Page 31 of The Grumpiest Elf

His face goes slack. “Wait. Seriously? Why not?”

Sighing, I shrug. “Last semester was rough.”

He studies me for a minute. “Nah. Nope. No. That’s a worse answer than why I don’t like green, which, by the way, I don’t actually need a reason for. People are allowed to not like colors. What happened? Unless …” His face goes blank. “Were you … attacked? Because I guess if ‘rough’ is an understatement for that, that makes more sense.”

“Oh my god, no. I wasn’t assaulted,” I assure him.

Relief makes his shoulders drop. “Jesus. Okay. Good.” He stirs up the hot chocolate in the other cup and passes it to me, gesturing for me to precede him toward the door. “Rough how, then?”

I toss him a glance over my shoulder. “Not that I need to justify my reasons to you …”

“Fine,” he grunts. “That’s fair. But I still want to know what happened.”

I bob my head in understanding, blowing on my hot chocolate to cool it a little before taking a tentative sip. The warmth is comforting, the smooth sweetness bursting on my tongue the perfect contrast to our late-night snack. “My parents split up in October.”

He doesn’t say anything, and when I glance at him, he’s watching me, clearly waiting for me to elaborate.

Sighing, I lead the way into the dressing room, toeing off my boots and settling on the edge of our couch cushion bed before continuing. I shrug. “It threw me off really bad. I thought …” I look at him, then away. “I didn’t know there was anything wrong between them. Mom says they grew apart while raising my sister and me, that while we were home, they had us to focus on, but once I was gone …” I shrug again. “Apparently me leaving—I’m the youngest—removed any reason they had to stay together. So they divorced. They said it would be amicable, but …” Pressing my lips together, I give him a meaningful look and shake my head, which he answers with a sympathetic smile.

I sip my hot cocoa before continuing, halfway hoping Dylan will jump in and say something so I can stop talking about this. “I just feel responsible, you know?”

That has his eyebrows lifting, then pulling down and together, a furrow appearing between them. “Responsible how? Responsible for what, exactly? Their divorce?”

“Yes?” I lift a hand and let it drop. “No. I mean, I know. It sounds stupid. But it’s like … they would’ve broken up years ago if I weren’t around. My mom …” I meet Dylan’s eyes. “She’ssomuch happier than I’ve ever seen her. I didn’t even know she was unhappy before, but it’s obvious now. She’s … alive in a way I’ve never seen. And I just feel like she could’ve had that all along, you know? If not for me.”

His brows still furrowed, he studies me over the rim of his cup as he sips his cocoa. “Right. So. That sucks, though I think we both know that’s not actually your fault, but sometimes feelings aren’t logical. You’re gonna have to find a way to let go of that, though, because even if it’s kinda true, the fact is, your mom chose to stay for her own reasons. Maybe you moving out and going to school helped make it easier for her. Or maybe she didn’t realize how unhappy she really was until you were gone.”

“Yeah,” I mutter. “The school counselor said pretty much the same thing.”

He nods. “See? There you go. Any time the thought pops up that you’re at fault for anything, remind yourself that it’s not true. I still don’t quite understand why that means you’re not going back to school, though.”

Draining my cup of cocoa to buy time turns out to be a mistake, because once it’s gone, I don’t have anything more to hold and sip and fiddle with. I stand up and take it to the trash can in the corner, my thoughts and emotions roiling as I consider how to respond. When I drop the cup into the empty plastic bin with a loud thunk, it seems like some kind of punctuation. Like it’s putting a period—or maybe an exclamation mark—on all the fragmented thoughts swirling in my head, solidifying into something like,How dare he? How is this any of his business? I don’t need to justify myself to him!

Whirling around, I cross my arms, though the effect is lost by the need to brush stray strands of hair out of my face. My bangs are getting long, my pixie cut growing out and getting shaggy. Since I haven’t found a place to get my hair cut here, I’m apparently growing it out by default and it’s at that annoying length where it’s long enough to get in my face, but not long enough to stay back. And right now, it’s driving me crazy.

“Look,” I start, sounding every bit as defensive as I feel, “I need a break, okay? I don’t know why you even care.You’renot paying for my degree. You barely even know me!”

Dylan frowns and studies his cup of hot chocolate, while I’m left breathing hard, surprised by my own vehemence. I hadn’t quite meant to respond like that, but with the last phone call I had with my dad too fresh, I’m tired of defending myself, of explaining my reasoning.

“You’re right,” he says at last, his voice gentle. His eyes flick up to mine, soft with some emotion I can’t name. “You’re right,” he repeats, louder. “It’s not my business. I have no vested interest in your education. I guess …” He shakes his head, refocusing on his cup. “I knew you were working hard and saving money. I assumed it was for next semester. But it doesn’t really matter. Like you said, we barely know each other. I’m sorry for upsetting you.” He drains his cup as well and gets up to throw it away.

When I take a step back, moving out of the way of the trash can, he reaches out and stays me with a hand, and heat zings up my arm from where he touches me. He jerks his hand away, like he felt it too. “Sorry,” he mutters. “I …” He looks at the door. “Sorry.” And then he leaves.

CHAPTERSEVENTEEN

Dylan

I could kickmyself for being so stupid. Though, to be fair, I hadn’t realized I was straying close to a sensitive subject. She’s the one who volunteered she wasn’t returning to school. I’d thought we were playing a get to know you game, so I asked why not. In retrospect, I can see how my comments came off as judgy and put her on the defensive, though.

“Stupid,” I mutter, pushing into the men’s bathroom. So much for our progress tonight. I should just keep my mouth shut and leave her alone, take her home once we get clear of this, and let her live her life however she sees fit without any input or interference from me. She doesn’t want to be friends with me. She definitely wouldn’t want to hang out with me outside of work, though I’ve actually enjoyed our time here tonight.

If I had to pick someone to get trapped overnight with, I couldn’t pick anyone better than Lydia. She made a game out of searching for bedding. She’s the one who had the idea of combining all the couch cushions to give us a comfortable sleeping space. She found food and drinks for us, keeping up a lighthearted commentary and making dry jokes the whole time.

And now I’ve ruined it.

After using the bathroom, I take a few deep breaths. Storming in the same way I stormed out isn’t going to help anything. And she’ll think I’m pissed at her instead of realizing I’m mad at myself.

When I get back to the dressing room, she’s sitting on the makeshift bed with her arms wrapped around her knees, her face drawn and pale like it was in the car when we realized we weren’t going to get home tonight. My heart lurches at the sight, and I want to do whatever I can to make her feel better.

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