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

his ‘we’ll see’ meant,” Tegan said anyway. “That he was thinking about it. I think that’s good, Addie!”

“Tegan . . . ” I said.

Her expression faltered. She went from hopeful to uncertain to worried. Her eyes flew to my pink hair.

Dorrie, who was quicker on the uptake with these things, said, “How long did you wait at Starbucks?”

“Two hours.”

She gestured at my hair. “And after that, that’s when you . . . ?”

“Uh-huh. At the Fantastic Sam’s across the street.”

“Fantastic Sam’s?” Dorrie said. “You got your breakup haircut at a place that gives out Dum-Dums and balloons?”

“They didn’t give me a Dum-Dum or a balloon,” I said glumly. “They were about to close. They didn’t even want to give me an appointment.”

“I don’t get it,” Dorrie said. “Do you know how many girls would have died for your hair?”

“Well, if they’re willing to dig through a trash can for it, they can have it.”

“Honestly, the pink is growing on me,” Tegan said. “And I’m not just saying that.”

“Yes, you are,” I said. “But who cares? It’s Christmas, and I’m all alone—”

“You’re not alone,” Tegan argued.

“And I’ll always be alone—”

“How can you be alone when we’re right here next to you?”

“And Jeb . . . ” My voice hitched. “Jeb doesn’t love me anymore.”

“I can’t believe he didn’t come!” Tegan said. “That just doesn’t sound like Jeb. Even if he didn’t want to get back together, don’t you think he’d at least show up?”

“But why doesn’t he want to get back together?” I said. “Why?”

“Are you sure it’s not some kind of mistake?” she pressed.

“Don’t,” Dorrie warned her.

“Don’t what?” Tegan said. She turned to me. “Are you absolutely positive he didn’t try to call you or anything?”

I grabbed my phone off my bedside table. I tossed it to her. “Look for yourself.”

She went to my call history and read the names out loud. “Me, Dorrie, home, home, home again—”

“That was my mom, trying to figure out where I was, since I was gone for so long.”

Tegan frowned. “Eight-oh-four, five-five-five, three-six-three-one? Who’s that?”

“Wrong number,” I said. “I answered, but no one was there.”

She pressed a button and lifted the phone to her ear.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Whoever it was, I’m calling them. What if it was Jeb calling from someone else’s phone?”

“It wasn’t,” I said.

“Eight-oh-four is Virginia’s area code,” Dorrie said. “Did Jeb take some mystery trip to Virginia?”

“No,” I said. Tegan was the one grasping at straws, not me. Still, when she held up her finger, my pulse quickened.

“Um, hi,” Tegan said. “May I ask who’s calling?”

“You’re the one who’s calling, you doof,” Dorrie said.

Tegan blushed. “Sorry,” she said into the phone. “I mean, um, may I ask who’s speaking?”

Dorrie waited for about half a second. “Well? Who is it?”

Tegan fluttered her hand, meaning, Shush, you’re distracting me.

“Me?” she said to the mystery person on the other end of the line. “No, because that’s insanity. And if I had thrown my cell phone into a snowbank, why would I—”

Tegan drew back and held the phone several inches from her ear. Tiny voices spilled out from the speaker, sounding like Alvin and the Chipmunks.

“How old are you guys?” Tegan said. “And hey, quit passing the phone around. All I want to know . . . Excuse me, could we get back to . . . ” Her jaw dropped. “No! Absolutely not. I’m hanging up now, and I think you should . . . go play on the swing set.”

She shut the phone. “Can you believe that?” she asked Dorrie and me indignantly. “They’re eight years old—eight!—and they want me to tell them how to French-kiss a guy. They are seriously in need of deprogramming.”

Dorrie and I looked at each other. Dorrie turned to Tegan and said, “The person who called Addie was an eight-year-old girl?”

“There wasn’t just one. There was a whole gaggle, all yapping away. Yap, yap, yap.” She shook her head. “I sure hope we weren’t that annoying when we were that age.”

“Tegan?” Dorrie said. “You’re not giving us much to work with, babe. Did you find out why this gaggle of eight-year-olds called Addie?”

“Oh. Sorry. Um, I don’t think it was them, because they said it wasn’t actually their phone. They said they found it a few hours ago, after some girl flung it in a snowbank.”

“Come again?” Dorrie said.

My palms felt itchy. I didn’t like the sound of this girl. “Yeah, please tell us what the heck you’re talking about.”

“Well,” Tegan said, “I’m not convinced they knew what they were talking about, but what they said was that the girl—”

“The phone-flinging girl?” Dorrie interrupted.

“Right. That she was with a guy, and that they were in loooooove, which the eight-year-olds knew because they saw the guy ‘plant a juicy one’ on the girl. And then they asked me to teach them how to French-kiss!”

“You can’t teach someone to French-kiss over the phone,” Dorrie said.

“Plus, they’re eight! They’re babies! They don’t need to be French-kissing, period. And ‘plant a juicy one’? Please!”

“Um, Tegan?” I said. “Was the guy Jeb?”

The giggliness went out of her. I could see it happen. She bit her lip, flipped my phone back open, and hit redial.

“I am not here to chat,” she said, right off the bat. She held the phone away from her head, wincing, then drew it back. “No! Shhh! I have one question and one question only. The guy with the girl . . . what did he look like?”

Chipmunk chatter burbled from the phone, but I couldn’t make out the words. I watched Tegan’s face and gnawed my thumbnail.

“Uh-huh, okay,” Tegan said. “He did? Aw, that’s so cute!”

“Tegan,” I said through gritted teeth.

“Gotta go, bye,” Tegan said, snapping shut the phone. She turned to me. “Most definitely not Jeb, because this guy had curly hair. So . . . yay! Case solved!”

“What made you say, ‘Aw, that’s so cute’?” Dorrie asked.

“They said that the guy did this dorky happy dance after kissing the phone-flinging girl, and that he thrust his fist into the air and yelled, ‘Jubilee!’”

Dorrie drew back and made an okay-that’s-weird expression.

“What?” Tegan said. “Wouldn’t you want some guy yelling ‘jubilee’