Page 47 of Falling Like Snow

“Sorry!” Rohan says, his feet flipping over his head, as he gracefully rolls off me. He picks up an orange Ping-Pong ball and holds it up to us. “Was trying to catch this. The couch snuck up on me.” Rather than walking around the sectional, he makes a running leap onto the cushion, hops back over the couch, and lands on the floor with ease.

My eyes meet Micah’s for a second; then his forehead falls to mine and he grins. “Fucking hockey players,” he mutters, making me laugh.

My phone buzzes in my back pocket. I shoot upright and pull it out.

Asher: Sounds good. Have fun.

For some reason, my chest tightens. It’s not like he said, “K,” the universal response for “whatever,” or “I’m pissed.” So why do I feel like he’s upset?

Or am I just an asshole who wanted him to be upset that we weren’t hanging out and now I’m trying to believe something untrue?

“Asher?” Micah says, dragging me back to the present—where I nearly had my first kiss.

“Yeah.”

Sorry, I text.

“Everything good?” Micah asks.

My phone buzzes.

Asher: No worries.

Me: You hanging lights at the reindeer farm with me tomorrow?

Asher: Can’t. Sorry.

I wait for an explanation. Some sort of excuse. But nothing comes.

“Earth to Sloane,” Micah says. “Everything good?”

“Oh. Yeah. Fine. Sorry,” I put my phone away. But things don’t feel fine. Asher is giving me short responses and doesn’t want to hang tomorrow.

“Then why is your face all… puckered?” Micah asks, smoothing out the space between my eyebrows. Just like Asher does. Which also feels wrong.

“Actually, I don’t know. I think I need to go,” I tell him.

His eyes widen slightly in surprise. “Really?”

“Yeah.” I untuck my legs from under me and sit up. Micah’s arm falls from my hip. “I’m sorry.”

I pull my arm through his hoodie sleeve, taking it off, but he stops me with his hand. “You can give it back later. It’s freezing outside.”

“I have a coat,” I remind him.

“And now you have a coat and a hoodie,” he says, standing. He offers me his hand and pulls me up—only for me to fall into him, my legs screaming from the rush of needles pricking them.

He catches me. “Are you okay?”

I press my palms into my eyes, wrestling with the familiar pain. “My legs are asleep from sitting on them.”

“Oh nooo,” he says, his quiet laughter sprinkling the air. “That’s the worst.”

“Carry me,” I say with a pout.

“Seriously?” he asks, amused.

I squeeze his bicep. “You seem like a strong boy. Surely you won’t make me suffer through climbing the stairs with pins and needles in my legs? I thought you were chivalrous.”