Free Getting Kole for Christmas by Kimberly Krey

the passenger side of a car, the dark night sky behind him. The airport, I realize. He’s heading to the airport. “What in the world?”
    My heartbeat moves right into the center of my head where it throbs and aches. My chest is this hollow hurting hole. I was so stupid to think things would be different this time. So naive to think Kole was actually falling for me the way I am for him.  
    I torture myself with visions of his face while scanning through the photos on his page; most posted by his mom or teammates or the moms of his teammates. I spot several of the things I love about him: that confident look in his eye. The dreamy quirk of his brow. That lift at one side of his lip. Oh, I’m so in love with him that it hurts.
     I pick up a steady pace once more, faster this time, dying to somehow jet right out of my skin. The view of the Christmas tree. The piano. The tree. The piano. The text.
    Text? I shoot a quick look at the phone to see that it is – in fact – a text and it is – in fact – from him. One single word.
     
    Hey.
     
    Yeah, hey! I’d give him hey. My thumbs tap out my angry question.
     
    Are you going to Hawaii?
     
    Heart – hurting.
    Chest – burning.
    Eyes – stinging.
     
    Yes.
     
    Tears – forming.
     
    Why didn’t you tell me?
     
    Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.
     
    It all happened so fast.
     
    More waiting. I drop into the couch. I have nothing to say. I am crushed. So crushed I feel like I could cry but I’m still too filled with false-alarm happiness. Residual excitement for something that will not take place. And then it hits me.
     
    Hey, why did you ask me if I was home?
     
    His answer comes in pieces.
     
    Oh, because my mom got a holiday plant and she doesn’t want it to die…  I was wondering if you’d mind running over to my place to water it once or twice while we’re gone.
     
    I nod, imagining what it might be like to be in Kole’s house without him there. I picture myself sprawling out on his bed and smelling his cologne and crying over him while looking at the trophies and photos on his dresser.
     
    Sure. I can do that.
     
    Thanks. I left the key to our house on your porch.
     
    I tilt my head and type,
     
    You did? When?
     
    When I asked if you were home. I didn’t have time to talk to you like I thought I might. Sorry. I wanted to say goodbye.
     
    Well at least he wanted to say goodbye. That’s something. I use that knowledge to peel my butt off the couch and shuffle toward the door.
    Depressed. I’m seriously depressed now but I’ll get over it. The heavy weight that slows me down as I trudge past the decorated piano will lighten over time. It will. And because I’m learning to be a more decent person, I’m going to be happy for – not only Melanie – but for Trina and Tiff. I am. I’ll be happy for Cassie and Meg too. I’ll help them get ready and…
    My thoughts are interrupted when I pull open the door and catch sight of a cute little box on my porch. I tuck Melanie’s phone into my pocket and press open the screen door. “Hmm.”
    I alternate feet on the frozen cement of my porch as I snag the small package off the frost-covered doormat. It’s bright white with a big red ribbon wrapped around it and a bow at the top. It takes me a moment to realize there’s a tag there. I lift it to see beyond the bow and read the five letters printed there. Kylie.
    My heart races into action. A pumping, jumping mass. Forget about an invitation – Kole left me a gift. A thoughtful Christmas gift that he was probably too embarrassed to hand me face-to-face. It has to be a gift because nobody would wrap up a simple key-to-water-the-plants in such a cute way.  
    I pull at the bow, lift open the flaps, and stretch my neck to look inside. It’s empty, but there’s writing on the inside of the box, a few words across the bottom. Go to the backyard.
    My heart sputters. I pop my head back inside the house to search for my boots or Mom’s boots or pretty