But I knew there had to be more. As I got to know Arthur, bit by bit, it was becoming apparent there were layers upon layers hidden behind his walls of rigid English propriety and snarkdom. I could feel them. And despite knowing perfectly well that I was playing with emotional fire for so many reasons, but chiefly since I wasn’t planning to return to Barrington next term, which made the exercise of getting to know him in all his facets essentially pointless, I still wanted to find out what that “more” entailed.

So I pressed.

“What about a crush? You’ve had crushes, right?”

Then I held my breath, because what if he answered “Bronwyn Campbell”? What if that was the real reason she texted him? Or maybe it was some other horrible girl from Barrington? Or worse—if possible—what if he announced a secret girlfriend back in England whom he called every night? Or texted? Or both? And planned to marry one day because she was a member of the upper class like he was, and their families would find the situation mutually beneficial for the future of big truck manufacturing?

Her name was probably Poppy. Or Millicent.

When he nodded decisively and said, “I have,” I bit my upper lip. But then he said, “Ms. Darby in Year Four.” He flipped on the right turn signal and started to ease the Hummer over to the side. “What you Americans would call third grade. Or possibly fourth, I’m never quite sure.” He parked the Hummer in an open spot parallel to the sidewalk outside the entrance to Santa’s Workshop Mall and turned on the emergency blinkers. “She was plump. With rosy cheeks. A mass of ginger hair that could not be tamed. Truly a vision.” He turned to me. “Alas, she failed to see my potential and instead married a wanker named Gerald and moved to Liverpool. My heart still bleeds.”

With that, he reached into the carryout bag from the café and extracted what appeared to be two paper-wrapped sandwiches I’d failed to notice, along with a large bottle of water from the door pocket.

He reached over to the radio and turned it on.

Christmas music from one of the many pop stations filled the interior. He hit the preset buttons until he found a song by The Waitresses I recognized. It was one of my favorites.

“Back in a jiff,” he said, and hopped out of the Hummer before I had the chance to ask him what he was doing.

From my passenger’s seat, I watched him make a dash onto the sidewalk then over to Steve, the Willfully Homeless Elf, who roused himself from his lawn-chair slumber upon Arthur’s smiling approach.