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  “Yes.”

  “Fine. I get despondent.”

  Everything is clear now. This has never been about Devon being dull. It’s about Heather needing to feel like he wants her.

  I follow her through the halls to her next class. We get stares from students and teachers who wonder who I am, or people who recognize me, realizing it’s that time of year again.

  “You and Devon hang out a lot,” I say, “and I know you make out a lot, but does he know you really like him?”

  “He knows,” she says. “But I don’t know if he likes me. I mean, he says he does. And he calls me every night, but that’s to talk about fantasy football and nothing at all important, like figuring out what I might want for Christmas.”

  We leave the busy hall and walk into her English class. The teacher gives me a nod and a smile, and then he points to a chair already placed beside Heather’s desk.

  As the tardy bell rings, Jeremiah skids into the room and takes the desk right in front of Heather. My heart beats faster. I replay that sad look on Jeremiah’s face when he walked past Caleb at the parade.

  While the teacher fires up the SMART Board, Jeremiah turns to me. His voice is deep. “So you’re Caleb’s new girlfriend.”

  I feel my face get warm and I freeze for a moment. “Who said that?”

  “It’s not a big town,” he says. “And I know a lot of guys on the baseball team. Your dad’s reputation is legendary.”

  I cover my face with my hands. “Oh, God.”

  He laughs. “It’s all good. I’m glad you’re hanging out with him. It’s kind of perfect.”

  I drop my hands and study him carefully. The teacher says something about A Midsummer Night’s Dream while messing with his computer, and people around us rummage through their notebooks. I lean forward and whisper, “Why is it perfect?”

  He turns slightly. “Because of his tree thing. And your tree thing. It’s cool.”

  Heather whispers at me. “Do not get me in trouble. I have to come back here tomorrow.”

  As discreetly as I can, I ask, “Why don’t you hang out with him anymore?”

  Jeremiah looks down at his desk and then tucks his chin against his shoulder to look back at me. “He told you we were friends?”

  “He told me a lot,” I say. “He’s a really good guy, Jeremiah.”

  He looks to the front of the room. “It’s complicated.”

  “Is it?” I ask. “Or does your family make it that way?”

  He winces a little and then looks at me like, Who is this girl?

  I consider what my parents would say if they knew Caleb snapped like he did, even if it was years ago. Ever since I can remember, they have always emphasized forgiveness, believing people can change. I want to think they would stand by those words, but when it comes to me and who I like, I’m not sure how they would react.

  I glance at Heather with an apologetic shrug, but this may be the only chance I get with Jeremiah. “Have you talked to them about it since?” I ask.

  “They don’t want this kind of problem for me,” he says.

  It makes me so sad—and angry—that his parents or anyone would consider Caleb a kind of problem. “Right, but would you be friends if you could?”

  He eyes the front of the room again and the teacher futzing with his computer. Jeremiah turns back to me. “I was there. I saw how it went down. Caleb was mad as hell but I don’t think he would have hurt her.”

  “You don’t think?” I say. “You know he wouldn’t have.”

  His fingers hold the sides of his desk. “I don’t know that,” he says. “And you weren’t there.”

  The words hit hard. It has never been just Jeremiah’s family. It’s also him; and he’s right, I wasn’t there.

  “So neither one of you is allowed to change, is that it?”

  Heather taps my arm and I lean back in my chair. Jeremiah stares at a blank page in his notebook throughout class, but he never writes a word.

  I don’t see Caleb until the end of the day. He’s with Luis and Brent, leaving the math wing. I watch them slap each other on the shoulders and take off in different directions. He smiles when he sees me and comes over.

  “You know, most people try to get out of school,” he says. “How was your day?”

  “There were some interesting moments.” I lean against a wall in the hallway. “I know you’ll probably say you never used the word arduous in a sentence, but it was mostly that.”

  “I have not used that one,” he says. He leans against the wall with me, pulls out his phone, and starts typing. “I’m going to look that one up later.”

  I laugh and then notice Heather walking toward us. Several paces behind her, Devon is talking on his phone.

  “We’re going downtown,” she says. “Shopping. You two want to join us?”

  Caleb looks at me. “It’s up to you. I’m not working.”

  “Sure,” I say to Heather. I turn to Caleb. “Let Devon drive. You can look up your word-of-the-day.”

  “Keep teasing me and I may not buy you a peppermint mocha,” he says. Then, like it’s the most natural thing he’s done, he takes my hand and we follow our friends outside.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Caleb only lets go of my hand so that he can open the back door of Devon’s car. After I’m seated, he closes the door and walks around to the other side. From the front passenger seat, Heather turns and gives me a knowing smirk.

  I give her the only suitable response for a situation like this: “Shut up.”

  When she wiggles her eyebrows at me, I almost laugh. But I do love that she made the decision to stop questioning Caleb. Either that or she’s just really happy to have us along for the ride with Devon.

  When Caleb gets in, he asks, “So what are we shopping for?”

  “Christmas presents,” Devon says. He starts the engine and then looks at Heather. “I think. Right?”

  Heather closes her eyes and leans her head against the window.

  I need to feed Devon some boyfriend tips. “Okay, but who are you shopping for, Devon?”

  “Probably my family,” he says. “What about you?”

  This is going to be much harder than I thought, so I change tactics. “Heather, if you could have anything for Christmas, what would it be? Anything at all.”

  Heather clues in to what I’m doing, and that’s because she’s not ridiculously oblivious like Devon. “That is a great question, Sierra. You know, I’ve never been someone who asked for much, so maybe . . .”

  Devon messes with the radio as he drives. It takes everything I have not to kick his seat. Caleb looks out the window, close to laughing. At least he gets what’s going on.

  “Maybe what?” I ask Heather.

  She glares directly at Devon. “Something thoughtful would be nice, like a day of doing my favorite things: a movie, a hike, maybe a picnic on Cardinals Peak. Something so easy even a moron could do it.”

  Devon switches the radio station again. Now I want to smack him in the back of his thick skull, but he’s driving and I care too much about the other passengers.

  Caleb leans forward. He puts a hand on Devon’s shoulder while looking at Heather. “That sounds really fun, Heather. Maybe someone will give you that best day ever.”

  Devon looks into the rearview mirror at Caleb. “Did you tap me?”

  Heather leans up close to his face. “We were talking about what I want for Christmas, Devon!”

  Devon smiles at her. “Like one of those scented candles? You love those!”

  “That’s real observant,” she says, sitting back. “They’re only all over my dresser and desk.”

  Looking back to the road, Devon smiles and pats her on the knee.

  Caleb and I start laughing softly, but then we can’t hold back and it comes roaring out. I lean against h
is shoulder, dabbing tears from the corners of my eyes. Eventually Heather joins in . . . a little. Even Devon starts to laugh, though I have no idea why.

  Every winter, a retired couple opens a seasonal shop downtown called the Candle Box. It’s almost always in a different location—a store that would otherwise sit vacant during the holidays. They stay open about the same stretch of time as our lot, but the owners live here throughout the year. The store’s festive shelves and tables are stocked with scented and decorative candles with pinecones, glitter, and other items layered into the wax. What draws some people into the store who would otherwise walk by is the candle-making in the front window.

  Today the wife sits on a stool surrounded by tubs of various colors of melted wax. She dips a wick into the wax again and again to create the candle, which thickens with each dip, alternating layers of red and white. She finishes this candle with a dunk into the white wax and then hangs it on a hook using a loop in the wick. The wax is still warm as she slides a knife down the sides, peeling back strips and exposing the many tiers of white and red. About an inch from the bottom she stops slicing the wax and, in a ripple design, presses the ribbon back against the candle. That process continues, sliding the knife and rippling the ribbon, around the entire candle.

  I could watch this process for hours.

  Caleb, though, keeps interrupting my hypnotized state.

  “Which do you like better?” he asks, lifting candles in front of my face. First he wants me to smell a jar with a picture of a coconut on the label, and then one with cranberries.

  “I don’t know. I’ve smelled too many,” I say. “They all smell the same now.”

  “No way! Cranberries and coconuts smell nothing alike.” One at a time, he holds the candles close to my nose again.

  “Find something with cinnamon,” I say. “I love cinnamon candles.”

  His mouth drops open in mock horror. “Sierra, cinnamon is a starter scent. Everyone likes cinnamon! The point is to move on to something more sophisticated.”

  I smirk. “Is that right?”

  “Absolutely. Wait here.”

  I don’t have a chance to get fully re-mesmerized by the candle-making before Caleb returns with another jar. He covers the picture with his hand, but the wax is a deep red.

  “Close your eyes,” he says. “Concentrate.”

  I close my eyes again.

  “What does it smell like?” he asks.

  Now I laugh. “Like someone recently brushed their teeth and is right up in my face.”

  He nudges my arm, and—eyes still shut—I inhale deeply. Then I open my eyes, looking directly into his. He feels so, so close. My voice comes out breathy, almost a whisper. “Tell me. I like it.”

  He smiles warmly. “It has some peppermint, some Christmas trees. A little chocolate, I think.” The label on the jar, in scripted gold letters, says A Very Special Christmas. He sets the lid back on the candle. “It reminds me of you.”

  I wet my lips. “Do you want me to buy it for you?”

  “That’s a hard one,” he murmurs, our faces mere inches apart. “I think I’d probably go crazy if I lit this thing in my room.”

  “Guys!” Devon interrupts. “Heather and I are getting pictures with that Santa in the plaza. Want to come?”

  Heather must have seen the moment happening between Caleb and me. She grabs Devon’s hand and pulls him back. “It’s fine. We can meet them later.”

  “No, we’ll come,” Caleb says.

  He holds out his hand and I take it. Really, I would love to disappear somewhere uninterrupted with him. Instead, we leave to get our picture taken while sitting on a stranger’s lap.

  When we get to the plaza, the line snakes out from Santa’s Gingerbread Cottage, through the courtyard, and halfway around a wishing fountain with a bronze bear reaching into the water.

  Devon flicks a penny and it hits the bear’s paw. “Three wishes!” he says.

  While Devon and Caleb talk, Heather leans close to me. “Looks like you two could’ve used some alone time back there.”

  “That’s the joy of Christmas,” I say. “You’re always surrounded—completely—by family and friends.”

  When we finally get to the cottage door, a chubby guy dressed like an elf guides Devon and Heather to Santa, who is perched on an oversized red velvet throne. They squeeze together onto his lap. The man has an authentic snowy white beard, and he puts his arms around them both like they’re little kids. It’s silly, but adorable. I lean into Caleb’s shoulder and he puts his arm around me.

  “I used to love getting pictures with Santa,” he says. “My parents dressed Abby and me in matching shirts and would use that year’s picture for our family Christmas cards.”

  I wonder if memories like these are bittersweet to him now.

  He looks me in the eyes and touches a finger to my forehead. “I can see your wheels spinning up there. Yes, it’s okay to talk about my sister.”

  I smile and lean my forehead against his shoulder.

  “But thank you,” he says. “I love that you’re trying to figure me out.”

  Devon and Heather walk to the register, which is staffed by another elf. When we take our turn on Santa’s lap, I watch Caleb pull the purple comb from his pocket and run it through his hair a few times.

  An elf with a camera clears her throat. “Are we ready?”

  “Sorry,” I say, turning my gaze away from Caleb.

  The elf takes several pictures. We start with some goofy faces but then lean back with our arms around Santa’s shoulders. The guy playing Santa goes along with everything, his jolliness never fading. He even tosses in a “Ho, ho!” before every photo.

  “I’m sorry if we’re heavy,” I tell him.

  “You haven’t cried or peed,” he says. “That puts you ahead of the game.”

  When we hop off his lap, Santa hands us each a small wrapped candy cane. I follow Caleb toward the counter to look at our pictures on the computer screen. We choose the photo of us leaning against Santa, and Caleb buys a copy for us both. While those print, he requests a photo keychain, too.

  “Really?” I say. “You’re going to drive around in your manly truck with a picture of Santa on a keychain?”

  “First, it’s a picture of us with Santa,” he says. “Second, it’s a purple truck, making you the first person to call it manly.”

  Heather and Devon are waiting outside the cottage for us, with Devon’s arm around her shoulders. They want to grab something to eat, so Caleb and I follow, but I have to guide him by the arm while he attaches the photo to his keyring. I successfully navigate him around one near-collision. Then I get so distracted by his careful expression as he slides our photo onto an item he’ll see every day that we walk into someone.

  He drops his phone. “Oops. Sorry, Caleb.”

  Caleb picks up the phone and hands it back. “No problem.”

  We continue on and Devon whispers, “At school, that guy’s always got his face in his phone. He should try looking up every once in a while.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Heather says. “You are the last—”

  Devon holds up a hand like a shield. “I’m joking!”

  “He was talking to Danielle,” Caleb says. “I saw her name on his screen.”

  “Still?” Heather fills me in. “Danielle lives in Tennessee. He met her over the summer at theater camp, and they totally fell in love.”

  “Like that’ll last,” I say.

  Caleb’s eyes narrow and I wince, instantly regretting my words. I squeeze his arm tighter, but he keeps his gaze straight ahead. I feel awful, but he can’t possibly think there’s a real future in such a long-distance relationship. Can he?

  This—Caleb and I—can only end one way, with both of us getting hurt. And we already know the date that will happen. The longer we push this thing
forward, the worse that hurt will be.

  So what am I doing here?

  I stop. “You know what, I should really start heading back to work.”

  Heather steps in front of me. She can see what’s going on. “Sierra . . .”

  Everyone stops walking, but only Caleb refuses to look at me.

  “I haven’t been helping out as much as I should,” I say. “And my stomach’s hurting anyway so . . .”

  “Do you want us to drive you back?” Devon asks.

  “I’ll walk with her,” Caleb says. “I’ve lost my appetite, too.”

  We do most of the thirty-minute walk back to the lot in silence. He must know my stomach doesn’t really hurt because he never asks if I’m okay. By the time the Bigtop comes into view, though, it does hurt. I shouldn’t have said anything.

  “I have a feeling all the stuff with my sister bothers you more than you admit,” he says.

  “That’s not it at all,” I say. I stop walking and take his hand. “Caleb, I am not the kind of person who would hold the past over you like that.”

  He runs his other hand through his hair. “Then why did you say that back there, about long-distance relationships?”

  I take a deep breath. “You really think it’ll work for them? I don’t want to be cynical, but two lives, two sets of friends, two different states? The odds are against them from the beginning.”

  “You mean they’re against us,” he says.

  I let go of his hand and look away.

  “I knew that guy before he met Danielle, and I’m glad he’s with her. It’s inconvenient, and he doesn’t see her every day or go to dances with her, but they talk all the time.” He pauses and, for a fleeting moment, his eyes narrow. “I really did not see you as a pessimist.”

  Pessimist? I feel my anger rising. “That proves we haven’t known each other very long.”

  “We haven’t,” he says, “but I’ve known you long enough.”

  “Is that right?” I can’t shake the sarcasm from my voice.

  “He and Danielle have a huge roadblock, but they work around it,” Caleb says. “I’m sure they know more about each other than most people. Are you saying they should only focus on the one thing that makes it difficult?”