Page 3 of The Christmas Yes List

“But here we are,” she finishes.

“Here we are.”

“What else did you do?”

I give her the blow-by-blow that led to where I am now, and she laughs through my story of personal humiliation (as friends do). By the time I get through to the luggage carousel, a storm outside the windows of the airport is brewing. “Hey, not that you apparently have to get off the phone ever,” I say sarcastically, “but it looks like Christmas outside and I’m going to have to white-knuckle Dad’s truck all the way to the house. See you tonight?”

“Can’t wait. And Chloe?”

“Yeah?”

“I submit myself for one of the rejections. Go ahead. Try me.”

“What? No.”

“Come on. Give it a whirl. Ask me something ridiculous.”

“It doesn’t work like that. Especially with you.”

“Ask me to give you my life savings. Let you paint my car entirely in nail polish.”

“Do you actually want to get fired right before Christmas? What if your boss walks in on you right now?”

“Tell me to walk out of class right here, right now, and propose to Pete.”

“I have a feeling you’ve already done that. A few times.”

“Eat an entire jar of pickles or—”

I raise my voice. “Go have fun, you know, actually teaching, Genie. I’ll see you tonight.” I pocket my phone as an alarm sounds, the conveyor belt roars to life, and suitcases start to shoot down the belt and round the baggage carousel. If only the rejection drills were as easy as making ridiculous requests of my best friend—one of only two people (I can’t even include Dad here) in existence I can say no to without heating up like I’ve put on twelve sweaters while in an elevator. But alas, that’s another rule of the “game.”

It’s not supposed to be easy.

If it were, I’d never get fixed.

“Can I . . . uh . . .” a man says, then clears his throat, “give you a lift?”

The pensiveness in his voice catches my attention, and I look up to see the man who offered help so uncertainly. Something about the doubt coating his words feels uncanny. Like he isn’t accustomed to offering help of his own volition.

I frown a bit warily at the man. Do one of those millisecond scans every girl in the world does to assess her situation before proceeding. He’s roughly six feet two. Late twenties. His brown hair is pomade perfected, and he’s wearing gray slacks and a black wool coat over a crisp white dress shirt. His shoes match the shade of his belt impeccably. Executive guy. Odd to see one of those types here, where the picture spanning the length of the airport wall behind his head is of bears. Forests. Nature. The whole baggage claim area smells subtly of cheap air freshener and tobacco.

I tilt my head slightly, confused, and he jumps in with a hand outstretched toward the moving carousel. “With your suitcase.”

What is this—the 1800s? Does he think I can’t lift a forty-pound bag? I can’t even delude myself into thinking he was hitting on me, given the very unwilling way he offered to help.

He doesn’t really mean it. But then, why ask?

I answer, of course, as I should. It’s an automatic response based on my sense of what he wants to hear. “No, thank you,” I say politely and I flash him an equally polite smile. “That’s very kind, though.”

He nods, and his eyes harden as if to say, Right. As expected. Got it.

I turn toward the door and then, against my mental will, halt.

Because that’s when it happens. The painful, all-too-familiar itch in my brain that just won’t let go. The nauseating flood of thoughts that presses and presses until I give in.

Wait a second. He asked. He voluntarily asked. What if he did want you to say yes? What if you hurt his feelings?

You’re awfully rude there, aren’t you, Chloe? The man was trying to be nice, and here you are with a flippant no. He probably thinks you’re an awful person. Was that even a tilt of pride in your voice?