Page 12 of How My Neighbour Stole Christmas
“Not interested in being buttered up.”
“Whatareyou interested in?” she asks.
I’m getting sucked in again. This is what she does—pulls me in with conversation, challenges, and questions, and before I know it, I’m ready to fly off the deep end with irritation.
“I think it’s best for the both of us if we just…don’t talk to each other.”
She shrugs. “I’m fine with that.” She turns toward the menu again, and I do the same.
There. Silence.
As long as we ignore each other, everything will be fine.
“For the record, I wasn’t trying to be rude or condescending. I really thought we could joke around with each other. That’s why I called you Connor.”
“For the record,” I mimic, “I couldn’t care less.”
“Well…kind of seems like you cared a little.”
I glance at her. “We’re not talking to each other, remember?”
“Yup, I get that, but I felt like I needed to clear the air. Didn’t want you to think I came into town to disrupt your grumpy peace.”
“You didn’t need to putgrumpyin front ofpeace,” I shoot back.
“It felt fitting.”
“It’s not.” Even though it is. “Let’s just get back to not talking to each other.”
“Couldn’t have said it better myself,” she replies and sticks her hands in her pockets, tuning me out. Just the way I like it.
Silence falls between us once again as we move forward in line.
The Krampus family—comprised of at least twenty members with different occupations all throughout town—works behind the counter, filling orders, shouting at each other because it’s the only way they know how to communicate, and then slapping orders on the counter to pick up.
“What to get, what to get?” Storee mumbles to herself.
I ignore her and focus on the one thing on the menu that I care about…the chicken parm sandwich. Out of this world.
The breading is crisp.
The sauce is remarkable.
And the bread is toasted just perfectly with cheese oozing over it.
Fucking chef’s kiss.
And exactly what I need after a hard day.
“Italian sub…no, Aunt Cindy will want soup. Do I want soup? It will probably warm me up.”
I clench my jaw, irritated with her verbal processing. It feels like she’s trying to goad me into conversation. Not falling for it.
“Taran is not partial to soup, so do I get her tuna? Eh, I hate the smell, so maybe I’ll get her a grilled cheese…”
Sort of wish Taran would get the tuna.
“But she’s also partial to ham and cheese.” I feel her body move closer to mine. “What are you getting?”
