Page 79 of Texting My Secret Santa

“No apologies,” he says. “You heard myspeechyesterday. You heard what I said. I meant every word. But I can’t say a thing like that—or I shouldn’t have—if we don’t have a future.”

As Asher drives us home, I can’t resist rechecking the video. It’s just hit a million views. The comments are all glowing with women wishing Asher was talking about them, people discussing the romances they began and nurtured during Christmastime, and replies stacked on replies.

I think about what he said. He meant every word. He loves me.

What is this feeling if not love? It makes this more tragic.

Soon, we’re riding the elevator up to the apartment. The atmosphere is like we’re going to a funeral. That might not be too wide off the mark. The funeral is for our relationship.

“At least he didn’t change the locks,” I say, turning the key.

“Yet,” Asher mutters.

Dan is waiting for us in the hallway. He’s wearing his workout clothes, covered in sweat. He must’ve heard us coming in. “I’ll grab a shower. Make me a coffee, would you?”

He walks away. Asher and I exchange a look.

“Did he seem mad or numb?” Asher asks.

“I don’t know. Somewhere in between.”

In the kitchen, I make three coffees. Asher paces up and down, unable to keep his hands still. He’s usually so in control andcomposed. It’s weird seeing him like this. He fiddles with his phone.

“One million and one hundred thousand,” he says. “This is just rubbing it in. I should see if I can get it taken down. Dan doesn’t need this.”

“We both know when something’s on the internet, getting rid of it is borderline impossible, especially without copyright laws.”

“I wonder how many of these million views is Dan.”

“Try and sit down,” I say. “You’re making me nervous.”

“Sorry, Snow—He sighs. “Sorry.”

Dan walks in, his hair still wet. He looks at the kitchen island and then paces instead. He reminds me of his behavior during important, all-hands-on meetings, dominating the room. With Asher sitting beside me, the scene has the energy of two kids being called into the principal’s office.

We don’t speak, giving Dan the space to think. Finally, he stops pacing. “Asher, did you mean what you said in that video?”

“Dan, I …”

“Just answer the question.”

“I meant it,” Asher says. “I can’t lie about that. But just because I meant it, it doesn’t mean I’m going to put my feelings before you. I’ve been doing that for too long already. When I guessed Holly was my Secret Santa, that should’ve been the end of it. I slipped repeatedly.”

“But you meant it,” Dan says. “That speech you gave, the one currently being shared all over the world, the one that Mom and Dad have seen, the one that couples are sending toeach other, the one that’s inspired a mind-boggling number of conversations about Christmas and love?”

“Yes.” Asher swallows audibly. “I meant it.”

“How?” Dan demands.

He’s in fully fledged CEO mode.

“Well,” Dan goes on. “I’m trying to understand how this can be possible. You only came home a couple of weeks ago. Or am I supposed to assume this started before you came home?”

“It started when I moved in here,” Asher says. “Then, when we got each other for the Secret Santa, it got out of hand.”

“Meaning, you regret it?”

“No, Dan. I’m sorry, but I don’t regret it. I can’t regret feeling this way.”

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