Page 18 of Seeds of Christmas
“I am. My freshman year, M—someone”–—I bite my lip—“convinced me we didn’t need to decorate our dorm room. Said it was pointless. We spent the entire December in this depressing beige box while everyone else had lights and mini trees and stockings.” I grip the steering wheel a little tighter. “Worst Christmas ever.”
“Worse than spending it in a research cabin in the middle of nowhere?”
“We’ll see.” But I’m watching a house with white lights shaped into stars hanging from the eaves, and it makes something in my chest ache. “At least the cabin will have a fireplace. And probably some kind of pine trees outside happening.”
“Nature’s decorations.”
“Exactly.” Despite myself, I smile and I feel something in my shoulders relax slightly.
“For the record,” he says after a moment, “I’m going to try really hard not to fuck this up. The research, I mean. I know my attendance record isn’t great, so you might not have the best impression of me, but I do actually care about this. I’m taking school more seriously and everything. While still being super chill, obviously.”
I don’t know how to respond. It feels like an olive branch, or maybe a pre-emptive apology.
“I’m sure you’ll be fine,” I manage.
“Rhi.” He waits until I glance at him again. “You can be honest. You think I’m a slacker.”
My face goes hot. “I don’t?—”
“It’s okay. I would think that too, based on the evidence.” He leans back against the seat. “But for what it’s worth, there’s usually a reason I’m not in class. And it’s not because I’m hungover.”
What reason?I grip the steering wheel a little tighter.
“Okay,” I say quietly.
We drive in silence for another few minutes. The highway stretches ahead, clear and mostly empty. Snow lines the sides of the road, piled up from the last storm.
“Can I ask you something?” Carter’s voice is careful.
My stomach clenches. “Sure.”
“Why’d you volunteer for this? I mean, Professor Bam made it sound like it’s good for your transcript, but you could probably get research experience a dozen other ways. Why go away over Christmas when you seem to love it?”
I should have prepared an answer for this. Should have anticipated the question. Of course, he would ask.
I consider lying, but it feels so wrong. I settle on a half-truth.
“My family’s really into Christmas.” I pick at my cuticle. “Like, aggressively into it. There are matching pajamas. A themed dessert table. We sing carols. In harmony. This year, it just felt like too much.”
“Yeah.” There’s understanding in his voice. “I get that.”
I wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t. Just goes back to looking out the window.
The highway hums beneath the tires, steady and hypnotic.
Snow flurries drift past the windshield like lazy confetti, and the mountains in the distance look dusted in powdered sugar.
Carter’s humming along to the radio’s Christmas music, off-key, unbothered, completely unselfconscious in a way I’ve never been in my entire life. He drums his fingers on the dashboard in rhythm.
We’ve been driving for two hours.
Two hours of polite conversation about field sites and mineral compositions, and I can practically feel the awkwardness simmering.
He glances at me, smirking. “You’re thinking so hard.”
I focus on the road.
Not on his green eyes.
