I stop and turn toward him, my chest hurting when I see his face. I thought he was a nice guy. I thought I could trust him, but he’s just another hottie who treats girls like crap. “Yeah, youdidsomething,” I say, my hands clenching into fists. “You should have just ignored it.”
“Ignored what?” Connor’s face crumples up in confusion. “Please explain. I’m totally lost.”
I grit my teeth and look away. “I recognized your handwriting yesterday.”
“Huh?”
“Your handwriting,” I explain again. “The same handwriting as a letter I recently got in the mail.”
He goes completely still, and when I get the courage to look at him, his face has gone pale. “I didn’t even think of that.”
I roll my eyes. “So what’s the game, huh? Are you playing a trick on me? Was the pizza date just pity or will all the jocks be there to make fun of me for being poor?”
“Whoa,” Connor says, holding out his hands. “No, Jayda. I swear. It’s no joke. It’s not a trick.”
I snort out a derisive laugh. “Of course it’s a trick. You’re clearly not Santa Claus.”
He points toward his truck, which is parked just a few feet away. “Get inside. I’ll explain it all.”
“I’d rather not, thanks.”
“Jayda, please.” His eyes are filled with so much emotion, and I’m almost tempted to believe him. I want to believe him. But there’s no way this isn’t some horrible joke.
Is there?
“Please,” he says again. “I’ll explain it all and then if you want to hate me, well, you can hate me. But please let me explain first.”
Jaw clenched, I get into his truck, if only to escape the cold.
He cranks up the engine and turns on the heater, then he puts the truck in drive.
“Wait, where are we going?” I ask.
“My house. It’s just a mile away.
The drive is short, but the silence that stretches between us feels like an eternity. Soon, I am following him up his driveway and onto his porch, and inside his house. “This way,” he says, leading me through the living room. We enter a dining room that’s filled with bags and envelopes. He turns on the light. My jaw drops.
“These are every letter that has been written to Santa from the kids in our town,” he says.
I gaze out a the sea of envelopes, in all shapes and sizes and colors, some with real stamps and some with fake drawn on stamps. “Why do you have them?”
“My mom was the official Santa for the town for over twenty years. The post office had an agreement with her and they sent her all letters that were addressed to Santa, and she replied to all of them.” He looks down and runs a hand over his neck. “After she died this year, the letters just showed up like usual.”
“I had no idea,” I say. I’ve never written a letter to Santa before. And maybe all of Max’s friends who claimed they got replies in the mail were telling the truth.
Connor frowns. “Mrs. Harris even orders the stationary special so that only Santa’s letters have it. I’m not going to reply to the letters, I’ve already decided that it’s not worth it. I wasn’t going to do anything with them, but then I happened to see your name on one. It was after that day we had detention.” His eyes look at me pleadingly as he says, “I shouldn’t have read it. It was a violation of your privacy and I’m sorry. But I did read it, and I thought maybe I could help. I kind of did find a way to help… my dad said he could hire your mom at his company.”
All my anger disappears in a second. “Really?”
He grins. “Yeah, he just needs her resume. He can hire her as an admin assistant.”
“That would be amazing,” I say, feeling a joy flood through my veins. Then my smile fades, because although Mom getting a job is the best news ever, this is still extremely embarrassing.
“Please don’t tell anyone,” I say softly. “I don’t want the whole world to know that we’re poor.”
“I would never do that,” he says, lightly touching my arm. My skin burns from his touch, and when his hand falls away a few seconds later, I wish it was still there.
I peer up at him. “I can get you my mom’s resume. And then… maybe we just never talk about this again?”
