“Obviously,” Bianca said.
And as quickly as they’d arrived, Wesley and Bianca swept back out the door, while Amy, her parents, and I migrated to the kitchen for breakfast.
“I’m so glad they’re home,” Amy was saying as she poured herself a bowl of cereal. “It’s nice to have the whole family together again.”
“It is,” Mrs. Rush agreed.
A knot twisted in my stomach, and I found myself blinking back sudden tears. I cleared my throat.
“Um, Mr. Rush? Has there been any mail for me?”
Mr. Rush had just filled a mug with coffee. He looked at me over the rim, his eyes knowing. He’d been the one to put my letter in the mail, so he knew exactly why I was asking.
“No, Sonny,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“Are you expecting something?” Amy asked.
“Yeah,” I mumbled, the ache in my chest growing as I watched the Rushes bustle around the kitchen, laughing as they bumped into each other and tripped over one another’s feet. “But I probably shouldn’t be.”
Amy raised an eyebrow, and I knew she’d be asking me about it later. I still wasn’t sure if or what I was going to tell her.
“Sonny,” Mrs. Rush said, “why don’t you invite your mother for dinner on Christmas Eve? I know she had to work on Thanksgiving, but hopefully she has Christmas Eve off.”
“Maybe,” I said. “I’ll see. I’m sure she’d appreciate the invitation.”
Lie, lie, lie.
“Ryder.”
It was embarrassing how surprised I sounded, but he was the last person I expected to find on the Rushes’ front porch. Well, okay. Maybe not the last. That title most likely belonged to the Queen of England or the reanimated corpse of Edgar Allan Poe.
Or my mom.
But Ryder was unexpected, nonetheless. He was wearing an army-green utility jacket, his nonprescription black glasses, and a beanie. He looked hot in that awful hipster way I’d somehow grown to appreciate.
“Hey, Sonny,” he said, smiling at me.
There may have been a little bit of fluttering in my stomach. Maybe. Just a little. Unfortunately, it was quickly drowned out by the awful realization that I looked like shit.
I’d only gotten out of the shower ten minutes before the doorbell rang. I was dressed, thank God — though maybe if I hadn’t been, he’d have other, more interesting things to look at than my hair, which was wet and tangled and pulled back from my face with a tie-dyed headband I used whenever I put on a face mask. Which I’d been only seconds away from applying when the doorbell rang.
So as timing goes, it wasn’t as bad as it could have been.
But why, why hadn’t he chosen to come by on a day when I looked amazing? Or when I was wearing some sort of sexy yet classy lingerie? I didn’t even own lingerie, but that seemed like an excellent scenario, and one that would likely go a long way toward furthering progress on my master plan.
Ryder didn’t seem to notice my unflattering hairdo, however.
“Hey. Is Amy home?” he asked.
I managed to keep my composure despite my disappointment. “Nope. She went out to run some errands this morning, and she insisted it would be boring and I didn’t have to come.” I smirked. “You know what that means, right?”
“What’s that?”
“She’s out buying my Christmas present.”
“Oh?” he asked. “What do you think she’ll get you?”
“Well, I asked for a pony,” I informed him. “And I’m not sure I could settle for anything less.”
“Any good friend would get you a pony,” he agreed.
Then we were grinning at each other, and those fluttery feelings made their triumphant return.
“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, Sonny,” he said over his shoulder.
“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 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 asshole.