Page 15 of Wish You Would

“Wait a second.” I put my fork down on my plate. “Why do you hate New Year’s?”

He shrugs his broad shoulders. “Because I love Christmas, and New Year’s Eve is like the nail in the coffin to the holiday season. It’s so depressing.”

I try and fail to hide the smile on my face. I’m not sure what answer I was expecting, but it wasn’t this. Doesn’teveryone love New Year’s Eve? It was always a big deal in my house growing up.

I think about the parties my mom and stepdad used to throw for us. My mom would buy decorations, party hats and those annoying horns that we would blow all at once when the clock turned to midnight. We also had an extra reason to celebrate December 31stin our house: it was the day my stepdad legally adopted my brother and me.

I wonder if Holden doesn’t celebrate New Year’s Eve at all. Does he stay home by himself while his friends are all out celebrating?

Why does that thought make me so sad?

I want to ask him, but I swallow down the question, deciding to keep the conversation light. After being so on and off with me over the last 24 hours, he’s finally relaxing a little. I want to keep it that way.

“I bet you like Thanksgiving then.”

“My second favorite holiday.” He shoots me a glance. He does a frowny sort of thing as I chuckle. “It’s the lead-up to Christmas. Plus, there’s the dinner: turkey, stuffing, potatoes. What’s not to love?”

“I can’t argue there.”

Holden studies me for a moment, then tips his chin up. “Your turn, Bee,” he says, and my stomach plunges. Hearing him use the nickname makes me feel giddy.

“Unpopular opinion, but I hate ice cream.”

He looks appalled. “How can you hate ice cream?”

“I just do. It’s cold and messy and makes my teeth hurt.”

“If I had to bet, I’d say you’re among one percent of people on the planet who hate ice cream.”

“It’s overrated.”

He raises a brow in curiosity. “Then what do Canadians eat for dessert?”

“I’m from Vancouver, not Mars,” I laugh. “We like what all North Americans like.”

“Just not the number one rated dessert in North America.”

“Are you always this annoying?” My mouth curves into a smirk.

“Only with you.”

“Tell me another,” I say.

He pokes at his chicken. “I’m scared of spiders.”

“I’m scared of clowns.”

“Yeah, I get that,” he nods. “Why are they so creepy?”

A small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth and my skin pebbles with goosebumps. I’m still trying to figure out why my body reacts to him the way it does.

I continue to ask Holden questions, wanting to know as much as I can about him, hanging on his every word even though, so far, our questions have been mostly surface-level. But with every passing second, I fight the urge to go deeper.

As we finish picking at our dinners, I learn that Holden’s favorite movie isShawshank Redemption, he prefers mustard over ketchup, and he has one brother who is four years younger than him.

When we’re both done eating, he reaches across the table and picks up my empty plate, stacking it on top of his. “It’s your turn,” he reminds me, eyebrows raised.

I drop my chin in my hand, thinking. “I don’t believe in fate,” I tell him.

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