Page 47 of Not Home Alone

“Literally can’t wait to show you how much I appreciate you nominating me, you magnificent, forgiving girlfriend, you!”

“Okay.” Garry chuckles, angling the mic stand back toward himself. “Sounds like somebody enjoyed his O Holy Flight. How’d you like to sing ‘Deck the Halls’ with us, Greg Hootie?”

“It’s Grant. Grant Moody.” That is literally my number one least favorite Christmas song. “I have a better idea, Garry,” I tell him. “Hear me out.” I lean in to pitch my idea, covering the microphone with my hand. This idea of mine is more of a beer-induced concept, but I will pull whatever I can out of the ether to show Merrily she hasn’t bested me.

“I’m excited to hear this, Greg!” Garry the band leader gives each of the other musicians instructions, and then winks at me and says, “Take it away!”

“Okay, this one is dedicated to The Schnitzel Factory, but it’s inspired by my girl Merrily.” I cover my heart and adjust the mic stand.

The band starts to play the music for “O Holy Night,” but not like it’s a runaway train. Like a regular band.

And I sing. Closing my eyes, I channel my inner Bublé and let the words flow through me.

Ohhhhh Holy Flight, the beers are darkly shining

With a malt-forward flavor profile.

Toasty and sweet, ideal for Yuletide dining

And it inspires lovers to reconcile.

A thrill of hops—how Holly Grove rejoices

For schnitzel’s great but drink your lagers first!

Driiiink all the beers in tiny little glasses!

Oh fliiiight so fiiiine! Ohhhh flight, pretzels, and wurst!

Ohhhh fliiiiight so fiiiiine! Oh flight. Now bring me a stein!

When I finally open my eyes to look around at my audience, I know I’ll have to come up with another verse. Because almost everyone in this room is staring up at me like they’re wondering where I’ve been all their lives. But Merrily… she looks absolutely furious.

FIFTEEN

MERRILY

“Nailed it!” Grant proclaims, as he struts out of the restaurant.

Finally, we’re leaving. Things were getting way too pleasant for him in there. He’s drunk and annoyingly pleased with himself because he thinks I’m annoyed that he has an amazing singing voice. And because he thinks he was charming and totally fit in with the real, good people of Holly Grove who he doesn’t actually care about. He only did it to spite me. We’re nothing but chess pieces in some game he’s playing with The Moody Group.

But yes, it is incredibly annoying that he can sing like that. And now I’ve learned that the only thing more unappealing than grumpy Grant Moody is happy Grant Moody. Because everyone likes happy Grant Moody.

“Mission accomplished, Tucker! Everybody loved me.” He holds up a hand for me to high-five.

I leave him hanging, sliding both of my hands into my coat pockets as we walk toward the corner. Sure, it was impressive, the way he came up with those lyrics on the spot. Even though he has no training of any kind in the performing or songwriting arts. Some of us have to get student loans so we can pay for a formal education in all things theatrical, and then we have to get a boring job to pay off those student loans—but Grant Moody just has to drink some beer, grab a microphone and blammo! Holly Grove’s greatest showman! I know he thinks it was infuriating for me, but I’m actually thrilled that he presented me with yet another reason to hate him.

Right after his performance, after he brought the house down, the Nebraskans at our table left, and Mr. and Mrs. Schoeffling took the seats next to us. Mrs. Cindy Schoeffling is on the city council. There are six alderpersons on the city council for this town of approximately 3,200 people, and three of them are named Cindy. One-third of the Cindys on the Holly Grove City Council now think that Grant is, and I quote, “a wildly talented, dreamy, hunky dreamboat.”

I happen to know that all three of the Cindys were at The Notcracker when he humiliated me, so I am trying not to be offended by how quickly he won Cindy Schoeffling over. Just because she caught his performance while they were waiting for the table to be cleared. Just because she thinks I’ve forgiven him. Just because she thinks I’m dating him. Maybe it’s not that Grant was charming so much as it was because I’m such a good actress. Did he ever think of that? Of course not.

Anyway, half the restaurant had gathered around our table to talk to the Schoefflings and Grant, and he ordered drinks for literally everyone. I watched in horror as Grant kissed a baby that Carol from the Holly Grove Players was holding. It wasn’t even her baby; she just wanted the baby to meet him. It was insane. I don’t know if he’s secretly planning on running for mayor, but I will not vote for him. I won’t.

I glance over at his smug face. That profile. How dare he look that good after drinking Jim Beam and eight tiny glasses of beer? Why is his hair still retaining the perfect amount of product to make it stand up on top of his head, but also make you want to run your fingers through it? His face should be all puffy and sweaty. Instead, his jawline is so well-defined there’s probably a picture of it in the dictionary under “jawline.” And he should be stumbling around a little or at least slouching. But he’s still towering over me with perfect posture and those broad shoulders that make him look like someone you’d want protecting you.

When, in fact, he’s the one person I should be protecting myself from.

It’s starting to snow. The cold air is scented by pine and fir wreaths and the fragrant smoke from nearby chimneys. Stores are open late for Christmas shoppers, so there are quite a few people out for a stroll, many of them just looking at the window displays. It’s so pretty and romantic I want to scream.