Let It Snow: Three Holiday Romances Myracle, John (the lemonade war series txt) 📖

kind of radiance usually associated with religious epiphany. Looking at him made me tired. Behind him were two more guys, awed acolytes following in his wake.

“What do you need, ladies?” Don-Keun called happily.

“Can we practice handstands in here?” Amber One said. I guess her basket-toss wrist was feeling better. Tough types, these cheerleaders. Tough and crazy. Who treks through a blizzard to practice handstands in a Waffle House? I only went there to get away from them.

“Ladies,” he said, “you can do whatever you want.”

Amber One liked this answer.

“Could you, maybe, like mop the floor? Just this bit right here? Just so we don’t get stuff on our hands? And could you spot us?”

He almost broke his own ankles trying to get to the mop closet.

Stuart had been watching all of this wordlessly. He didn’t have that same glorious look as Don-Keun or his friends, but the matter had clearly made his radar. He cocked his head to the side, like he was trying to figure out a really hard math problem.

“Things around here have deviated from the usual,” he said.

“Yeah,” I said. “You could say that. Is there anywhere else to go? A Starbucks or something?”

He almost flinched when I mentioned Starbucks. I guessed he was one of those antichain types, which seemed odd for someone who worked at Target.

“It’s closed,” he said. “Pretty much everything is. There’s the Duke and Duchess. That might still be open, but that’s just a convenience store. It’s Christmas Eve, and with this storm . . . ”

Stuart must have sensed my despair from the way I began lightly banging my forehead on the table.

“I’m going to get back to my house,” he said, slipping his hand across the table as cushioning and preventing me from doing myself any more damage. “Why don’t you come with me? At least it’s out of the snow. My mom would never forgive me if I didn’t ask you if you needed somewhere to go.”

I thought this over. My cold, dead train was on the other side of the road. My current option was a Waffle House full of cheerleaders and a guy dressed in Reynolds Wrap. My parents were guests of the state, hundreds of miles away. And the biggest snowstorm in fifty years was right on top of us. Yeah, I needed somewhere to go.

Still, it was hard to unwire the “stranger danger” message that ran through my head . . . even though the stranger was really the one taking the chance. I had all the crazy cards tonight. I wouldn’t have taken me home.

“Here,” he said. “A little proof of identity. This is my official Target employee card. They don’t let just anyone work at Target. And here’s a driver’s license. . . . Ignore the haircut, please. . . . Name, address, social, it’s all on there.”

He pulled the cards out of his wallet to finish the joke. I noticed that there was a picture of him with a girl in the picture flap, obviously from a prom. That reassured me. He was a normal guy with a girlfriend. He even had a last name—Weintraub.

“How far is it?” I asked.

“About a half mile that way,” he said, pointing at what appeared to be nothing at all—formless white lumps that could have been houses, could have been trees, could have been life-size models of Godzilla.

“A half mile?”

“Well, it’s a half mile if we take the short way. The long way is a little over a mile. It won’t be bad. I could have kept going, but this was open, so I just stopped for a warmth break.”

“Are you sure your family won’t mind?”

“My mom would literally beat me down with a hose if I didn’t offer someone help on Christmas Eve.”

Don-Keun vaulted the counter with a mop, almost impaling himself in the process. He started cleaning the floor around Amber One’s feet. Outside, Jeb had gotten into the booth. He was deeply entrenched in a drama of his own. I was alone.

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll come.”

I don’t think anyone noticed our getting up and leaving except for Tinfoil Guy. He had his back turned to the cheerleaders in complete disinterest, and he saluted us as we headed for the door.

“You’re going to need a hat,” Stuart said, as we stepped into the frigid vestibule.

“I don’t have a hat. I was going to Florida.”

“I don’t have a hat, either. But I have these . . . ”

He held up the plastic bags and demonstrated by putting the bag on his head, wrapping it once around, and tucking it in so that it made a snug but strange-looking turban, puffed up at the top. Wearing a bag on your head seemed like something that Amber and Amber and Amber would have refused to do . . . and I felt like making a point that I wasn’t like that. I gamely wound it around my head.

“You should really put them around your hands, too,” he said, passing me a few more. “I don’t know what to do about your legs. They have to be cold.”

They were, but for some reason I didn’t want him to think that I couldn’t handle that.

“No,” I lied. “These tights are really thick. And these boots . . . they’re solid. I’ll take them for my hands, though.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You sure?”

“Positive.” I had no idea why I was saying this. It just seemed like telling the truth would mean admitting some weakness.

Stuart had to push hard to fully open the door against the wind and accumulated snow. I didn’t know snow could pour. I’ve seen flurries and even steady snow that left an inch or two, but this was sticky and heavy and the flakes were the size of quarters. Within seconds, I was drenched. I hesitated at the bottom of the steps, and Stuart turned around to check on me.

“Sure?” he asked again.

I knew that I was either going to turn right there and then, or I was going to have to go all the way.

I gave a quick look back and saw the three Madisons