Page 94 of Falling Like Snow

And maybe it’s because I’m only just getting to know him, but I don’t know if I can picture having it with Micah. When I try to imagine a future for us—where we’re in a serious relationship, talking about how we’ll make it work when we both go off to college—it all just feels… far-fetched.

An hour and a half later, another volunteer takes over for me at the booth, and Hannah and Preeti come to steal me away.

“We have to go set intentions,” Hannah insists, handing me two dollars.

“I don’t have any intentions,” I tell her, taking her money and giving her and Preeti their candles. I barely had a Winter Wish.

“It’s intentions or hopes. You can’t tell me you have no hopes for the next year, Sloane. Between college and theater and Micah, you have to have some hopes,” Preeti says.

I sigh, put a dollar in the box, and take a candle. After I make sure the next volunteer has everything she needs, my friends and I follow the cobblestone path to the formal garden. In a few months, the flower beds lining the path will bloom with new life and paint the world in vibrant colors. But for now they’re filled with candles, lit with intention, creating a wintery dreamscape of flames against the snowy backdrop.

When we reach the tiered fountain in the center of the garden, Hannah closes her eyes and lights her candle in the flame of another. She silently whispers something to herself and sets it among the other candles. Preeti follows suit.

“We’re going to go get cookies,” Hannah says. “You take a second to think of something. And make it count. I don’t know if I believe in this stuff, but what if it works?”

They head down the path, back toward the inn, and I stare into the hundreds of candles, racking my brain. I could hope for things with Micah to blossom into something more. I could settle for intending to rest more or doing a better job academically or figuring out my future. But if I’m trying to make this count, those feel like a waste of a candle.

A soft breeze sweeps through the garden. When I push my hair out of my face, my eyes snag on the dark-haired boy standing across from me on the opposite side of the fountain. Asher’s gaze is trained on me, the flickering flames reflecting in his eyes and bathing him in swirls of golden light. He’s so unbelievably handsome, I lose my breath for a second.

“Hey.” He points to the candle in my hand. “Didn’t want to interrupt.”

I round the fountain and stand next to him. “Not interrupting. Where have you been all night?”

“Mom needed help. The inn officially opens in two weeks, and January isn’t exactly the most touristy time of year. She’s pretty hell-bent on making tonight magical for all the tourists in hopes that they’ll come back and tell their friends.”

“For sure. I get that. It’s perfect, though.” I gesture around the candle-lit garden. “Look at how pretty it is out here.”

“It is.” Asher says, his eyes not leaving mine. “So, no Micah tonight?”

“No, he had a hockey game.”

When I finally texted Micah back this morning, he asked me to come watch him play tonight. I told him I couldn’t because I was helping out at the winter-solstice gathering. He got quiet after that. I apologized a dozen times, and then I spent the rest of the day feeling bad—both because I had an obligation so I couldn’t go see him play and because I’d been too tired to call him last night.

But now I’m just relieved that I don’t have to be on all evening, trying to impress him by being cute or cool or funny or sexy.

“Gotcha,” Asher says.

“You don’t like him,” I say, walking over to a nearby wooden bench swing. I brush the snow off with my sleeve and sit.

Asher follows, sitting next to me. “Why do you say that?”

“You don’t make an effort to talk to him when we’re all together. And you stormed off yesterday…”

“Do you like him?” Asher asks, like I didn’t point out how he acted at the holiday market.

I bite my lip, pondering this. “I’m not sure. He’s good-looking. Very charming. And he seems to like me,” I say. “I’ve never had that before. Somebody liking me, I mean. It’s… nice.”

Asher nods, staring at the salted cobblestone at our feet. “I like anyone who makes you happy. And if Micah is that person, then”—he shrugs—“consider me a fan. I’m not sure he and I have anything in common besides you, but I’ll try to make more of an effort to get to know him.”

His answer should be perfect. And yet I hate it.

I want him to care. I want him to hate that I could like someone. That someone likes me. I want him to object. I want him to be thinking mine, mine, mine the same way I do when I see him with Daphne.

Shit.

“Where are you going?” Asher asks when I abruptly stand.

“Lighting this thing real quick,” I tell him over my shoulder.