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He pointed back to the shed. “Neither are we.”

“Obviously you are!”

“You don’t believe me?”

Now I pointed at the shed. “The evidence proves I can’t.”

“Evidence can be manipulated.”

“By my family?”

He put a hand on his forehead in frustration. “I don’t know. Maybe. Or, or maybe by the neighborhood Scrooge.”

I paused. “Isn’t that you too?” I asked, thinking about what that Layton girl had said at the ball. How Ryan’s parents were fighting with not just our family but the O’Learys as well.

“No! It’s not. You really think the absolute worst of me?”

“You think the worst of me! You thought I went to the ball for some performance art stunt.”

“Didn’t you? You couldn’t even admit that we were together, not even to someone as inconsequential as Mrs. O’Leary.”

“Mrs. O’Leary is the most consequential! The whole neighborhood would’ve known about us. My moms would’ve found out!”

“And?” he said.

“And we weren’t going to tell them yet.”

“Are you ever going to tell them?”

“Yes! But not like that. Not by some rumor. I wanted to talk to them myself.”

“Wanted?”

I took in a sip of air, then squeezed my eyes shut. “Yes. Wanted.” I looked at the shed, away from his hurt expression. “We don’t even trust each other, Ryan. I can’t do this anymore.” I was so tired. Tired of lying to my family, tired of trying to force something to work that probably should have never worked in the first place. Tired of this Christmas becoming something it shouldn’t have been.

Ryan opened his mouth, but before he could speak, a familiar voice said, “Jasmine, it’s late. This conversation is over.”

I swallowed and turned around to see my moms.

I couldn’t read their faces, not in the dark. But their body language was composed. Too composed. Again, I couldn’t find the words I wanted to explain this. How could I explain this?

Mom moved first, surprisingly, turning and walking toward our house. Momma followed after her. I assumed I was supposed to follow as well. So I did, without a single glance over my shoulder at Ryan. I wasn’t sure if I was proud of that or not. If I didn’t look because I was proving some self-righteous point or if I didn’t because I was sad, scared of how he might be looking at me. In anger or in sadness? I couldn’t handle either.

When I walked inside the house, Marcus was standing there like he was the one who’d tattled on me. He probably was. His window was closest to where I’d been having a loud conversation with Ryan.

“Jasmine, what is going on?” Mom asked. “Have you been seeing that boy?”

My eyes found the floor. “Yes,” I admitted. “I was. But not anymore.”

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Momma asked.

“Why didn’t I tell you? Because you hate him. You hate his family. How could I tell you?” I cried, throwing up my hands.

“So you lied?” Mom asked, making me feel even worse.

“I had no other choice.”

“You always have a choice,” Momma said.