Page 102 of Falling Like Snow

He gently lifts my chin, forcing me to look at his serious expression. “You are the funniest, kindest, most interesting, most devastatingly gorgeous girl I’ve ever met. Micah Cook doesn’t deserve you. And I hope you don’t spend too much time being sad over him, because he doesn’t deserve your time or your feelings either. He never did.”

My heart aches. Because you can’t just say stuff like that to a girl. Even if she’s your best friend.

Asher kisses my forehead, opens the front door, and disappears.

After picking hundreds of pins out of my hair, showering, and changing into pajamas, I lie in bed on my tear-soaked pillow, thinking of Asher dancing the rest of the night away with some other girl. Thinking of some other girl calling him hers.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The smell of pancakes rouses me from a deep slumber the next morning. I wipe the sleep from my eyes and yawn. My Annie clock reads 10:02 a.m. After slipping my feet into my fluffy red-and-white-striped slippers, brushing my teeth, and trying to wet down my wild bangs, I make my way downstairs.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” Mom says with a grin when I walk into the kitchen. “Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas.” Mom already has hot water in the electric kettle, so I pour some into a mug and grab a tea bag.

“Where’d you rush off to last night?” she asks, flipping a pancake onto a stack sitting on a plate.

“Just home. My pillow was calling my name. You know how mean it gets if I keep it waiting too long,” I say, taking a sip. Mom smiles at my joke but looks disappointed in my answer. “Sorry I stole your ride,” I tell her.

“No big deal. I didn’t have a problem finding someone to drive me home.” She melts butter on the skillet and adds pancake batter. “Heard Micah ended up with a bloody nose.”

“Oh?” I say, hiding my hand beneath the table. “Don’t know anything about it.”

Mom glances at me. “Of course not, but if you want to talk about it…”

“I don’t.”

“Okay.” She zooms around the kitchen, placing bacon on a plate, gathering forks and whipped cream and holiday-themed sprinkles. She puts it all on the table set for two. Once the last pancake is finished cooking, she brings the fluffy tower over and positions it between us as she sits across from me.

Dad made Christmas morning breakfast a tradition. It is the only tradition we’ve upheld rather than avoided—I think because it was always Mom’s favorite. Or maybe because she has to eat something anyway, so she’s able to convince herself that it’s Just Another Morning Meal.

“Dig in,” she says, forking two pancakes onto my plate. Then she gives herself one. We both stare at the mound of pancakes, realizing that even three years later, she’s made enough for Dad, too.

Old habits die hard and all.

Happy to change the subject, I pour syrup onto my plate and clear my throat. “So, I have some baking to do this morning.”

“Oh? I was wondering why we suddenly had strawberries and eggs in the house,” she says, taking a bite. “But okay, I’ll make sure the fire department is on standby.”

“Ha-ha.”

“What are you baking?”

“I’m making a Christmas cake for Asher. His dad usually bakes one every Christmas, but he’s out of town. So I thought I’d do it.”

“Aw, that’s sweet. I’m sure Asher will love that.” She pauses. “Well, he might not love the cake, but I’m sure he’ll love the thought.”

“I got a recipe from Coop! I can follow a recipe!”

“Sure, whatever you say.”

After stuffing ourselves full of sprinkle-and-whipped-cream-topped pancakes and crispy bacon, Mom and I open gifts in the living room. When I was little, I’d wake up at five o’clock in the morning on Christmas Day and jump in my parents’ bed to announce that Santa had come. Mom would groan that it was still dark outside, much too early to be awake. But Dad always had the biggest smile as he followed me down the stairs to see what had been left under the tree. We had no organized system for opening presents. The only rule was that I had to wait until Dad made coffee and Mom got a trash bag before I tore into them.

Learning the truth about Santa never really bothered me, because the magic of Christmas wasn’t about this round-bellied guy who brought toys down the chimney in the middle of the night. It was about how happy everyone was. How Dad couldn’t stop smiling and Mom couldn’t stop taking pictures. It was about our pancake breakfast and having people over to our house for a huge Christmas dinner, which Dad always cooked because Mom would burn everything. It was about playing Scrabble and Guess the Christmas Song and getting too full on pies and Christmas cookies to move and eventually falling asleep on the couch watching the 1994 version of Miracle on 34th Street.

Once Dad died, getting up at five o’clock seemed pointless. Mom wasn’t a morning person, and our house was absent of his smile. Now, Christmas mornings are leisurely and quiet, and we spend the rest of the day at the Yoshidas, where Mrs. Yoshida gives Mom impossible-to-mess-up tasks, and Asher and I sneak snacks into his bedroom and hang out until I’m too tired to stay awake.

Despite the delicious pancakes and getting some cool records and the new boots I’ve been wanting, I’m not feeling particularly merry this year.