Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 58211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 291(@200wpm)___ 233(@250wpm)___ 194(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 291(@200wpm)___ 233(@250wpm)___ 194(@300wpm)
“No. I need to get used to this time of year. Can’t be a baby forever.”
I hate how he talks about daring to have emotions like it’s a bad thing. It’s as if he thinks he needs to make light of any sign of weakness.
“What’s wrong, Snowflake?”
This time, when he uses the new nickname, it’s with the same tone he used when we were kids, and he would call me little director and stuff like that. But it doesn’t bother me. I kind of like it when he teases me. It gives me the motivation to get him back.
“Who said anything was wrong?”
“You didn’t have to say,” he mutters as we leave the city and enter residential streets. “You’re seething.”
“I’m not seething.”
“You are,” he says. “But if you want to deny it, that’s fine with me.”
I roll my eyes. “I just don’t think you need to be so hard on yourself for experiencing, you know, emotions all the time, Asher. You had a tough childhood. Your dad left. Your mom had issues. It makes sense that you’d feel anxious and scared. It’s natural that you’d feel.”
“Thanks for the pep talk,” he mutters.
“Jerk.”
I stare out the window and fold my arms. We’re quiet for a few minutes, but then he sighs and says, “I’m sorry, Holly.”
I turn to him with a wicked smile. “Asher, can you pull over? I think somebody spiked my cocoa. I’m hallucinating.”
He smirks. “Jerk.”
“Touché.”
His smile falters. “It’s this song … Mom played it one year when she said she would get clean. She ran around the house, clearing out the booze and her other crap. I believed her. It made me a little obsessed with the song. I started playing it all the time. On Christmas Eve of that year, Mom was out. I knew where and what she was doing, but I tried to lie to myself. I was listening to that song when she stumbled up the driveway with a man I’d never seen before.”
“I’m so sorry, Asher.”
“I used the song to drown out what they did in the next room. Mom was screwing him for her fix.”
“Asher …”
“I know,” he grunts, stopping outside her house. “This isn’t very ‘happy holidays’ of me, is it? It isn’t very ‘this is the most wonderful time of the year’ of me either. It isn’t very Hallmark or what you’d expect during a fun trip to decorate a Christmas tree. If I laugh away my feelings and pretend I don’t have any, it’s a survival mechanism, Snowflake. Now, I’m going to fake it until I make it.”
He quickly climbs from the car. I stare after him as my mind whirs. I need to chill.
Fake it until you make it. That’s a common phrase. It doesn’t mean that my Secret Santa is Asher. If there’s such a thing as Christmas spirits, maybe they’re having fun with me.
I follow Asher up the path. He slams his hand against the door, knocking hard.
“Asher,” I whisper.
He glares at me. “What?”
“Just try to relax.”
He lets out a breath, letting his shoulders drop. “You’re right.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“Thanks, Snowflake.”
It’s an innocent nickname, no big deal, no reason to lose my mind. The door opens, and Brianna Mitchell greets us with a smile. She’s got a fuller figure than I remember, which is natural. She’s wearing an apron with little snowmen on it.
“Welcome, welcome,” she says, ushering us into the house. “Thank you so much for coming.”
Asher stuffs his hands in his pockets. It’s like he’s in physical pain. It’s horrible to witness. It hurts.
“It’s no problem,” he mutters.
“Thank you so much for inviting me into your home.” I plaster a big smile on my face, gesturing to the decorations. “It’s so warm and inviting in here.”
“Thank you, Holly,” Brianna says. “When Asher told me you were coming, he said you were very bubbly and vivacious. I can see he was right.”
I bite my lip, looking at Asher. Did he say that? He shrugs. Well, it’s true. That’s the message I get from his gesture, almost like he’s texted it right into my soul.
There I go again, thinking silly thoughts.
“Who wants some cocoa?” Brianna asks cheerfully.
“You can never have too much cocoa,” I say.
She leads us into a well-kept kitchen. I laugh in delight when I see the photo that dominates the room, a large print of Asher in his late teens. He’s sitting on the muscle car he bought just before he moved away to make his fortune out west. His eyes stare broodily at the camera.
“Wow, look at you, Asher.”
“I look like a little punk,” he mutters.
“I think you look cute as a button,” Brianna says. “You could be on a magazine cover. You should hear what the ladies from my bingo group said when I invited them for tea!”
“I bet they were all over you, Asher,” I say, caught up in the moment.