“I don’t want you to date internet men,” he says casually, flicking his eyes from the screen to me.
What?
His calmness amplifies my panic. I press the back of my hand to my face: hot.
Dammit.
“Why not?” I demand, at once pissed at him and how flustered he’s making me. “What does what you want have to do with anything?”
I drink my hot chocolate in gulps for the whiskey alone. When my mug is empty, I drink it straight from the thermos, burning my tongue and making him chuckle. This SUV is too small. I roll the window down, blast of cool air barely helping.
He tosses more popcorn into his mouth. “I’m thinking of asking you out.”
I suck in a sharp breath. “Asking me out?”
I can’t breathe. I’m trapped. I peel off my sweater, revealing the tank top I’m wearing beneath it.
Once again, he looks at me, smirks, and says, “Thinking about it, yeah.”
“Thinkingabout it?” I demand. “What is that supposed to mean?”
He brushes the crumbs off his hands and wads the popcorn bag into a ball. “It means I’m feeling things out and thinking about it.” He flicks his gaze to mine. “A lot.”
“You can’t do that, you arrogant ass.” I am fully outraged. “You can’t just tell me that. Hold my hand and look at me and say all those things and have some kind of convolutedthinking aboutitmindset. What if I meet someone? What if I don’t want to go out with you?”
He pins me with a knowing look as the credits start to roll and lets out a small sigh. “Well, if you meet someone, then I guess I have my answer, but for now”—he shrugs—“I’m waiting.”
“Waiting?” I repeat. “What the hell for?”
“For you to be ready.” He starts the ignition, using one hand to wave to Marv as he gets into his truck, metal detector in tow. “That was a good movie, right?”
He’s completely nonchalant.
Like he didn’t just say all that.
Like he hasn’t made me dizzy with the thought of someone like him with someone like me.
“No, I hated it,” I snap. “What does all that mean? What do I need to be ready for?”
He looks at me, amused tilt to his lips as he drives out of the lot. “Lots.”
“Lots?” I echo, irritated.
I ignore whatever he says next, refusing to talk to him the whole drive home.
He wants to ask me out? Who tells someone that? Aren’t you supposed to simply say the words with a firm date: Let’s have dinner this Friday at 7 p.m.?
Whatever this sort of fuckery is he’s playing, payback will be severe. I will crush him. I will pull a page from the book of Bruce Willis and physically destroy him, shoes or no shoes.
“Hollis,” he calls as I’m walking up my front steps, still muttering swears under my breath. I turn and look. “For what it’s worth, I love watching movies with you.”
I stare at him; he drives away.
I wonder if he’s smiling as big as I am.
Die Hard Is Not a Christmas Movie
By: Hollis Hartwell
