a hot, smart guy who’s also into me? I didn’t hang with Griffen and Ali often, but when I did, damn it, they were so cute. It sparked desire. Maybe longing. Fine, envy.
I was lost in thought in the produce section, pondering how exactly my brother might go about identifying an eligible bachelor that was right for me. I’d had a terrible time with it; would his charm extend here as well and make it simple for him? I absentmindedly pulled some grapes off the bunch in my cart and popped them in my mouth. I loved winter grapes and never waited until the register to try them. Who on earth was rolling around in Griffen’s network of dudes? Who would he trot out and suggest as a fit for me? I asked for this – I had to be open to whatever might happen.
I was peacefully munching on grapes, listening to classical and measuring dried lentils from the bulk bin for dinner, when someone tapped me on the shoulder. Except I was so in the zone, this tap didn’t register as coming in peace, and instead scared the living hell out of me, causing me to whirl about to confront the imminent danger, momentum swinging my flimsy, plastic bag of lentils against the tall, sweaty man trying to get my attention. The bag struck him, not particularly hard, but he couldn’t have been anticipating that, then split and sent dried lentils flying and then skittering in a dramatic ten-yard circumference, like a vegan bomb detonation.
Of course, this man was not old or unattractive. Not that I would have more so wanted to hit an old man, but why was it my luck that this mortification happens to a smoke show of a man, who was now emptying lentils from his pockets? I immediately noticed that he was solid, all taut muscles under his gym clothes damp with sweat, his blond hair presumably slightly mussed from his workout. No coat in sight, as though he jogged here as his cool-down. But anytime a man has a beard, in this case a short, well-groomed blond beard, it feels like he must be warmer than one without.
And his hands… were strongly pulling my attention as he brushed off his shirt, when I clocked a logo for my brother’s team on his performance tee. A fan. I didn’t dare breathe a word about the connection. Though that was currently the least of my concerns. I yanked out my airpods and tried to figure out what to say.
“Wow. That was unexpected,” he said first, surveying the damage around us.
“I’m so, so sorry! You startled me, apparently.”
He laughed. “I can see that.”
“Can I help… you?”
“With cleanup?”
“Oh no, no, no. I’ll clean up the mess. You tapped me on the shoulder. Did you need something?”
“Um, yes. You mistakenly commandeered my cart a few minutes ago and have been eating my grapes. I mean, they’re not really mine yet, as I haven’t paid for them. I usually wait to eat the food until I get home.”
My mouth dropped open from renewed mortification. He couldn’t be serious. I pulled my hand off the cart like it was scorching me and checked it out. The cart held a pile of produce, like mine, grapes riding shotgun in the baby seat, but there was so much more kale and spinach and leafy greens. And a deep pile of candy canes? That was a strange addition to definitely not my cart.
Oh good God, I was a massive idiot.
“I’m so sorry,” I repeated. “Please, take your cart back. I’ll trade you the grapes from mine. I don’t know how that happened.”
“Thanks. It’s an innocent mistake. Do you want help with this?” he asked, waving at the mess of lentils littering half the produce section. Thankfully, the store’s staff was starting to gather with cleaning supplies.
“No, no, please I’ve got it. I’ll only be more embarrassed if you stick around.”
“You’ve got quite the arm,” he said, looking right into my very soul with his piercing blue eyes. If only, his gaze communicated less disappointment and bewilderment.
I quashed a retort of “you should see my brother” and eked out a “thank you” instead.
He pushed his cart’s wheels through the sea of lentils and resumed his shopping, leaving me to salvage the situation with the store.
A kind produce guy assured me they had cleanup under control and graciously invited me to continue with my shopping as well, aka cease my disruption and destruction, but there was no way I was going to risk running into bearded grocery guy repeatedly up and down each aisle. I gathered what was left of my produce and my dignity, checked out and left.
As I walked home with half the ingredients for dinner, I thought to myself, this is why I needed an assist with dating. Left to my own devices, I was literally chasing eligible men away.
—
A week later, I was in the back of a cab collecting myself while on the way to Griffen and Ali’s Christmas party. To start, it had been complicated enough to decipher and then execute the party’s dress code of “fancy and festive,” given it had to be put through an Alison-Stone filter. Ie, cool-girl self-expression, which is easier for some than others, notably those with stylists.
After many hours of study, I broke it down to mean the fancier end of cocktail attire. All that said, I had learned by then Ali was always just happy to see me; it didn’t matter what I was wearing. I had landed on a bold, yet simple silhouette with a monochrome crimson corseted top and a bubble mini skirt, finished with opaque black tights and platform heels. It was enough to look like I belonged, but not so much as to look off or like I was trying too hard.
I had felt confident when I was getting dressed, but when I was heading out the door, Griffen had texted to say he had a Christmas present for me, so to be ready for an introduction. My stomach immediately dropped, and a new set of nerves rolled in. I scurried in my heels back to a mirror to take another look at my outfit and makeup. There was no time for changes – I had to get moving if I didn’t want to be extremely late.
The cab was now approaching our destination, and I could feel my nerves catching up with me again. I tried to talk myself down. All I had to do was meet a man – I was introduced to people at Griffen’s games all the time. There was no commitment being made. Griffen was just feeling out the guy by introducing us. And here was a crazy thought: maybe it would be fun! Everything was going to be fine.
Of course, that’s when the cab pulled up to the restaurant – or as close as we could get – and I stepped out. The party was supposed to be hush-hush, but there was a wild throng of paparazzi and fans lining the sidewalk, with constant camera flashes so strong you’d think it were daytime. It was flurrying with a strong wind, adding to the chaos of the moment. No classical music would settle this. Now, to get inside.
Thank you so much for reading! We’re going to hold off on ratings until next week, once you’ve read both halves.
I might normally ask what you think/hope is going to happen?! But I promise, you have no idea… 😈
Next Week’s Plot Twist…
Obviously, the conclusion of A Meet Cute For Christmas is up next! What’s going to happen at this party?!
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