Lying Out Loud

“Any good friend would get you a pony,” he agreed.

Then we were gri

“Do you want to come in?” I asked. “It’s just me here. Everyone else is out doing last-minute shopping.”

Mortification crept over my face as I realized with a start exactly what I was offering. Me and Ryder. In a giant, empty house. With infinite rooms just begging to be made out in.

Or, you know, we might just watch TV.

Although, knowing Ryder, he probably hated television.

But for a full second, I thought he was going to say yes. His mouth opened to speak, but then he snapped it shut. He looked at me, then looked away, shaking his head as if shaking water from his face.

“That’s okay,” he said. “I’d better get going.” I tried not to let the disappointment show, but I wasn’t strong enough to hide it when he said, “But will you give this to Amy?”

It was only then that I noticed the thin, rectangular box, covered in green wrapping paper, tucked under his arm. It was the sort of box clothes were always given in on Christmas, and it was for Amy.

“Of course,” I said, taking the box from him. “No problem.” And then, spotting an opening to push my plans along a little, I added, “But I’m sorry. I don’t think she got you anything.”

Ryder shrugged. “That’s okay,” he said, only a tiny bit crestfallen. “You never know. Maybe she’ll pick me up something while she’s out buying your pony.”

“Maybe.”

We stared at each other for another long moment. In the silence, I had the sudden urge to tell him about my letter to Dad, but I shoved the impulse away. I hadn’t heard from Dad yet, and I might not. If he never called or wrote back, I wasn’t sure I could stand having to answer questions about it later.

Ryder did that same head shake he’d done a minute before and finally turned, moving toward the front steps. “Merry Christmas, So

“Merry Christmas.”

But at that moment, the gift box feeling heavy and cruel in my arms, it didn’t seem all that merry.

As much as I didn’t want to know, I was dying to know what was in the box Ryder had given to Amy.

“Why didn’t you just open it?” she asked when she got home that evening.

“Because it’s for you.” The words came out harsh and bitter. And yes, I knew that wasn’t fair. Amy hadn’t asked for this. But damn it, if she wasn’t so irresistible, we wouldn’t be in this situation.

Was it really too much to ask for a shrew as a best friend? I didn’t think so.

“Not really,” she said, but she picked up the box anyway and sat down on the bed with it in her lap. She peeled off the green paper, careful not to tear it. Where I would have just shredded it, Amy was always neat about the way she unwrapped gifts, as if she might want to reuse the paper later. (She never did, though.)

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 fla

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 fla

“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.”

“So

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

“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 asshole.

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. Wa

“You’re on,” I said.

Chapter 15

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, So

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.”