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I feel a pinch of self-consciousness and turn my attention to the road. “Anyway,” I say, after rounding a few more street corners, as lights from storefronts shift to the glow of houses. I slow the truck to a roll when we reach a pretty mailbox covered in snow and greenery, then stop. The engine hums quietly in front of the house, now dim from dusk but glowing a nice forest green by the light of the vintage bulbs covering the boxwoods and spread around the porch swing.

My great-aunt’s old place looks much cozier now that it’s been given an obvious touch-up. The former scratched door of my childhood visits has been replaced with an elegant wood, but the same wavy old glass panes catch the light from the glow within. A stout Douglas fir takes over all three panes of the bay window, not yet covered in lights and bulbs (perhaps his sister is waiting for him?). A blow-up set of reindeer lines the front yard, a reminder that children live here.

I feel a slight tug in my chest, aware that now, suddenly, the day is over.

Does he want to see me again? Or is he just going to pop out and say, Well, that was fun. See ya!

I find myself wishing this stranger turned acquaintance turned friend wasn’t going to be out of my life quite so suddenly.

Because . . . he did change my life a little today. He showed me, more than I care to admit, just how important my drive to figure out my personal life and get it back on track is. I want to live the way I was as a child, before everything became so muddied. I long for freedom and a chance to exhale fully. And I want to be like James, really. He’s the embodiment of what I want to gift to myself. The visual reminder of how free I could be if only I could belt out my off-key heart to “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” without a care in the world.

I want to be that kind of free.

He’s the first to speak. “Thank you for today. And for the lift. It was fun. Today really—all of it—was . . . fun.”

He sounds surprised, actually. Like Scrooge noting a revelation.

“Do you . . . not normally have fun?”

“Not nearly enough.” He rubs his hand together. Hesitates. “Perhaps you need to take me shopping for one of those festive sweaters.”

Hope stirs.

“And dare ruin the uniformity of your capsule wardrobe? How would your suitcase feel? It could be acrylic. It could even”—I gasp—“shed glitter.”

“A travesty,” he agrees. “But worth it.”

The thought jumps like a wild hare deep inside my subconscious, and I jolt, suddenly reminded of how we came to know each other in the first place.

I asked him to do an outrageous thing so I could check off another rejection in my log.

He, while supposed to be rejecting it, actually accepted.

I could ask something outrageous here, and frankly, it would be a win-win. Either he’ll say no, and I’ll log a win and we’ll never see each other again. Or he’ll says yes, and I . . . well, I’ll be happy.

For the record, I don’t do this.

Other people do, and for them it’s easy. But not me.

Maybe it’s the timing, the fact I’m forcing self-improvement, but it’s also most definitely him. There’s something about this man that’s so utterly different. I just don’t want our time together to stop.

So much so that I’m willing to risk rejection at a moment when I fear it the most.

“This may sound crazy . . .” I begin.

Oh my gosh. Am I sweating? Pull it TOGETHER, Chloe, this instant. You’ve already sweated through your clothes once today. Sweating on top of sweating would be an olfactory disaster.

James, being James, doesn’t fill the gap of silence with words to ease the awkwardness or stem the prickle of sweat that’s appearing at my temple despite this truck’s temperature being cold enough to frost our breaths. He just looks at me. Solemn. Serious. And in a way that does not at all inspire confidence. I can’t possibly tell what thoughts are in his head. He could be itching to grab the door handle or suspecting what I’m about to say. It’s terrifying.

I clear my throat. “But . . . how about it? Want to . . . get a festive sweater tomorrow?”

For a long moment, all I can hear is the sound of the tiny ice crystals releasing from my breath. Beyond him, I see the door of the house open and a woman step onto the porch, looking straight at us. A child in pajamas clings to her knees, looking positively anxious to strike toward the car.

James, however, is oblivious.

His eyes narrow.

He hates it. He hates the idea. I have completely misread the situation.