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“You got him socks,” John unhelpfully points out.
I’m all for gifts of many kinds. And I know the brand—these are expensive. But … can it get any less friend-zoney than SHOES?
“For your camping trip,” Mason says.
“Right—my camping trip.”
I didn’t even know Masonknewabout the camping trip I’m going on in two days my friend, Mary, and a few of her work friends.
“Your normal shoes are too worn out,” John pipes up from the phone. “I knew you wouldn’t buy new ones.”
He—John—knew I wouldn’t buy knew ones. Disappointment washes over me. I’m a soda, suddenly and instantly gone flat. My eyes meet Mason’s, and he looks distinctly uncomfortable.
“We went in on them together,” John says. “Can’t have you getting hurt or falling off Enchanted Rock because your shoes have no tread.”
“Oh,” I say, feeling the sting of disappointment and then frustration with myself for being disappointed. “Makes sense.”
Of course, Mason didn’t get me a real, thoughtful gift.
Of course, Mason did what my brother told him to do—just like he always does. Like webothdo.
Of course, I’m an idiot for giving my hope room to breathe.
“You should really wear them the next few days before you go,” John says. “To break them in so you don’t get blisters.”
I nod like a broken bobblehead. Which is exactly how I feel.
Forcing a smile, I say, “My feet and I thank you both.”
Meanwhile, my heart isn’t feeling thankful at all. Not while it’s curled in the fetal position, weeping in the forever friendzone.
CHAPTER2
Chelsea
As it turns out,punching in a door code is a challenging task when also balancing a heavy backpack, a stuffed-to-the-seams duffle bag, a box of ornaments, and a half-dead Christmas tree,
Could I have taken several trips up from the parking garage? Yes.
But I’ve always been the person who tries to get all the groceries in one go, the plastic bag handles cutting off circulation in my arms by the time I triumphantly make it inside. And right now, I’m beyond excited to settle into John’s guest room for the next six months.
More, if I decide to be a squatter and not leave when he gets back from Spain. I figure I can decidethenwhat I want to do and where I’ll go. It’s a problem for Later Chelsea.
NOW Chelsea has a more pressing problem, which is getting inside John’s apartment.
I groan as the keypad flashes red again. When I shift to set the tree down in the hallway, a branch narrowly misses my eye. Needles litter the floor. By the time I get inside, there’s going to be more tree outside than in.
It was a clearance tree—as most are the day after Christmas—and in such sad shape that the store clerk tried to talk me out of it. Christmas may be over, but in our family, we keep the tree up until New Year’s Eve. Mom instilled this tradition in both John and me, though I was at his apartment earlier in the month and there were no signs of Christmas.
So, I decided to BYOT—bring your own tree. Easier said than done, apparently.
Finally, I manage the correct code and push the heavy door inward, hoisting up the tree as I go. Unfortunately, the bottom of it catches as the door automatically swings closed. The tree stays put, sending me pitching forward.
I don’t have time or the kind of catlike reflexes needed to stop my fall. I have whatever the opposite of catlike reflexes are. Puppy-like … clumsiness?
Luckily, my face doesn’t hit the floor. It hits the white box of ornaments instead. There is a resounding crunch.
“Nooooo,” I moan, trying to get up.
