Lying Out Loud(37)

Once she’d finished with that task, she began working at the tape that held the white box closed. It took her a second, but then the lid was flipping open and she was pulling out a shirt.

A red buffalo plaid flannel shirt.

My heart swelled, then promptly sank.

Because, as I kept reminding myself, it wasn’t for me.

“Oh,” Amy said, examining the shirt, which was clearly not at all her style. “It’s … cute.”

“It’s flannel,” I said.

“Uh-huh.”

“It’s for your future nineties grunge band.”

Amy blinked at me. “Excuse me?”

“Nothing. It’s stupid.” I stood up and moved toward the door. “Enjoy the shirt.”

“Sonny, you can have it,” she said. “Obviously. It’s not really for me.”

“It’s not for me either,” I said. “You’re the one he thinks would look cute in flannel.”

“I’m going to disagree with him on that.” She put the shirt back in the box before looking at me again.

My hand was on the door, but I was watching her. Or maybe I was glaring at her. Unintentionally.

“Are you mad at me?” she asked.

“No.”

I was, though. And I hated myself for it. This situation with Ryder wasn’t Amy’s fault. It was mine. I was being an *.

It wasn’t just about Ryder, though. It was this stupid holiday. It was a constant reminder that Amy had everything I didn’t. A family, a future, a home … and now Ryder. She had people who loved her. People who wanted to buy her gifts and spend time with her. And I had no one.

No one … except her.

I felt myself deflate, my shoulders slumping forward as the anger seeped out of me, replaced by the weight of guilt.

“No,” I said again. “I’m not mad at you. I’m sorry.”

“You can have the shirt,” she said again, holding the box out to me. “It’s really for you.”

“That’s okay. It probably wouldn’t fit me anyway.” But I still took it from her. After a second, I forced a smile, and even though it wasn’t real, I knew it was believable because, well, it was me. “Your brother brought home some of those cookies with the icing we love. I’m stealing one. Should I grab two?”

Amy’s fake smile was more transparent. “Sure. Wanna play a game of pool in the rec room?”

“You’re on,” I said.





Bah, humbug!

Between the gift drama with Ryder, the lingering awkwardness between me and Amy, endless shifts at the bookstore, and my general lack of a family to spend the holidays with, I had become a scrooge. Every commercial featuring a happy little kid opening gifts with their loving parents made me want to karate chop the Rushes’ flat-screen TV. Every Christmas song on the radio gave me road rage. And I was no longer allowed to answer the front door for fear of what I might do to some unsuspecting caroler who might come knocking.

I’d even gotten reprimanded by Sheila for scowling too much at work. Dealing with the general public day in and day out while forcing a cheery attitude was torture. And even though I needed the money, I’d called in sick a couple of times just to keep myself sane.

Suffice it to say, I was not particularly eager to go downstairs on Christmas morning.

Don’t get me wrong, I knew the Rushes would be nice. They’d probably even gotten me a small gift — some assorted lotions or a new sweater, all of which I would have been incredibly grateful for — but I wasn’t the person they wanted to see today. They’d invited me into their home and never let me feel unwelcome for a moment, but in the end, I was their guest. And Christmas was a day you wanted to spend with family.

Amy and I would exchange gifts later that day. I would let the Rushes have the morning to themselves.

At least, that was my plan.

Until Wesley threw open my bedroom door at eight in the godforsaken morning.

“Merry Christmas!” he bellowed. “Time to get up.”

I groaned and smushed my face into the pillow. “No.”

“Come on, now. Where’s your holiday spirit?” I heard his heavy footsteps move quickly across the floor, then my curtains were thrown open and blinding sunlight filled the room. “Rise and shine, Sonny. Come downstairs and see what Santa brought you.”

I sighed and rolled onto my back, squinting against the light. “If you honestly think I still believe in Santa, we need to have a conversation, Wesley.”

“Let’s have it downstairs,” he said. “Come on. Everyone’s been waiting on you to open presents for almost an hour.”

I frowned. “Waiting on me? Why?”

“Because they didn’t want to wake you up. Thought it would be rude. I, on the other hand, have no such reservations.”

That wasn’t what I’d meant, though.

Before I could clarify, Wesley grabbed my wrist, pulled me to my feet, and began dragging me toward the door. Thank God I was wearing Amy’s frog pajamas.

“Okay, okay,” I said, having to jog to keep up with his long strides. “I’m coming. No need to use brute force.”

“I get aggressive about presents.”

“Clearly.”