Page 40 of Texting My Secret Santa

“There’s nothing to talk about,” he grumbles.

“Is that why you seem so mad?”

I stare out the window. It’s like he smoothly redirected the flow of the conversation the moment we got close to the Secret Santasubject. That, combined with his sneakiness earlier, makes me almost positive.Almost.

“It’s why you hate the holidays, right?” I go on. “She broke up with you over Christmas.”

“I hate the holidays because I never had a goddamn holiday, and I’m a grown-ass man who can’t let go of my childhood baggage. I hate them because I’m pathetic, latching onto things I shouldn’t even think about. Because my junkie mom dug up a neighbor’s bush and used fucking dental floss to tie some gas-station crap to it, then looked at me like we were the happiest family ever, stoned out of her mind.”

His eyes glisten, his knuckles white with strain as he squeezes the steering wheel. His chest rises and falls as his breaths come quickly.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I shouldn’t push. I don’t know what came over me.”

“It’s fine,” he grunts.

“No, it’s not. Asher, that was wrong of me. I know it’s a sensitive topic, and I pushed. I’m truly sorry.”

“I truly mean that it’s fine.”

“So why won’t you look at me?”

“Maybe because I’m driving.”

That logic fails when we hit more traffic and come to a dead stop, but he still stares at the road.

We haven’t said anything for a long time. I could come out and ask him if he’s my Secret Santa. Maybe I could explain that mySecret Santa makes me feel warm and fuzzy like a marshmallow over a fire, but that metaphor fails.

Leave me too long, and I’ll burn.

The way Asher burns me—I was the one who said we had to pretend nothing ever happened. He was so romantic and supportive at the climbing center.

“We weren’t serious,” Asher finally mutters.

“Dan said you were going to propose to her.”

“I-I was,” he says, shaking his head, “but it’s more complicated than that.”

“It’s none of my business, anyway.”

He glances at me with his winter-sky eyes. “You’re making it your business, Snowflake.”

I should probably tell him to stop with the nickname. Every time he uses it, resisting him becomes more difficult.

“I don’t want to pry.”

“Yes, you do,” he says, giving me some side-. “I’ve been alone for a long time. I thought I’d always be alone. Then Mia came along, and she was … decent.”

It’s not exactly glowing praise.

“We could share a meal without me imagining running out of the door the whole time. She ironed my shirts. She prepped my meals. It was nothing like us.”

When he says this, he stares at the road, refusing to look at me. My hands are wrapped around my middle like I can protect myself from this declaration.

Think of Dan, Holly. Think of your brother. Grow up. This isn’t a fairy tale.

“I was going to propose to her because I figured if I’ve gone this long without caring about a woman on anything other than a surface level, it’ll probably stay that way. So I’ll just do the right thing. It had been long enough, but then last Christmas, we had this big blowout.”

“What happened?” I whisper.

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