Page 8 of Holly Jolly Rebel

“Yeah, it kind of does. Sound boring, that is.”

My body flushed with embarrassment. Of course it would sound boring to a guy like this. Toanyguy.

I turned to leave.

“But it’s okay to feel that way,” he said, as if I hadn’t tried to end the conversation because he was kind of rude.

“What way?”

“Like you don’t want to try new things. Or like you don’t want to move away from your family. Or you don’t ‘fit in’. If anything, it sounds to me like you know your own mind.”

I thought I did, but then I second-guessed everything and wondered if I just wasn’t as open or receptive to new things as I should be.

“I worry about disappointing people.”

“Your mom and dad?”

I nodded. “I’m not like the others.”

“So what. Embrace your weird.”

“Hey!”

Another smirk, not quite a smile, but still awfully appealing. He had to be at least ten years older than me.Why had I even thought that?

Because you’ve thought of him in other ways.

He continued. “If you want to carve out your own path, to go against the grain, then do it. If that translates to leaving a place that makes you uncomfortable, then you’ve got to look after yourself. ”

I leaned in, hanging on every word like this wise man truly had all the answers.

He went on. “Remember that there are multiple options here. Lots of people go to college, get an education, ignore the parties, and still find time to read, nest, and drink hot chocolate. With marshmallows. There’s no one way to do this. And if you’re homesick, maybe you could transfer somewhere closer. I hear there are some decent places of learning in Chi-town.”

I had considered it, then dismissed it as a sign of failure. “And if I decide I don’t want the college experience at all?”

He shrugged. “It’s your life. You don’t owe your parents or friends or anyone else a thing. Kershaw can eat the tuition, believe me. Take the time to think about it and figure out what you want.” He patted my arm, barely a touch, so why did I feel sparks to all extremities?

Staying out of the Chicago area might be for the best. Back to Vermont I should go.

“You won’t tell my dad we talked about this? I don’t want him to worry.”

No sooner were the words out of my mouth than I wished I could bite them back. Asking him to keep a secret felt far too intimate.

“Or whatever. It doesn’t matter.” I pushed at the kitchen door.

“Hey,” he said softly.

My pulse hammered, even more so than a moment before. I turned to see him half-shaded in the dark. But his eyes still shone, like the twinkling holiday lights in the trees behind him.

“I won’t say a word. And Adeline?”

“Yeah?”

“Have yourself a merry little Christmas.”

Oh God. He’d heard me singing.

“Um, okay.” I rushed in, cringing at the knowledge that someone—that Lars Nyquist—had overheard me warbling, like a cut-rate Judy.

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