12 Days 'til Christmas ✓

chapter fifteen

f i f t e e n

*

“No peeking,” Casper says as he types an address into Google Maps, biting his tongue as though it’s taking immense effort.

“I’m going to need to peek pretty soon,” I say, “considering your surprise requires me to drive to an unknown destination.”

“The beauty of Maps: you can follow the directions without knowing where they lead.” He fixes my phone to the holder on the dashboard and plugs in the charger. “Do you trust me, O Little Star of Bethlehem?”

“You know what,” I muse, “I think I just might.”

“Then you’re in for a fun ride.” He grins and buckles up and goes to put the radio on. I push his hand away from the dial with a tut.

“Oh no you don’t, Mister. If I can’t know where we’re going, I reserve the right to control the music.” I switch over to the Bluetooth connection and my Christmas playlist starts in earnest.

“Oh, no, I don’t think so,” Casper says, but I cup my hand over the buttons and glare at his grimace.

“It’s your choice, Ghost Boy,” I say. “You can take control of the music if you tell me what the plan is, or you can keep up the surprise and indulge in the best festive bangers of the last seven decades.”

I know what he’ll choose, because he spent all of breakfast telling me that today is all about surprises and he wouldn’t tell me a thing. He won’t ruin it, and I want to listen to my playlist, and maybe help him find a Christmas song he actually likes. There has to be one.

After a tense few seconds, he groans and shrugs. “Okay, fine. You win – we can have your damn Christmas songs.”

I give him a smug smile as I reverse out of my driveway. He starts to dig around in his pockets, frowning as his hands come up empty.

“Forget something?”

“Yeah … have you seen my earplugs?”

“Oh, fuck off.” I turn up the not-so-dulcet tones of Mariah Carey in protest as I start to follow the route on my screen. “By the end of today, you’ll be jamming along to Kelly Clarkson and begging to watch The Santa Clause when we get home.” A thought hits me and I eye him warily. “We are coming home tonight, right?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“How much of this music you subject me to. Might end up killing you with the candy cane I apparently have wedged up my arse.”

“In the event that you don’t kill me, and you actually learn how to enjoy my music, will we be home tonight?”

“Nope.”

“No?”

"Nope,” he repeats. “If I learn how to enjoy this drivel, then we won’t be home tonight because I’ll be getting myself sectioned.”

“Oh my god, Cas. You are fucking impossible. Okay, how about this – do your mystery plans, as they currently stand, involve spending the night away from home?”

“No,” he says at last. “If we don’t come to blows over music and either get each other killed or sectioned, then there’s no reason why we won’t be home tonight. All right?”

“Yes, thank you.” My grip on the wheel loosens. “That’s all I needed to know.”

“And you’re in control of the wheels anyway. If I had planned for us to spend a night fending for ourselves in a forest, you’d have the right and capability to get right back in the car and go home.”