A Cliché Christmas(12)

My cheeks burned as an unwelcome memory washed over me, his face at the center of it all.

“We’re not friends, Weston.”

I grabbed my boots, which were propped next to his couch, and as I tugged them on, my body suddenly stiffened. Had he taken my shoes off? How had I slept that hard? I pressed my lips together. I knew better than to be vulnerable with him, and falling asleep on his blasted sofa couldn’t be more vulnerable! I pulled my jacket on and headed toward the door.

“Georgia, stop.”

My hand froze on the dead bolt, his voice at my back. I fought against the emotion building in my throat, my heart pounding to the cadence of an old, familiar drum.

“You and I need to have a conversation. One that should have happened seven years ago.”

I shook my head adamantly. “No, we don’t.”

His hand gripped my shoulder. He was so close that his breath tickled my ear. “Then why can’t I forget you, Georgia Cole?”

Squeezing my eyes shut, I felt my voice transform into a shaky whisper of doubt. “I don’t know . . . but I forgot you.”

“Turn around and say that to my face, then.” It was a challenge; one I knew I couldn’t accept.

My breath stopped as he slid his hand down the length of my arm, causing my traitorous body to melt under his touch.

But the voice inside my head prevailed.

Don’t give in.

“What are you so afraid of?”

“Nothing.” You. “Please, just let me leave.”

He withdrew his hand and took a step back. I pulled open the door and charged down the front steps two at a time, putting as much distance between us as I possibly could.

“I knew the real you once, Georgia . . . and I’m willing to bet I still do. No matter what you believe, I have always been your friend.”

As I shut myself inside my car, his words splintered into my soul one after another.

I had spent years convincing myself the opposite was true.

That he hadn’t accepted me.

That he hadn’t understood me.

That he hadn’t cared for me.

Because if Weston James had truly known me, then he had intended to crush me that December night long ago.



I hear the crowd: the coughs, the laughs, the murmurs. And I feel a momentary buzz of panic wash over me. But I push it down. This is my passion. My dream. My purpose.

I spent the last twelve years making good grades, acing tests, winning awards, all to prove that I could be intelligent and imaginative at the same time. And here I am: the lead in the Christmas play. Me, the girl who played “pretend family” in the park by my house. Me, the girl who read books for fun because mom said having friends would get me in trouble. Me, the girl Weston James walked home yesterday after rehearsal.

My stomach spasms when I remember his words, despite the prompting inside me to guard my heart.

“These last three months have changed something for me, Georgia. I see you . . . differently, or maybe I just finally see what’s always been there. I don’t know . . . but I don’t want to go back to how things were before.”

“Five minutes to curtain,” someone calls, breaking my trance.

I glance at Weston across the open chasm of stage. He’s talking to our drama teacher, Mr. Daniels.

“Georgia,” Sydney Parker, my new understudy, says.

“Yeah?”

“Mr. Daniels told me to ask you about a scene change at the end of Act Two. He wants to add the kiss back in to that last scene—it’s the way it was originally written, you know.”

My eyes widen to the size of grapefruits. “Wh—what are you talking about?”

“Mr. Daniels thought it would add a bit more excitement. He’s talking to Weston about it right now, and he asked me to relay the message, see if you’re up for it.”

Kiss Weston James? The popular, charming, funny, and pursued-by-every-teenage-girl-within-a-hundred-mile-radius Weston James?

I stare across the stage skeptically and see both Weston and Mr. Daniels nodding and smiling in my direction. And when Weston gives me the wink—the one I’ve seen since our days on the playground, the one that says, “I’m in if you are”—my doubt melts.

And so does the last protective layer surrounding my heart.

I look to Sydney once again. “Okay, tell me exactly what I’m supposed to do.”

And she does. In detail.

The blocking. The leap. The passionate lip-lock that is to take place.

But when I run toward him, he doesn’t look at me with longing and desire. He doesn’t grab me around the waist. And he certainly doesn’t kiss me with fervent zeal. Instead, he takes a step back, causing me to crash to the floor, rip my dress, and roll off the stage with a painful thud.

I lie in shock, the laughs blurring together as I wallow in my shameful foolishness. But there is one voice I hear clearly through the crowd when the director demands an explanation for the halted show. Sydney Parker’s.

She’s cozied up to Weston onstage, smiling. “Weston, if you wanted a girl to throw herself at your feet, you should have just asked!”

It’s then I realize I’ve been the butt of Weston’s best practical joke yet.

I jump to my feet as the crowd continues to laugh, and I run from the auditorium.

As I weep alone in the same park that at one time housed my imaginary parents, siblings, and friends, I break. Fragments of memories pull at my subconscious and bring the only resolve I can muster: I can’t face Weston again. I can’t see his eyes, or hear his voice, or continue to believe that our childhood friendship had meant something to him—at least the way it had to me. Whatever game he was playing, I couldn’t play it anymore. I had loved him for as long as I could remember, wishing that one day he might return my sentiments.