Holiday Lucky Magic

The Not-So-Lucky Charm

The next morning, Mara woke up to the smell of burning.

She shot upright on the couch, heart pounding.

Smoke. Definitely smoke.

For one wild second, she imagined flames licking at her curtains, the Holiday Curse finally going for the full dramatic flourish.

Then her brain caught up.

The smoke was coming from her kitchenette.

“Toast,” she groaned, stumbling to her feet.

She’d apparently decided, at some point during the night, that it was a good idea to pre-load the toaster and then… fall asleep. The bread had charred itself into two perfect bricks.

Mara lunged for the toaster’s lever, popped the ruins out, and dumped them into the sink. She opened the window to the icy morning air, flapping a dish towel at the smoke alarm before it could warm up to its piercing shriek.

“Good morning to you too,” she muttered.

Her phone buzzed on the coffee table. She grabbed it, squinting at the screen.

A text from Sasha:

Sasha: You alive? Ugly sweater emergency at nine. Brunch?

Mara checked the time. 7:42 a.m.

She had work at eleven. Plenty of time to regret brunch.

Before she could answer, another notification popped up: a community message from the building management app.

BUILDING NOTICE: Heating maintenance today. Expect brief outages between 10 a.m. and 4 p.m. Happy holidays!

Mara groaned. Of course.

She tossed the phone back onto the couch and headed for the bathroom, turning the shower knob halfway to her usual sweet spot between “polar plunge” and “boiling eternity.”

The pipes rattled. Water sputtered, then gushed out in a gloriously warm stream.

“Oh,” she said, surprised. “You work today?”

The building’s hot water system tended to develop opinions about when it felt like being functional. Lately, those opinions had not aligned with her shower schedule.

She stepped under the spray, letting the warmth batter her shoulders. It was almost enough to shake off the lingering weirdness of last night—the velvet box, the charm, the way the lights had suddenly decided they were on her side.

Almost.

Her gaze snagged on the bathroom sink. Someone—her, presumably—had left the charm there, perched on the edge of the soap dish. In the bright morning light, its red paint looked more pinkish in places, the exposed metal dull and gray.

“Holiday lucky magic,” she said, reaching out to poke it. “You’re not fooling anyone.”

The charm did nothing, which was both expected and irrationally disappointing.

After her shower, she dressed in jeans, a sweater bristling with pills, and her work-appropriate sneakers. She grabbed her coat and bag, hesitated, then scooped up the velvet box and dropped it inside.

It wasn’t that she believed in it. She just didn’t want to leave it unattended where it could fall into the trash, or the sink, or some other portal the universe would invent just to mess with her.

On the way out, she nearly ran into Noah in the hallway.

He stood in front of his door in a flannel shirt and jeans, juggling a travel mug, his phone, and a stack of flyers.

“Whoa, hi,” he said, catching the flyers before they slipped. “Good timing. Can you take one of these? I’m trying to stick them under doors but apparently, I only have two hands.”

He held out a brightly colored sheet. At the top, in oversized font, it read:

BUILDING HOLIDAY POTLUCK – DECEMBER 22

Food, games, and mild social anxiety!

Mara snorted despite herself. “Nice tagline.”

“Truth in advertising,” he said. “We’re doing it in the basement rec room. Lights, music, probably someone’s weird casserole.”

“I don’t…” She gestured vaguely. “Potluck.”

“I know you’re on strike,” he said. “You can bring soda. Or napkins. Or your presence and a deeply skeptical expression. It’s low pressure.”

She folded the flyer, tucking it into her pocket opposite the velvet box. “I’ll think about it.”

“That’s all I ask,” he said, flashing her a quick grin.

The smile did something strange to her ribcage. Like it rearranged the furniture there.

The hallway bulb above them flickered once, then steadied.

Mara noticed. Noah did not.

He shifted his stack of flyers. “You heading to work?”

“Brunch with a friend first,” she said. “Then the Returns Counter of Doom.”

“May the lines be short and the customers reasonably kind,” he said solemnly.

“That’s asking a lot,” she replied.

He laughed and stepped aside to let her pass, their shoulders almost brushing. As they moved, the overhead light brightened for a moment, like a small sun.

Mara paused at the stairwell, glancing up.

The bulb looked the same as always. Slightly yellow, slightly dusty.

Coincidence, she told herself. Buildings did weird things. Lights went on and off. Radiators hummed or didn’t. Toasters burned toast. It all meant exactly nothing.

Still, as she headed down the stairs, her hand drifted to the velvet box in her bag.

“You are not doing this,” she muttered. “You are not turning into the main character of a made-for-TV holiday movie.”

The charm, mercifully, stayed quiet.

Downstairs, she pulled open the front door and stepped out into a world transformed overnight. The snow had kept falling, layering the street in clean white, muffling the city sounds. Her breath puffed in clouds. Her boots crunched on the path someone had half-heartedly shoveled.

She checked the bus schedule on her phone. Then she checked the time.

Perfect. She’d just missed one. The next would be—

“Due in three minutes?” she said aloud.

That couldn’t be right. This route was never that efficient. Not in snow, not during the holidays, not ever.

She squinted at the screen. A little green icon blinked steadily toward her stop.

“Fine,” she said to the universe. “You get one.”

As she walked to the bus stop, the wind picked up, tossing snowflakes into her face. She hunched her shoulders, regretting every life choice that had led her to a city with four distinct and personally offensive seasons.

At the corner, her boot hit a patch of ice.

Her foot flew out from under her. Instinctively, she squeezed her bag, feeling the hard corners of the velvet box through the fabric.

For a split second, she saw it all: the fall, the impact, the knee twisted at a bad angle, the ambulance ride, the bill.

Instead, her other foot slid forward, catching her balance with surprising grace. Her hand shot out and landed on the bus stop pole, stopping her momentum.

She stood there, legs braced, heart thudding.

“Oookay,” she said softly.

Usually, that kind of slip ended in bruises and a story that began with “You’ll never believe what happened to me.” This time, she’d somehow pulled off a move that would’ve impressed a figure skater.

She looked down. The ice was real, slick and glassy.

Her fingers tightened around the velvet box.

“No,” she told it. “Nope. Don’t even.”

The bus pulled up exactly three minutes later.

When she climbed aboard, the driver nodded at her. “Morning. Careful, it’s slick.”

“Story of my life,” she said, dropping her fare into the box.

She rode in thoughtful silence, one eye on the melting snow sliding down the windows, the other on the charm-shaped lump in her bag.

It was nothing. It had to be nothing.

Because if it wasn’t…

The café Sasha picked for brunch was one of those places that looked like an i********: filter had thrown up all over it.

Mara paused outside, staring at the frosted windows. Inside, she could see strings of fairy lights, garlands twined with cranberries, and some kind of enormous wreath dominating one wall. The chalkboard sign on the sidewalk read:

BRUNCH & MIMOSAS & POOR LIFE CHOICES – HAPPY HOLIDAYS!BRUNCH & MIMOSAS & POOR LIFE CHOICES – HAPPY HOLIDAYS!

She took a breath, braced herself, and went in.

Warmth and noise hit her at once—clinking dishes, hiss of milk steamers, the low thrum of conversation. Every table seemed occupied by people in sweaters that ranged from tasteful to weaponized.

“Mara!” a voice called.

She spotted Sasha waving from a corner table under a shelf of aggressively festive nutcrackers. Sasha’s hair was gathered into two high puffs, each decorated with tiny red bows. Her sweater featured a reindeer doing yoga.

Mara threaded her way between tables, dodging a kid with a hot chocolate and a guy wielding a tray of pastries like a shield.

“You’re late,” Sasha said as Mara slid into the booth. “I thought maybe your curse finally took off your whole building.”

“Just my toast,” Mara said. “Moment of silence for that breakfast.”

“Tragic.” Sasha flagged down a passing server. “Can we get another mimosa and a menu? My friend survived retail during December; she deserves carbs.”

The server nodded and disappeared. Mara shrugged out of her coat and laid it beside her. The velvet box shifted in the pocket with a soft thump.

Sasha leaned in. “So. On a scale from one to full apocalypse, how bad was yesterday?”

Mara thought of the blender guy, the static shock, the dead computer, the woman with the misdelivered package, the elf, the charm. Of Noah’s hand catching her elbow, the way the lights had brightened.

“Maybe a seven,” she said. “Low eight, tops.”

“That’s practically a good day for you.” Sasha’s eyes widened in mock amazement. “Is the universe losing its edge?”

“Don’t jinx it,” Mara said quickly.

The mimosas arrived—one in front of Sasha, one in front of her. The orange juice sparkled under the overhead lights.

“Here,” Sasha said, nudging it toward her. “Vitamin C. For trauma.”

Mara took a sip. The tart sweetness fizzed on her tongue and unwound something tight in her shoulders.

“So,” Sasha said, opening her menu. “Ugly sweater emergency. I need you.”

Mara blinked. “I feel like I missed a paragraph.”

“I got roped into my cousin’s family holiday thing,” Sasha explained. “There’s a contest. Winner gets a spa gift card and bragging rights for… ever. I refuse to show up unarmed. We’re going to the thrift store after this, and we are creating something so hideous it will strike fear into the hearts of onlookers.”

“I do enjoy creative destruction,” Mara said.

“That’s the spirit. Also, I need gossip. Any new and exciting disasters I should know about?”

Mara hesitated.

She could mention the charm. She could relay the whole “gift from Santa” story and let Sasha roll her eyes exactly as hard as Mara had. It would be something to laugh about while they hot-glued sequins onto knitwear.

But when she thought about the charm, her mind snagged on specific moments: the lights blooming bright in the lobby; the way she’d somehow caught herself on the ice; the bus arriving exactly when it was supposed to.

All of them connected, in a way she didn’t like.

Connected to Noah.

She took another sip of mimosa, buying herself a moment. “Met my neighbor in the hall last night,” she said casually. “He tried to bribe me with cinnamon rolls to watch a holiday movie.”

Sasha’s eyebrows launched toward her hairline. “Neighbor? As in, attractive neighbor with the mugs you keep accidentally-on-purpose returning late?”

“I do not,” Mara said automatically. “And yes. That neighbor. Noah.”

“And you refused warm cinnamon rolls?” Sasha clutched her chest. “Who are you and what have you done with my friend?”

“It was a holiday trap,” Mara said. “First cinnamon rolls, next thing you know I’m wearing matching pajamas and decorating a tree while a light jazzy version of ‘Silent Night’ plays in the background.”

“That sounds… fantastic,” Sasha said. “I should be so cursed.”

Mara snorted. “Trust me. You don’t want my brand of festive catastrophe anywhere near your life.”

The server returned to take their orders. Sasha went all in on pancakes with whipped cream; Mara opted for an omelet, mostly because it was harder to screw up.

As soon as the server left, Sasha narrowed her eyes. “Okay. You’re deflecting. What’s actually going on?”

“Nothing,” Mara said.

“Mhm.” Sasha tapped a nail against her glass. “Is he still hot?”

“His level of hotness is irrelevant,” Mara said primly. “And yes.”

“Does he still do the thing where he brings home too many baked goods and tries to pawn them off on innocent neighbors?”

“Apparently so.”

“And you just… said no?”

“I’m allowed to say no.”

“Of course you are,” Sasha said. “You’re also allowed to say yes.”

Mara stared at the tablecloth. It was patterned with tiny holly leaves.

“Yes is how the curse gets you,” she said. “I say yes, and then I’m in a coffee shop when the espresso machine explodes, or I agree to dinner and the restaurant’s ceiling caves in. I’m not dragging an innocent bystander into that.”

Sasha’s expression softened. “He’s a person, not a baby deer on a frozen lake.”

“Same difference.”

“Look,” Sasha said. “I know you’ve had… a time. But it’s been, what, two years since Blizzard Boy?”

“Year and a half,” Mara corrected automatically. “And we don’t call him that.”

“I call him whatever I want,” Sasha said. “He broke up with you on Christmas Eve, during a storm, after making a reservation at a fancy restaurant and bringing you there anyway just so he could… what was it, ‘not ruin the holiday.’ ”

Mara’s stomach twisted. “Can we not?”

Sasha winced. “Sorry. I’m just saying, not every guy is him. Not every holiday is that holiday. Maybe—”

“Can we table the ‘opening my heart’ discussion until January?” Mara said. “I’m fully booked on survival until then.”

“Fine,” Sasha said. “But I reserve the right to say I told you so when you marry your cinnamon-roll neighbor and adopt three rescue dogs.”

“Absolutely not,” Mara said. “If I ever move in that direction, you have to stage an intervention.”

“Great,” Sasha said cheerfully. “I love a project.”

Their food arrived, forestalling further argument. The omelet was fluffy, the pancakes obscene in the best way. Mara’s shoulders dropped another degree. She lost herself in the simple pleasure of eating something she hadn’t had to microwave.

Halfway through her omelet, her phone buzzed.

She reached for it, expecting a work notification, but the screen displayed an unknown number and a text: