Heather applies eyeliner, looking into a tiny mirror stuck to the inside of her locker. “You asked him about it while eating pancakes?” she asks.

“Huge pancakes,” I say. “And Rachel told me to do it somewhere public, so…”

“What did he say?”

I lean against the next locker. “It’s not my story to tell. Just keep giving him a chance, okay?”

“I’m letting you hang out with him unchaperoned. I’d say that’s giving him a chance.” She caps her eyeliner. “When I heard the two of you were prancing all over town delivering Christmas trees like Mr. and Mrs. Claus, I figured the rumors must be exaggerated.”

“Thank you,” I say.

She shuts her locker. “So now that you two are legit, I should remind you why I encouraged a holiday fling to begin with.”

We both look down the busy hall to Devon, standing in a circle of his guy friends.

“Are you over that whole Winter Queen thing?” I ask.

“Believe me, I made him grovel over that,” she says. “A lot. Still, look at him! He should be standing over here with me. You’d think if he really liked me—”

“Stop!” I say. “Listen to yourself. First you want to break up, but you say you would never do that to him over the holidays. And yet when he doesn’t give you attention, you get despondent.”

“I do not get… ! Wait, is that like being all pouty?”

“Yes.”

“Fine. I get despondent.”

Everything is clear now. This has never been about Devon being dull. It’s about Heather needing to feel like he wants her.

I follow her through the halls to her next class. We get stares from students and teachers who wonder who I am, or people who recognize me, realizing it’s that time of year again.

“You and Devon hang out a lot,” I say, “and I know you make out a lot, but does he know you really like him?”

“He knows,” she says. “But I don’t know if he likes me. I mean, he says he does. And he calls me every night, but that’s to talk about fantasy football and nothing at all important, like figuring out what I might want for Christmas.”

We leave the busy hall and walk into her English class. The teacher gives me a nod and a smile, and then he points to a chair already placed beside Heather’s desk.

As the tardy bell rings, Jeremiah skids into the room and takes the desk right in front of Heather. My heart beats faster. I replay that sad look on Jeremiah’s face when he walked past Caleb at the parade.

While the teacher fires up the SMART Board, Jeremiah turns to me. His voice is deep. “So you’re Caleb’s new girlfriend.”

I feel my face get warm and I freeze for a moment. “Who said that?”

“It’s not a big town,” he says. “And I know a lot of guys on the baseball team. Your dad’s reputation is legendary.”

I cover my face with my hands. “Oh, God.”

He laughs. “It’s all good. I’m glad you’re hanging out with him. It’s kind of perfect.”

I drop my hands and study him carefully. The teacher says something about A Midsummer Night’s Dream while messing with his computer, and people around us rummage through their notebooks. I lean forward and whisper, “Why is it perfect?”

He turns slightly. “Because of his tree thing. And your tree thing. It’s cool.”

Heather whispers at me. “Do not get me in trouble. I have to come back here tomorrow.”

As discreetly as I can, I ask, “Why don’t you hang out with him anymore?”

Jeremiah looks down at his desk and then tucks his chin against his shoulder to look back at me. “He told you we were friends?”

“He told me a lot,” I say. “He’s a really good guy, Jeremiah.”

He looks to the front of the room. “It’s complicated.”

“Is it?” I ask. “Or does your family make it that way?”

He winces a little and then looks at me like, Who is this girl?

I consider what my parents would say if they knew Caleb snapped like he did, even if it was years ago. Ever since I can remember, they have always emphasized forgiveness, believing people can change. I want to think they would stand by those words, but when it comes to me and who I like, I’m not sure how they would react.

I glance at Heather with an apologetic shrug, but this may be the only chance I get with Jeremiah. “Have you talked to them about it since?” I ask.

“They don’t want this kind of problem for me,” he says.

It makes me so sad—and angry—that his parents or anyone would consider Caleb a kind of problem. “Right, but would you be friends if you could?”

He eyes the front of the room again and the teacher futzing with his computer. Jeremiah turns back to me. “I was there. I saw how it went down. Caleb was mad as hell but I don’t think he would have hurt her.”

“You don’t think?” I say. “You know he wouldn’t have.”

His fingers hold the sides of his desk. “I don’t know that,” he says. “And you weren’t there.”

The words hit hard. It has never been just Jeremiah’s family. It’s also him; and he’s right, I wasn’t there.

“So neither one of you is allowed to change, is that it?”

Heather taps my arm and I lean back in my chair. Jeremiah stares at a blank page in his notebook throughout class, but he never writes a word.

I don’t see Caleb until the end of the day. He’s with Luis and Brent, leaving the math wing. I watch them slap each other on the shoulders and take off in different directions. He smiles when he sees me and comes over.

“You know, most people try to get out of school,” he says. “How was your day?”

“There were some interesting moments.” I lean against a wall in the hallway. “I know you’ll probably say you never used the word arduous in a sentence, but it was mostly that.”

“I have not used that one,” he says. He leans against the wall with me, pulls out his phone, and starts typing. “I’m going to look that one up later.”

I laugh and then notice Heather walking toward us. Several paces behind her, Devon is talking on his phone.

“We’re going downtown,” she says. “Shopping. You two want to join us?”

Caleb looks at me. “It’s up to you. I’m not working.”

“Sure,” I say to Heather. I turn to Caleb. “Let Devon drive. You can look up your word-of-the-day.”

“Keep teasing me and I may not buy you a peppermint mocha,” he says. Then, like it’s the most natural thing he’s done, he takes my hand and we follow our friends outside.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Caleb only lets go of my hand so that he can open the back door of Devon’s car. After I’m seated, he closes the door and walks around to the other side. From the front passenger seat, Heather turns and gives me a knowing smirk.

I give her the only suitable response for a situation like this: “Shut up.”

When she wiggles her eyebrows at me, I almost laugh. But I do love that she made the decision to stop questioning Caleb. Either that or she’s just really happy to have us along for the ride with Devon.

When Caleb gets in, he asks, “So what are we shopping for?”

“Christmas presents,” Devon says. He starts the engine and then looks at Heather. “I think. Right?”

Heather closes her eyes and leans her head against the window.

I need to feed Devon some boyfriend tips. “Okay, but who are you shopping for, Devon?”

“Probably my family,” he says. “What about you?”

This is going to be much harder than I thought, so I change tactics. “Heather, if you could have anything for Christmas, what would it be? Anything at all.”

Heather clues in to what I’m doing, and that’s because she’s not ridiculously oblivious like Devon. “That is a great question, Sierra. You know, I’ve never been someone who asked for much, so maybe…”

Devon messes with the radio as he drives. It takes everything I have not to kick his seat. Caleb looks out the window, close to laughing. At least he gets what’s going on.

“Maybe what?” I ask Heather.

She glares directly at Devon. “Something thoughtful would be nice, like a day of doing my favorite things: a movie, a hike, maybe a picnic on Cardinals Peak. Something so easy even a moron could do it.”

Devon switches the radio station again. Now I want to smack him in the back of his thick skull, but he’s driving and I care too much about the other passengers.

Caleb leans forward. He puts a hand on Devon’s shoulder while looking at Heather. “That sounds really fun, Heather. Maybe someone will give you that best day ever.”

Devon looks into the rearview mirror at Caleb. “Did you tap me?”

Heather leans up close to his face. “We were talking about what I want for Christmas, Devon!”

Devon smiles at her. “Like one of those scented candles? You love those!”

“That’s real observant,” she says, sitting back. “They’re only all over my dresser and desk.”

Looking back to the road, Devon smiles and pats her on the knee.

Caleb and I start laughing softly, but then we can’t hold back and it comes roaring out. I lean against his shoulder, dabbing tears from the corners of my eyes. Eventually Heather joins in… a little. Even Devon starts to laugh, though I have no idea why.

Every winter, a retired couple opens a seasonal shop downtown called the Candle Box. It’s almost always in a different location—a store that would otherwise sit vacant during the holidays. They stay open about the same stretch of time as our lot, but the owners live here throughout the year. The store’s festive shelves and tables are stocked with scented and decorative candles with pinecones, glitter, and other items layered into the wax. What draws some people into the store who would otherwise walk by is the candle-making in the front window.

Today the wife sits on a stool surrounded by tubs of various colors of melted wax. She dips a wick into the wax again and again to create the candle, which thickens with each dip, alternating layers of red and white. She finishes this candle with a dunk into the white wax and then hangs it on a hook using a loop in the wick. The wax is still warm as she slides a knife down the sides, peeling back strips and exposing the many tiers of white and red. About an inch from the bottom she stops slicing the wax and, in a ripple design, presses the ribbon back against the candle. That process continues, sliding the knife and rippling the ribbon, around the entire candle.

I could watch this process for hours.

Caleb, though, keeps interrupting my hypnotized state.

“Which do you like better?” he asks, lifting candles in front of my face. First he wants me to smell a jar with a picture of a coconut on the label, and then one with cranberries.

“I don’t know. I’ve smelled too many,” I say. “They all smell the same now.”

“No way! Cranberries and coconuts smell nothing alike.” One at a time, he holds the candles close to my nose again.

“Find something with cinnamon,” I say. “I love cinnamon candles.”

His mouth drops open in mock horror. “Sierra, cinnamon is a starter scent. Everyone likes cinnamon! The point is to move on to something more sophisticated.”

I smirk. “Is that right?”

“Absolutely. Wait here.”

I don’t have a chance to get fully re-mesmerized by the candle-making before Caleb returns with another jar. He covers the picture with his hand, but the wax is a deep red.

“Close your eyes,” he says. “Concentrate.”

I close my eyes again.

“What does it smell like?” he asks.

Now I laugh. “Like someone recently brushed their teeth and is right up in my face.”

He nudges my arm, and—eyes still shut—I inhale deeply. Then I open my eyes, looking directly into his. He feels so, so close. My voice comes out breathy, almost a whisper. “Tell me. I like it.”