Page 9 of The Christmas Yes List

And there is a black car, exhaust pluming against the red taillights, that he’s walking directly toward.

“Excuse me!” I call out, still unsure of exactly what to ask but knowing it’s now or never.

He stops short and looks back at me with some surprise.

I blurt out, “Can I give you a lift?”

The all-too-familiar feeling of nausea fills my stomach as I take in, like a sucker punch, the words that just came from my mouth. Steady now, I tell myself. You are in this to win this. Just smile. Look confident. And bag your rejection like the weirdo you’re pretending to be.

His mouth pops open for one streeeettttched-out moment in time as he looks at me with absolute . . . What is it? Disdain? Amazement? Confusion? Fatherly-style disapproval that I, being the woefully and obviously single woman I am, have offered up my life to drive a stranger wherever he wants to go?

Is that the extent of what I just offered?! I’m struck with a fresh wave of horror. ARE YOU ABSOLUTELY INSANE?

I take a deep breath and push down the neurotic personality that this whole experiment is trying to get rid of.

“I’m sorry,” he says, not sounding sorry in the least. He tilts his head. The rapidly falling snow lands in thick wet clumps on his very confused face. “What did you just say?”

I brush some of the snow away that’s sticking my hair to my face. “I said,” I say, buckling down with an even brighter smile, “would you like a lift?”

To my amazement, he stares at me for a ridiculous amount of time, then holds up a finger to the waiting car and steps toward me. “You’re offering me a ride?” He sounds dumbfounded, and not in a nice way.

I bite my lip. Then call out, “Yes.”

“Why?” The question is almost accusing.

Well, that’s a bit rude, now, isn’t it?

“Because . . .” I hedge. “You were so nice to me . . . with the suitcases and all.”

To this, his nose wrinkles ever so slightly. His opinion of me is getting worse by the second.

He doesn’t believe me.

But for goodness’ sakes, instead of saying no and giving me what I want and moving on, he just stands there, with a waiting car behind him and the snow falling in great sheets on our bodies, torturing me and freezing us both in the process.

He takes ten decisive steps forward this time, closing the gap between us.

“Let me get this straight. You’re offering a ride to a total stranger—”

“I know your name,” I say defensively.

“Which is?” he challenges.

“John,” I blurt out. No, that’s not right. “Gerry.” Shoot.

“James.”

“My third guess—”

“Because I offered to pick up your suitcase and walk it to you,” he finishes, frowning. Unimpressed with my logic.

I exhale. “Look. The point is, you offered me something. So here I am. Offering you something in return. It’s . . . no big deal,” I lie, taking a leaf from what other people say while trying my best to ignore the roaring thoughts of how absolutely pathetic and terrible and annoying he must think I am.

Nothing is not a big deal in my head. Everything is a big deal.

Here it comes, though, I tell myself. He’s going to say no any second.

The next word out of his mouth will be no.