Page 3 of The Christmas Box

“It’s gone now,” I confirm for him. “The whole structure. The park just outside, to the north of my building, took its place. I donated the lot to the town with the stipulation that it be made into a park named after my family.”

He tilts his head. “Yeah, I noticed there was a building missing. What happened to it?”

“Mom and Grandma lived upstairs from the diner, and there was a fire about ten years ago. I was away at college. They didn’t get out.”

I can see I’ve thrown him for a loop with my family tragedy. But he asked. “Sorry,” he says. “That’s awful.”

I proceed onward to the point of my story. “Anyway, my mom always dreamed of opening a Christmas shop. She was saving toward it. So after she died,Istarted saving toward it. And then a few months ago, I quit my admin job working for the mayor, bought this building, and opened the shop. Or I’m about to in a couple of hours. Today is actually our first day.”

His eyes get wider. And his deep voice softer. “Well, okay, I guess now I understand why you’d want a Christmas shop.”

I, on the other hand, do not understand why he seemed so passionately Grinch-like about it. As someone whose livelihood now literally depends on people loving the holidays, I really want to know what his problem with Christmas is. “So why are you such a holiday hater?”

“I already told you.” His reply is so short and blunt that I know there’s more to the story.

But the coffee is done, so I grab a dark green, speckled mug with the wordsMerry Christmasand an old-fashioned Santa face stamped on the side and pour a cup, setting it on the counter in front of him.

And as he takes a sip, I realize I’ve made a terrible mistake. I should have put it in a paper to-go cup, and instead I’ve made it so he has to stay here to drink it. Rookie coffee bar mistake.

“You don’t remember me, do you?” I hear myself ask, unplanned. I’m not sure why; maybe because I’m tired of hearing him diss Christmas, an important aspect of my life, past, present, and—hopefully—future. Maybe because the longer we talk, the weirder it seems that it hasn’t come up. Maybe because we’re going to be neighbors, at least temporarily, and are we never going to acknowledge that we sat in the same homeroom for twelve entire school years?

As I look into his deep brown eyes and he looks back, I’m still trying to ignore how hot he is. He, on the other hand, is clearly trying to figure out the answer since I’ve put him on the spot. Finally he asks, “Were we in school together?”

“Yes.” He’s still puzzling it through, though, so I throw him a bone. “Think homeroom.”

I should probably just tell him my name at this point—I hate when people I once knew make me play that terrible guessing game—but I suppose I’m still holding his Grinchiness against him.

That’s when recognition dawns in his gaze. “Are you…Lexi? Lexi Hargrove?”

I raise my eyebrows—no smile—and say, “Bingo.”

Then I watch his face fall as he remembers why this is relevant. I’m pleased it comes back to him instantly, pleased he’s not going to pretend nothing bad ever happened between us. “We were supposed to…” He’s wagging a finger back and forth between us now. “…Um, go to a thing together.”

“Yes.” I keep it short because maybe I suddenly regret reminding him of a time when he had the power to hurt me. Funny how quickly those youthful feelings can come rushing back.

Now his face is a little scrunched up—and I realize he’s still struggling to piece together the memory. “Why…didn’t we?”

Well, I’m glad it made such an impact on him. He knowssomethingwent wrong between us, but he didn’t bother to remember what. “You never showed.”

He clenches his teeth and makes an “oops, ya got me” face. “That’s what I was afraid of.”

Maybe he’s stood up a lot of girls in his day. Or maybe standingmeup just wasn’t a noteworthy entry on his list of high school sins. Either way, it adds insult to an old injury.

“I was kind of a punk back then,” he goes on.

“Not a newsflash,” I tell him. And if that was an apology, it’s as weak as his memory.

“I’m not anymore,” he claims.

I once again arch my eyebrows in his direction, this time to ask, “Are you sure?”

The question elicits a light laugh. It’s the first time I’ve seen him smile, even if it fades quickly. “Well, Itrynot to be. Maybe I don’t always get there. Got a lot on my mind lately.”

“Helen told me about your dad. About why you’re here.”

“They say he doesn’t have long.”

“That must be hard.” I don’t really want to be nice to him, but a dying parent supersedes a lot, especially for me.

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