Let It Snow: Three Holiday Romances by Myracle, John (good book club books TXT) 📕

you listen. It’s ten thirty, and you promised Tegan you’d go to Pet World at nine o’clock on the dot. There’s no excuse you can give that’ll justify why you’re still at Starbucks futzing around.”

“That’s not fair,” I argued. “What if . . . what if an iceberg fell on my head and left me in a coma?”

“Did an iceberg fall on your head and leave you in a coma?”

I pressed my lips together.

“Uh-huh, well, let me ask you this: Whatever your reason really is, does it have to do with you and some ridiculous new crisis?”

“No! And if you’d stop attacking me and let me tell you all the weird stuff that’s happened to me, you’d understand.”

“Do you even hear yourself?” she said incredulously. “I ask if it’s about some new crisis, and you say ‘No, and by the way, let me tell you about my new crisis.’”

“I didn’t say that.” Did I?

She exhaled. “Not cool, Addie.”

My voice went small. “Okay, you’re right. But, um . . . it has been an unusually bizarre day, even for me. I just want you to know that.”

“Of course it was,” Dorrie said. “And of course you forgot about Tegan, because it’s always, always, always about you.” She made an impatient sound. “What about the sticky note that said Do Not Forget Pig? Didn’t that ring any bells for you?”

“An old lady stole it from me,” I said.

“An old lady . . . ” She broke off. “Yeah, uh-huh. It’s not that you spaced it; an old lady had to steal it from you. It’s The Addie Show all over again. Every channel, every network.”

That stung. “It’s not The Addie Show. I just got sidetracked.”

“Go to Pet World,” Dorrie said, sounding tired. She hung up.

Chapter Twelve

Sunlight glinted on the snow as I hurried down the road and over to Pet World. The sidewalks were mostly clear, but there were spots here and there where the shoveled-off drifts had crumbled down, and my boots made oomph sounds as I trudged through those deeper stretches.

As I oomphed, I kept up a running monologue inside my brain about how The Addie Show was not on every channel. The Addie Show wasn’t on the monster-truck channel, and it wasn’t on the pro-wrestling channel. It most certainly wasn’t on whatever channel aired Let’s Go Fishing with Orlando Wilson, and I was tempted to call Dorrie back and tell her that. “Is it called Let’s Go Fishing with Adeline Lindsey?” I’d say. “Why, no! It’s not!”

But I didn’t, because no doubt she’d find a way to turn that into an example of my being self-absorbed, too. Worse, she’d probably be right. A better plan was to get Gabriel in my hot little hands—well, my cold little hands—and then call Dorrie. I’d say, “See? It turned out okay.” And then I’d call Tegan and let Gabriel oink into the phone or something.

Or, no. I’d call Tegan first, to spread the joy, and then I’d call Dorrie. And I wouldn’t say, “Ha-ha,” because I was bigger than that. Yeah. I was big enough to admit my wrongs, and I was big enough to stop cowering when Dorrie scolded me, since the new, enlightened me would need no scolding.

My cell rang from within my bag, and I cowered. Holy crud, does the girl have ESP?

A worse possibility entered my mind: Maybe it’s Tegan.

And then a wildly unworse possibility, stubborn and fluttering: Or . . . maybe it’s Jeb?

I fumbled in my bag and snatched out my phone. The display screen said DAD, and I deflated. Why? I railed silently. Why couldn’t it have been—

And then I stopped. I cut that whiny voice off midsentence, because I was sick of it, and it wasn’t doing me any good, and anyway, shouldn’t I have some say over the endless thoughts running through my head?

In my brain—and in my heart—I experienced a sudden absence of static. Wow. I could get used to that.

I hit the ignore button on my phone and dropped it back into my bag. I’d call Dad later, after I’d made things right.

Eau de hamster hit me as I stepped inside Pet World, as well as the unmistakable scent of peanut butter. I paused, closed my eyes, and said a prayer for strength, because while eau de hamster was to be expected in a pet store, the smell of peanut butter could mean only one thing.

I approached the cash register, and Nathan Krugle glanced up midchew. His eyes widened, then narrowed. He swallowed and put down his peanut butter sandwich.

“Hello, Addie,” he said distastefully, á la Jerry Seinfeld greeting his nemesis, Newman.

No. Wait. That would make me Newman, and I was so not Newman. Nathan was Newman. Nathan was a super-skinny, acne-pocked Newman with a taste for shrunken T-shirts inscribed with Star Trek quotes. Today his shirt said, YOU WILL DIE OF SUFFOCATION IN THE ICY COLD OF SPACE.

“Hello, Nathan,” I replied. I pushed my hood off, and he took in my hair. He semi-snorted.

“Nice haircut,” he said.

I started to say something back, then restrained myself. “I’m here to pick up something for a friend,” I said. “For Tegan. You know Tegan.”

I’d thought the mention of Tegan, with her bottomless sweetness, might distract Nathan from his vendetta.

It didn’t.

“Indeed I do,” he said, his eyes gleaming. “We go to the same school. The same small school. Surely it would be hard to ignore someone in a school that small?”

I groaned. Here it came, again, as if we hadn’t spoken for four years and still had to process that one regrettable incident. Which we didn’t. We had processed it many times, and yet apparently the processing was one-sided.

“But wait,” he said in the robotic voice of a bad infomercial host. “You ignored someone in a school that small!”

“Seventh gra-ade,” I said in a gritted-teeth, singsong voice. “Many many years ago.”

“Do you know what a Tribble is?” he demanded.

“Yes, Nathan, you’ve—”

“A Tribble is a harmless creature desperate for affection, native to the planet Iota Geminorum Four.”

“I thought it was Iota Gemi-blah-blah Five.”

“And