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 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 hesitantly, 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, “Touché.”
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 6th 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 precise 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, was summarily 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, Jory.”
“Why?” he asks before I can blather on, making an even bigger 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 probably… 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…”
I sigh, steeling myself before going on. “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, quietly, “No Jory, not at all. 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 silent 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; ling
ering 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.
“Until 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 purse.
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 for him to find when he opens the store on the 26th. “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 the 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…
* * * * *
About the Author:
Rusty Fischer
Rusty Fischer is a full-time freelance writer and the author of several published novels, including Zombies Don’t Cry (Medallion Press) and A Town Called Snowflake (Musa Publishing). For more FREE romantic holiday stories, visit him at www.storiesoftheseason.com.
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