Page 34 of How My Neighbour Stole Christmas
She pauses in her steps, and I can feel her eyes on me. “Insufferable? That’s a pretty strong word for such a small interaction. You know, the wordinsufferablealmost seems like it stems from you harboring some sort of distaste for me.”
I glance in her direction and nod toward the street to keep her moving. Thankfully, she follows.
“Harboring distaste? What makes you think that?” I ask, even though she just called me out.
“Uh, the fact that you’re being so rude.”
“I’m always rude. Ask Max.”
“You weren’t rude when we were younger,” she counters.
“Age will do that to you.”
“I grew older too. You don’t see me flaring my nostrils like a bull ready to charge.”
I grimace as I glance in her direction again. “A bull ready to charge? You’ve got me all wrong.”
“No, I think I’ve pegged you pretty well,” she says as we both walk across the near-empty streets of Kringle, only a few people milling about on the sidewalks, doing some window-shopping before the stores open back up tomorrow.
Since it’s past eight o’clock, there are very few places still open. Prancer’s Libations, a bar, is one of them. And Poinsettia Pizza is always open until the early morning because of the people who funnel out of Prancer’s and right into the pizza shop to score a slice.
“I can practically hear the snorting now,” she adds.
“I think you’re hearing yourself.”
“I do not snort,” she says in defiance.
“Says the person breathing heavily as we casually walk down the street.”
“Hey,” she snaps. “Not all of us are used to this altitude.”
“The Myrrh-cantile has oxygen canisters if you need a shot, although they won’t open until tomorrow.”
“I don’t need a canister shot,” she says, sounding cranky about it.
“No shame in it,” I say.
“I just need a moment to adjust. While you grew cranky as we got older, I adapted to sea level.”
“That’s all you think has changed?” I ask. “Don’t recall you being as insufferable.”
“Oh my God,” she says, her voice carrying through the cool night air. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Nothing’s wrong with me,” I say as our houses come into view.
“Uh, yes, something is wrong with you, because you were never this rude before. And don’t blame it on age. So tell me what’s happening. What did I do that you don’t approve of?”
“Nothing,” I say.
“You’re a liar,” she says as we reach my house and I start to turn down the path that leads to my porch steps. She grabs my shoulder, halting me. “I know we were friendly as kids, and we tried being pen pals that one year and I failed at replying…wait…is that it? You’re mad that I wasn’t a good pen pal?”
“Jesus, no,” I say. “Do you really think I’m that petty?”
“I don’t know—you tell me.”
“I’m not,” I say, folding my arms.
“Okay, then what’s your problem?”
