Chapter 3:

A Silent Night in Snowflake

Mom is hanging the star on the Christmas tree when her cell phone starts barking.

You heard me right; barking.

Yes, she is one of “those” people; those people who think that the barking dog version of “12 Days of Christmas” is not only cute, but cute enough to use as their ringtone from pretty much the day after Thanksgiving to Valentine’s Day.

“Oh honey,” she coos in her I’ve-already-had-two-glasses-of-wine-before-dinner voice, one bare foot perched precariously on the wobbly dinner chair and the other in the air as she leans into the tree. “That’s probably Derek. Can you get it and tell him I’m… indisposed… at the moment.”

Uggh, I hate it when she uses big words, and that “come hither” voice she always adopts whenever there’s a new man in her life.

(And, truly, when isn’t there?)

“But Mom,” I whine, ignoring the barking phone completely as I concentrate on melting marshmallows in a fresh pot of hot chocolate. “It’s Christmas Eve. You said it’d be just us tonight.”

“It was, honey,” she says decisively, leaving no room for argument as her short pleather skirt threatens to reveal her ho, ho, ho. “But now Derek’s back from his sales trip and it’s time for Mommy to have some fun.”

What, like decorating the tree with your own daughter isn’t fun? I want to ask, but don’t because… seriously?

If she doesn’t get it by now, she never will.

“Hello?” I say, grabbing the phone before the 12 barking dogs of Christmas can get to “Three French Hens” and force me to shove the tip of a broken candy cane into my ear.

“Hey Rio, it’s Derek,” Mom’s new boyfriend oozes way too familiarly. “How long have you been home?”
He says “you” the same way Scrooge says “Bah Humbug.”

“Just since yesterday,” I say. “Mom picked me up at the bus station and we’re—”

“Hey, listen,” he says, having endured my answer long enough. “Can you get your mom for me?”

I watch Mom teeter on the chair, the star still too crooked her skirt still too short and say, “She told me to tell you she’s ‘indisposed’ at the moment.”

He chuckles that throaty laugh he thinks is so sexy and says, “Oooh, I love it when she talks dirty. I’ll wait…”

Of course you will, I think but don’t say.

“Well,” I do say, turning back to my hot chocolate in Mom’s tiny kitchenette. “It could take awhile. We’re actually decorating the tree right now. It’s kind of a tradition my Dad started when I was a kid.

“Every other family on the block would have their tree up by the time Thanksgiving weekend was over, but Dad would always make us wait until Christmas Eve. It used to drive me crazy when I was little but… now that he’s gone, I kind of dig it. So I’m sure you can understand why mom and I might—”

“Derek?!?!” Mom screeches desperately, literally yanking the phone from my hand and turning her back to me to show her disappointment in my message taking skills.

“Don’t listen to Rio. I told you she always gets maudlin this time of year. She says her father’s ‘gone’ like he’s passed away or something, not living it up in Vegas and spending my alimony check each month. So… how soon can you be over? You just have to see this tree, babe. I bought an extra string of lights and…”

Mom’s voice gets softer and softer as she takes the cell and drifts back to her bedroom, where she shuts the door like she’s the slutty teen and I’m the Mom who shouldn’t be hearing such talk.

I look at my cocoa for two, just now starting to simmer in all its chocolaty, bubbly gooiness, and turn off the burner with a disappointing click of finality.

I turn toward the cozy living room, leaning back against the kitchen counter and forming my thoughts.

Occasionally the sound of Mom’s harsh, guttural, “sexy” laugh gets loud enough to compete with the canned Christmas music oozing from the Yule log DVD on the TV.

I watch as it flickers cheaply on the cheap TV.

I knew she couldn’t do it.

I knew she couldn’t spend one stinkin’ night of this Christmas break alone with me.

And, gross, the idea of spending the next five hours watching Mom and Derek snuggle on the couch, barefoot, legs entwined, eyes locked while they wait for me to go to sleep so they can drift back to her bedroom and… well, just… no.

No way.

I peek out the front door, feel the chill in the air and slip on my socks and snow boots before sliding into my three-year-old winter coat from the hallway closet.

I hear Mom giggling back in her room, rattling around in her jewelry box for something extra trampy to throw on and sneak toward my stocking.

There’s a new hat, scarf and mitten set wedged in there – I’d peeked while Mom was in the closet trying to find the star – and I haul it out now before she can do anything about it.

They are a bright, vibrant red with little reindeer heads all over them.

On the mantel above the fireplace is a card addressed to me from Aunt Hazel in Minnesota.

I look over my shoulder, see Mom’s bedroom door still shut and slide it into my lumberjack plaid backpack purse before writing Mom a quick note on the sticky pad by the phone: “Enjoy your romantic night with Derek; I’ll be home after the festivities are over. Love, Your Daughter!”

Sure, it’s a little snarky and a lot passive-aggressive but… what does she expect?

I’m sure she’ll discuss it ad nauseam with Derek as they snuggle by the fake TV fire, she saying something like “That’s part of the reason why I sent her to boarding school in the first place” and he grunting, “Hey, babe, how long do you think before she gets back?”

I snort and slip quietly out the door, wrapping my scarf around my neck as I slip into the mittens on the way down the stairs.

The streets are deserted this late on Christmas Eve, and with nowhere to go I look for the nearest landmark.

I find it in the 12-foot-tall blinking plastic Christmas tree on top of Snowflake, South Carolina’s one and only year-round Christmas Restaurant, The Café Kringle.

I have no intention of stepping foot in that godforsaken place, of course, but it’s smack dab in the center of downtown Snowflake and even this late on Christmas Eve, there’s bound to be somewhere warm to spend the next few hours hating on Mom and spending my aunt’s Christmas money.

It starts to snow as I round the corner of Crescent Street, tiny little flakes that tickle my nose and cling to my brows and make me tug on my ski cap.

Downtown Snowflake is four straight blocks of gingerbread houses, smoking bakeries and quaint little cafes, all intermingled amidst spotless walkways and old-timey street lights with black window boxes and flickering “candle” flames inside.

Usually I think it’s tré tacky but tonight, I dunno, it kind of makes my heart warm, you know?

I hear a front door open behind me, a jingle bell wreath shatter the snowy silence, and then the laughter of family or friends as they trickle to an awaiting car.

I smile, trying to remember what family sounds like.

My boots scrape on the spotless sidewalk.

Downtown Snowflake is like a Christmas card; only with blinking lights and evergreen wreaths and the smell of gingerbread coming from the Kringle Café.

I walk the four blocks, back and forth, round and round, hardly noticing as one shop after the other closes in my wake.

The woman from the Snowflake Sweet Shop wishes me “Merry Christmas” even after I nearly run her over, and the old guy from the Snowflake Screws & Slugs (relax, it’s a hardware store you pervs!) literally tips his Santa hat on the way to his wheezing red pickup truck.

I walk with my head down, my mittens on and stuffed deep in my jacket pockets.

I walk with my hat pulled down over my ears and my scarf wound tight around my neck.

I walk until my boots no longer scrape because of the snow on the sidewalk and my stomach starts rumbling.

I think of Mom and the cooling sauce pan full of hot chocolate back home, of the champagne we were saving until midnight but that she’ll no doubt drink with Derek in front of the tree and lift my head.

As if by magic, I’m standing in front of the only store still open in Snowflake at this hour: The Books ‘n Beans.

Inside the cozy little A-frame bookstore-slash-coffee shop a warm fire beckons, books galore line the handmade wooden shelves and an array of seasonal treats await alongside a dozen varieties of hot, fresh coffee!

I stamp my feet to get the circulation going again and reach for the door handle, just as a looming shape appears, hands reaching for the “Open” sign.

“Sorry, miss,” says a youngish voice that sounds vaguely familiar, not bothering to look down at me. “We’re closing up for the night.”

“Seriously?” I snort, spotting chipped nails bitten to the quick as they hesitate on the sign. “It’s frickin’ freezing out here!”

“Rio?” asks the voice hesitantly, dropping the sign and opening the door. “Is that… you?”

I look up, pausing until the “Jingle Bells” door chime stops blaring in my ear and smile.

“Jory?” I croak, marveling at my luck.

I mean, I ask you: who else stumbles on the only store still open in town and the last person she wants to see in town, all standing in the same doorway?

Jory hustles me in, and I can’t tell if he smells like cinnamon or just the whole store.

He locks the door behind me, flips the “Open” sign over to “Closed” and stands back, as if he was creeping too close.

“I thought you were away at Salsbury Academy for Wayward Girls,” he grins, leaning behind the counter to shut off the lights.

“I was and… what are you doing?”
He waves a hand in the international gesture for “ignore what I’m doing” and says, “Nothing, I was just supposed to close an hour ago but these last-minute shoppers wouldn’t leave me alone. ‘Do you have this in hardback?’ ‘Don’t you have any more of these?’ ‘Well it was here yesterday!’ So… I’m just done dealing, you know?”
I snort and stare out the floor-to-ceiling windows – more like walls, actually – on either side of the mostly glass front door.

“And so… what, are you planning on hiding the entire time I’m in here?”

He snorts his old snort and says, “Who cares, as long as the lights are out and the door’s locked. I wasn’t supposed to be working tonight anyway.”

The Books ‘N Beans is warm and sultry inside, cinnamon and coffee and chocolate smells oozing from the café side to my right.

I kind of shuffle in between the bookstore side and the café side, uncertain as to why Jory would let me in after what I did to him.

But he did and I’m here and he must not hate me too bad because he’s not reaching behind the cash register for a gun or anything.

And even if he was, I’m so hungry and aching for a cup of coffee, I might not even care.

He sees me biting my lip and eyeing the bakery display hungrily and says, “Oh, what? You’re gonna make me keep working?”
I laugh to hide my nervousness and follow him as he shuffles over in his adorable little green Books ‘N Beans apron and fluffy red Santa hat.

“Just a little,” I say, sliding out of my backpack and taking off my mittens to reach inside.

The card from Aunt Hazel has the usual $20 inside.

I smile and look up at the board.

There are a million and one different combinations to choose from, from mocha mint to pumpkin latte to cinnamon shakes and hot apple cider with cinnamon sticks.

I don’t know where to start.

I’d love a cinnamon shake, but these chocolate-colored leggings are snug enough as it is.

So what about a pumpkin latte?

But no, that’s—

“Hey,” I say as he slides over a giant red mug covered in white snowflakes. “I didn’t even order yet.”

“Trust me,” he says knowingly, lifting his own matching mug up to his thin, pale lips. “It’s the Snowflake Special; you’ll love it.”

I raise it to my lips, see a thin layer of whip cream on top, with what looks like cinnamon and nutmeg sprinkled on top.

So far, so good!

I taste and it’s… it’s… liquid heaven!

“Is that…?” I begin to ask.

“Two parts hot chocolate and one part hot coffee, winter blend. You can thank me later!”

There is a padded stool to my left and I just sort of… melt… into it, kind of the way the Snowflake Special is melting my insides.

Jory snorts, satisfied that he’s made the right choice, and starts snatching pastries, cookies and other assorted treats from the bakery window beneath the counter.

He shoves a plate full of them in between us and reaches for the biggest gingerbread man cookie I believe I’ve ever seen in real life.

It rests gingerly in his long, pale fingers and I smile.

“I only have $20 on me,” I confess.

“So?” he snorts, spraying gingerbread in every direction.

I duck for cover and say, “Well, you’ve just plated about $200 worth of goodies.”

He shrugs and slides the plate a little closer, eyeing me as I eye a scrumptious cinnamon and pumpkin scone.

“We’re not open tomorrow anyway,” he confesses. “And I’ll just have to throw them out on the 26^th so… either we eat this stuff now, or some raccoon’s going to be very happy when he snuggles up in the dumpster later tonight.”

I shrug and reach for the scone.

It’s so delicious, I don’t even care if I make not-so-silent moaning noises as I inhale it in three large bites.

“Hungry much?” he snorts, he of two giant gingerbread cookies rounding on his third.

“Yeah, well, I was supposed to have this awesome prime rib dinner and champagne with my mom tonight, but… she had her stupid boyfriend over and I was so ticked I let without eating.”

He nods, looking over my shoulder.

“Why do you think I’m working on Christmas Eve?” he kind of shrugs after swallowing his cookie. “Dad took his new family on a cruise and left me to hold down the fort.”

I look over the giant lip of my giant cup and ask, “You still call them his ‘new’ family? I mean, didn’t he get remarried, like, five years ago?”

He smiles and says, “Look at you. Didn’t your Mom and Derek start dating, like, two years ago?”

“Uhhm, no,” I correct him. “Two years ago for Christmas she was dating, let’s see, Willem. And then last year it was Crandall, so Derek is actually new thanks so much.”

“Anywhatever,” he snorts, not smiling and not quite frowning, either. “I’m just saying; it gets complicated when your folks break up.”

“Especially around the holidays,” I add, looking down at the exquisite nutmeg and cinnamon layer of cream coating my tasty coffee concoction.

I’m about to open my mouth and add something more when a knock shatters the otherwise silent store.

“Dang!” we both say at the same time, sloshing Snowflake Special all over the counter as we bolt at the noise.

“I told you, didn’t I?” he spazzes, hustling out from behind the bar and walking a few steps to the door.

Jory is about 6’2” and 180-pounds, which tonight is poured into wheat-colored chords and a red and white rugby shirt with a tattered collar.

“We’re closed,” I hear him saying through the glass, then a muffled voice says from outside something I can’t understand, to which Jory says, “No, she’s not a customer and no, we’re not open and no, that’s not a Snowflake Special in her hand.”

More muffles and Jory says, “Goodnight, Mrs. Johnson. And Merry Christmas to you, too! What’s that? Well, that’s not very Christmassy, is it now?”

I inch over just a smidge to peer out the window and see a very large, very angry woman stomping away in the snow toward a BMW parked at the curb, wagging her middle finger inside an expensive leather glove as she hoists a large Gucci bag over her shoulder.

“Nice,” I say, dabbing at the last of the Snowflake Special with, what else, a snowflake covered napkin.

“What’d I tell you?” he says, standing near me impatiently.

“What?” I ask, turning around in my stool to look up at him. “You’re kicking me out now?”
“No,” he says, bushing slightly. “It’s just, it’s harder for customers to see you if we sit over by the fireplace.”

I follow his gaze to a secluded corner with three leather chairs and a circular, kind of modern coffee table covered in books and magazines.

I nod and shrug at the same time, not wanting to seem too eager, and follow him over.

I still can’t figure his game.

By rights he should hate me and yet… here I am, still here.

Is he tricking me, lulling me to my doom before he pulls some big intervention on me?

Or has he genuinely forgiven me for what I did to him last year?

I figure it’s somewhere in between, but remind myself to stay on my toes just the same.

We sit across from each other.

The fire is low and there is some kind of music twinkling above.

I wait until the leather from his chair quits squeaking as he adjusts his giant frame in the roomy chair and listen a little more closely.

It’s Christmas music, low and jazzy, light on the singing, heavy on the saxophone.

He sees me notice and starts to rise, his long, thin torso stretching up like a crane about to reach the highest floor of a big city high rise.

“I can turn it off,” he says, hovering over his seat as if maybe he doesn’t really want to. “The switch is behind the cash register.”

“Naw,” I bluff. “We don’t want anybody else to see you. It’s fine.”

He sits quickly, grinning, with relief.

We sit quietly for awhile, balancing the giant coffee mugs on our knees.

He sits up and stacks the books and magazines so we have more space, and we both lean forward to put our mugs on it at the same time.

He blushes and sits back fast.

He smiles, then frowns, as if he’s as confused about why I’m here as I am.

“I forgot your Dad owned this place,” I say, leaning back and sinking into the buttery soft, deep leather chair.

It’s big and black and dreamy.

He shrugs and says, “Yeah, well, I don’t remember you and the other cheerleaders spending a ton of time in here, back in the day.”

His voice has an edge to it and I think to myself, Here it comes.

I snort.

“I guess I could say the same about you and the football field, Jory.”

He smirks and says, “Touche.”

We squirm through an awkward silence and I say, “How’s Snowflake High lately?”
“What?” he answers without answering. “You don’t keep in touch with Lacey and the girls anymore?”
I shrug, embarrassed to admit that Jory is the first person from Snowflake High I’ve talked to since last fall, when Mom sent me away to boarding school in North Carolina.

“What’s it like?” he asks, legs so long his knees are almost touching his Gigantor coffee mug on the round table between us. “I mean, going away to school?”

“It gets lonely,” I admit. “I mean, I have new friends but… most of them have been going to school together forever so…”

I trail off, realizing I’m not telling him anything new.

Then the silence stretches through one Christmas song, and half of another before I clear my throat and look his way.

“I’m sorry,” I sigh, barely having the courage to meet his large, hazel eyes. “I never meant to hurt you.”

“It’s not me you hurt, Rio.”

I nod, and try to believe him.

I mean, he’s right, of course, but it’s hard not to believe he wouldn’t hate me after all I put him through last year.

Most of that time was a blur; the crowd I ran with, the drugs we did, the drinking, the guys, the other guys, but the one thing that stays with me was Jory’s face when he walked out of the C-wing boys’ bathroom that day.

He’d just seen what I’d written about him, in my own lipstick, just after tossing back two shots from Lacey Hamilton’s flask in Home Ec.

I wasn’t drunk when I wrote it, but I was buzzed enough not to care what I might do to anyone else but me.

Two of the cheerleaders were in Jory’s 6^th period class and texted the rest of us when he asked Mr. Clifford to use the bathroom.

We all hustled out to the hall – not even the teachers dared stop us back then – and waited while he was inside.

He stumbled out the color of a dead squid and looked right at me.

I don’t know if he knew I was the one who’d written it, or if I was just the only one in the halls not laughing at him at that moment.

He wasn’t crying, but only because he was still in shock.

The crying came later, in the counselor’s office while we both waited for our parents to show.

He kept asking, “Why, Rio? Why do you and your friends hate me so much?”

I kept saying, “We don’t, Jory,” but what I really meant was, “I don’t.”

His Dad didn’t care much; said if Jory didn’t “hang around the bookstore so much,” if he “got a little fresh air” from time to time, folks “wouldn’t make assumptions.”

My Mom was mortified, mostly because I’d gotten caught and, in getting caught, kicked off the cheerleading squad.

And the yearbook, and the school newspaper and the Math-a-Letes.

I never went to school after that; I wasn’t allowed to go to school after that.

From the sound of it, Jory never went back, either.

“You don’t know what’s going on at Snowflake High because… you don’t go there anymore, do you Jory?”

He looks out from under the mop of thick, black curls hiding under his cockeyed Santa cap and says, “Bingo.”

“Oh my god,” I say, leaning forward and placing my hand on his knee; I’m shocked when he doesn’t violently yank it away. “I am SO sorry, Jordy.”

“Why?” he asks before I can blather on, making a fool of myself. “I’m not. You did me a favor, Rio. Now I get to home school, work here full-time, I’ve even been writing. I just had my first short story published in Dark Matters magazine, so I should probabaly… thank you.”

He says it, but he doesn’t mean it.

Sure, he means the rest; the homeschooling, the working, the money in his pocket, the short story and the magazine, but not the “thank you” part.

He doesn’t mean that; he can’t mean that.

“That’s awesome,” I say, still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Congratulations,” I add hesitantly when it doesn’t.

I lean over and grab my mug and raise it to him; he hesitates, then clinks mine and sips with a long, satisfied smile.

“To new beginnings,” I say.

He smirks and says, “How about we start with not poisoning each other’s Snowflake Specials for now, Rio, and go from there?”

I snort and sip and sip and snort some more.

I sit back and say, “You know, whenever a new girl shows up at a boarding school, everybody talks. I never told them why I got transferred halfway through the school year, never figured I had to, but they made stuff up anyway.

“First I was pregnant then, when I never started showing, I was fresh from juvie for stabbing my principal. I got in a few fights over it, got some demerits, too many to join the cheer squad, not that any of the other girls would have voted for me anyway.”

His eyes have gotten bigger and when I stop to take a breath he says, “Seriously, Rio? Am I supposed to feel… sorry… for you?”
I pause and say, honestly, “No Jory, I just, I dunno why I told you all that in the first place. I guess I just wanted you to know that I changed both our lives that day.”

“That’s the thing, Rio,” he says, putting his cup down. “You didn’t change my life; just my social life.”

“Maybe your life didn’t need to change,” I say, voice suddenly tiny. “Maybe… mine… did.”

He smiles and says, “Then I’m glad I could help.”

We laugh, but I need to check my face – around my eyes, mostly – and ask him if I can use the bathroom.

When I come back, I expect the coffee table to be cleaned up, the treats put away, the fire doused, the Christmas music off and the lights off, but he’s still sitting there, quietly, looking at me as I cross the room.

It’s a long look, kind of lingering; lingering around my snug fisherman’s sweater and even snugger chocolate brown leggings.

It’s the look a guy gives a girl when he doesn’t want to be doing anything but looking at her.

When I meet his eyes, he doesn’t look away.

They look soft and luminous in the firelight, his curls glistening and the nearby fire casting shadows across his long, angular face.

He has a little stubble on his chin, and sprayed across his hollow cheeks, but it’s not on purpose; more like he just hasn’t bothered shaving lately.

I sit, curling my knees under me and say, “I thought you’d have kicked me out by now.”

“Me too,” he admits, and we both laugh.

“Well, I’m glad you didn’t,” I say, just to have something to say.

“Me too.”

We sit for awhile, silently; just… sit.

The fire crackles as it sputters and moans a late night death.

He sips a little less and less of his coffee each time, finally nudging it away so he can’t reach it anymore.

We sit through one entire Christmas carol – “Silent Night” – and then another before he says, “We should start over, Rio.”

I nod, but don’t say anything, biting my lip hopefully.

“Just… start fresh,” he adds. “You know? Like nothing ever happened between us.”

I nod some more.

“You sure?” I ask. “I mean, can you really do that?”

He shrugs indifferently and admits, “I can if you can.”

“I can,” I snap before he can change his mind.

“How long are you in town for?” he asks hopefully, sitting up a little.

I smile, something liquid oozing around my heart.

“ ‘Til just after New Year’s.”

He nods.

“So, big deal. If we start over and still hate each other, then… you’re gone in a week and no harm, no foul.”

“And if we don’t hate each other?” I ask.

“Then maybe we can start over again.”

I blush and say, “Why does that sound like the best idea ever?”

It’s so gushy and non-me we both laugh.

He stretches, long fingers reaching for the ceiling.

I get the hint and start to clean up; he lets me.

He shuffles around in the background, dousing the fire and turning off the lights throughout the store.

I’m behind the coffee counter, washing out our mugs and plastic-wrapping the cookies and pastry, putting them back inside the bakery glass.

It feels cozy here, the fire smoking and still slightly red, the embers glowing in Jory’s big wet eyes, casting shadows on the white part of his Santa hat.

He stands, catches me looking, and blushes to match the fire.

I feel my own face, hot and shamed but also… proud.

Proud to be here, to have confessed, to have a new friend.

And, hopefully by New Year’s, something… more.

We finish at about the same time, me standing awkwardly by the door, he walking up to me with his hands behind his back.

He has a sneaky look on his face.

“Here,” he says, offering me a gaily wrapped package that looks, oddly enough, book-shaped!

I take it slowly, wondering when he had time to buy me something while I wasn’t looking, let alone wrap it.

“It’s nothing, really,” he lies as I tear into it.

(I never was one of those open it at the seams, fold the paper and save it for next Christmas kind of gals.)

Inside is a hardback, the clearance sticker not-so-subtly torn off; it’s called 101 Things to Do Over Christmas Break!

I snort and clutch it to my heart; it really is the sweetest gift anyone’s given me in years.

“But I didn’t give you anything,” I whine, huddling close as he opens the door and finally lets Christmas in on our cozy little Silent Night in Snowflake.

“Are you kidding?” he blurts, looking down at me. “You spent all night with me. You fessed up, and said… you said… you didn’t hate me.”

I reach up and draw him near, putting my warm lips on his and don’t let up until he finally gasps.

“There,” I say. “Merry Christmas!”

He blushes, and licks his lips and leans down and kisses me hard this time; his breath like chocolate and coffee as I find myself pressed against the glass door at my back.

I push him away, if only to come up for air, and he laughs.

“I’ve wanted to do that since freshman orientation,” he admits, holding my hand as he walks me down the sidewalk toward his car.

“You did?” I ask, not confessing to the same.

We don’t talk anymore until we get to his car.

He goes to open the passenger door and I say, “If you don’t mind, Jory, I’d rather walk.”

“Really?” he asks, shutting it quickly.

I nod and slide the book he gave me into my backpack.

The snow is still falling, the town still glittering under 10,000 twinkling Christmas lights.

“Thanks for everything,” I say, glad I slid the $20 bill under the coffee mugs when I’d finished cleaning. “It really was an awesome Christmas.”

He nods and watches me take a few steps.

I turn and wrap my scarf around my neck, snuggling into my mittens.

“You gonna be okay?” he asks, standing between his open door and his driver’s seat.

I nod and pull the scarf over my lips so I won’t be tempted to say anything else.

He smiles and leans to get in.

I’m still standing there, halfway between wanting to run to his car and smother him again and sprint toward home, skipping all the way.

He stands back up, as if he expects me to be waiting and says, “I never thought I’d see you again.”

I blink and start to unwind my scarf to say something, to ask anything, but by the time my lips are free and biting from the cold he’s started his engine and is backing out of the employee parking lot, tires crunching on the new fallen snow.

For the life of me, I can’t tell if he’s relieved to see me again, or disappointed.

Oh well, I suppose I have the long walk home to figure it out…