Page 13 of Falling Like Snow

“Library works for me. I’ll throw some elbows and grab our supplies,” I offer, surveying the crowd surrounding the boxes on the gazebo benches behind us.

His lips pull into a smile. “Or I can do it.”

“Back off, buddy. I’ve got this.” I square my shoulders and attempt to crack my neck, going for a whole badass image, but instead pull a muscle. I wince.

“Uh, do you, though?” he asks, laughing.

“Shush,” I say before wading through the mob.

When I reappear in front of him, I have two bulbs, two strips of paper, two pens, and a boatload of glitter glue in various colors. I tuck what I can into my coat pockets to keep it dry. “Let’s go.”

Asher and I jog through the rain, crossing Learned Owl Lane and sprinting up the library steps. We fling the doors open and take off our wet coats as soon as we enter.

Inside the entrance of the oldest building in Bramble Falls, a large black mat covers the warped wood floors, absorbing the water tracked in from outside. The lights are dimmed at the check-out counter, where Preeti stands scrolling through her phone. And in the center of the room, an ornate chandelier hangs from a mahogany beam, glowing brightly over a row of tables already occupied by people working on their holiday craft. I inhale the delightful scent of aged books and antique furniture.

“Encyclopedias?” Asher asks. I nod and follow him past rows of historical fiction and up the steps until we reach our favorite little nook in the library—the quiet section no one ever visits, since the internet exists.

We take a seat on the floor in our wet jeans, and I retrieve the supplies from my coat pockets. Once everything is laid out in front of us, Asher pops the top off a purple glitter glue and squirts it onto his bulb.

“I figured out your Christmas present today,” he says, focusing intently on his design.

I choose the gold glitter glue and begin writing the year. “Oh? Are you going to tell me what it is?”

“Of course not,” he replies.

“Then why bother telling me you figured it out?”

“Because you can’t stand it,” he says with a mischievous smile.

“So you enjoy torturing me. How nice.” I finish with the gold glue and set it on the floor. I don’t mind surprises, but I hate knowing there will be one. Either anticipation or impatience will be my villain origin story. “Well, are you going to at least give me a hint?”

Asher laughs because he knows I can’t let it go. “No.”

“Will it make me cry?”

He considers this. “I don’t think so, but I can’t make any promises.”

Asher and I exchange gifts every year with stipulations. Because we both spend most of our free time either helping our parents or participating in theater and choir, neither of us has a job. And therefore neither of us has much money. So we made a pact years ago: We can make something, go somewhere, or do something—but no pricey gifts. Which is great for my nonexistent bank account.

But he always comes up with the most thoughtful presents. Last year, he took a freaking trial pottery class just so he could make me a mug, which he meticulously painted to look like the Hamilton playbill. The year before that, he made a poster collage of photographs of me and Dad and built a frame for it. And when we were little, he made me an Asher on the Shelf after “Santa” didn’t send me an Elf on the Shelf and my parents refused to buy me one.

He puts so much effort and care into our exchange, and my presents always seem to fall flat. This year, especially given how much he’s been there for me, I want to come up with the perfect gift.

But I don’t even have a whisper of an idea.

“Will it make me laugh?” I ask him, grabbing the red glitter glue.

“Hope not. It’s definitely not meant to be funny.”

I sigh. “Just tell me what it is.”

“Nah.”

I snap the top off the glitter glue, and it oozes down the side of the tube. “I’ll pay you.”

“With what money?”

“I’ll bake you brownies,” I offer.