Let It Snow: Three Holiday Romances

Massive logs, stacked five or six high. Logs, should the trailer restraints snap, that would roll off the truck
and smush you as flat as a crushed to-go cup.
Christina crossed back behind the bar and got the steamer going. “Must be nice to be needed, though,
huh?”
Earl grunted. He tromped over to the cash register, squinted at me, and said, “What’d you do to your
hair?”
“I cut it,” I said. I watched his face. “And dyed it.” When he still didn’t say anything, I added, “Do you
like it?”
“What’s it matter?” he replied. “It’s your hair.”
“I know. But . . . ” I found I didn’t know how to finish my sentence. Why did I care if Earl liked it or
not?  Eyes  down,  I  took  his  money.  He  always  got  the  same  drink,  so  there  was  no  further  discussion
required.
Christina swirled a generous galaxy of whipped cream onto Earl’s raspberry mocha, drizzled the cream
with bright red raspberry syrup, and topped the whole thing off with a white plastic lid.
“Here you go,” she announced.
“Thank you, ladies,” he said. He raised his cup in a toast, then strode out the door.
“You think Earl’s lumberjack buddies tease him about getting such a girly drink?” I asked.
“Not more than once,” Christina said.
The door jangled, and a guy held it open for his girlfriend. At least, I assumed she was his girlfriend,
because they had that coupley look to them, all goofy and love struck. I immediately thought of Jeb—I’d
gone, what, two seconds without his crossing my mind?—and felt lonely.
“Wow, more early birds,” Christina commented.
“More like late birds is my guess.” The guy, whom I recognized from school, had bleary eyes and an
up-all-night sway to his posture. I thought I recognized the girl, too, but I wasn’t sure. She couldn’t stop
yawning.
“Could  you  quit  that?”  the  guy  said  to  Yawning  Girl.  Tobin,  his  name  was  Tobin.  He  was  one  grade
above me. “You’re giving me a complex.”
She smiled. She yawned again. Was her name Angie, maybe? Yeah, Angie, and she was nongirly in a
way that made me feel too girly. I doubted she meant to, though. I doubted she even knew who I was.
“That’s  just  great,”  he  said.  He  appealed  to  me  and  Christina,  spreading  his  arms.  “She  thinks  I’m
boring. I’m boring her—can you believe it?”

---

I kept my expression pleasant but noncommittal. Tobin wore scruffy sweaters and was friends with the
Korean  guy  who  said  “asshat,”  and  he  and  all  of  his  buddies  were  intimidatingly  clever.  The  kind  of
clever  that  made  me  feel  cheerleader-dumb,  even  though  I  wasn’t  a  cheerleader,  and  even  though  I
personally  didn’t  think  cheerleaders  were  dumb.  Not  all  of  them,  anyway.  Chloe-the-Stuart-dumper,
maybe.
“Hey,” Tobin said, pointing at me. “I know you.”
“Um, yeah,” I said.
“But your hair wasn’t always pink.”
“Nope.”
“So you work here? That’s wild.” He turned to the girl. “She works here. She’s probably worked here
for years, and I never knew it.”
“Spooky,” the girl said. She smiled at me and kind of tilted her head, as if to say, I know I know you,
and I’m sorry I don’t know your name, but “hi” anyway.
“Can I get drinks started for you guys?” I asked.
Tobin scanned the menu board. “Ah, Christ, this is the place with the messed-up sizes, isn’t it? Like,
grandé  instead  of  large?”  He  stretched  it  out  all  stupid  and  fake-French,  and  Christina  and  I  shared  a
look.
“Why can’t you just call it a large?” he asked.
“You could, except grandé is a medium,” Christina said. “Venti is large.”
“Venti. Right. For the love of God, can’t I order in plain English?”
“Absolutely,” I told him. It was a delicate balance: keeping the customer happy, but also, when needed,
calling him on his crap. “It might confuse me, but I’ll figure it out.”
Angie’s lips twitched. It made me like her.
“No, no, no,” Tobin said, holding his hands up and making a show of recanting. “When in Rome and all
that. I’ll, uh . . . let me think . . . can I get a venti blueberry muffin?”
I had to laugh. His hair was sticking up, he looked utterly exhausted, and yes, he was acting like a tool.
I was fairly sure he didn’t know my name, either, despite the fact that we’d gone to the same elementary
school, middle school, and high school. Yet there was something sweet about him as he looked at Angie,
who was laughing along with me.
“What?” he said, bewildered.
“The  sizes  are  for  drinks,”  she  said.  She  put  her  hands  on  his  shoulders  and  aimed  him  toward  the
pastry case, where six identically plump muffins sat at attention. “The muffins are all the same.”
“They’re muffins,” Christina agreed.
Tobin  blustered,  and  at  first  I  assumed  it  was  more  of  his  act.  Hapless  counter-culture-boy,  thrust