35
I don’t give Holden time to inspect what’s in the pastry box. I pile his clothes into his arms and shoo him toward the door, despite his protests that he thought we could have breakfast and go Christmas shopping and something about meeting his parents later for a movie.
“Holden, no. Please. You’re a nice guy. But no—”
“You’re friend-zoning me. Aren’t you. That’s what this is, right?” He pulls on his corduroys. He has very skinny legs for a food critic.
“You are a great guy. And a lovely friend. And I think we should totally hang out—as friends. But I’m not ever going to be that girl for you.”
“Because of him?”
I look at Holden’s blue-gray eyes. “Maybe. I don’t know.”
“And I screwed this up for you, didn’t I?” I don’t answer. When his shirt is over his head, Holden sighs and pulls
