The door to the bar weighs thick and heavy against my arm, pushing back, asserting a little bit of resistance, in its effort to keep me out. Just like I figured it would. It’s not where I usually throw back a beer, but it’s been a long day and I want a drink.

So what if the parking lot was so crowded that it’s spilling over into the one designated for the auto parts place next door?

See, this is exactly what happens in places like Lakewood. Every time.

The good bar in town ends up closing. The bar that feels comfortable, like a worn-in pair of jeans. Maybe there are some chips in the paint and dings in the bartop, but people know to mind their own business and the guy behind the counter doesn’t ask a hundred nosy questions as he’s pouring your drink.

The good bar? That one was my bar.

Up until the first of November, that is, when I stopped off for a drink after finishing a frantic rush job in one of the country club houses and found a sign on the door. Closed. It was closed the next day, and the one after that, and then the next week, a for sale sign appeared out front and it’s still there.

Happy Holidays.

Holidays—that’s why the parking lot is so full, and even before I make it inside, I can feel my face settling into a scowl.

The Brew Pub—and Jesus, that name—is packed.

Look. I took a job today knowing full well that nobody else in town is working. It’s a national holiday. But old Mr. Howland’s step was beyond fucked up, and I couldn’t be responsible for him taking a tumble and bashing his head on the ice on Thanksgiving. He doesn’t have any family around here.

Neither do I.

Unless you count my dad, which I don’t.

It’s too loud in here, too bright, and there’s not a single corner I can hide in.

I edge my way through the groups of people and shimmy up to the bar, which is teeming in women wearing the kind of dresses I’d peg for a nightclub, not the Brew Pub.

And God, they’re all here.

Out of the corner of my eye, I recognize some of the regulars from Jimmy’s tucked thick as thieves into a U-shaped in the back, looking about as uncomfortable as I feel, but I’m not in the mood to chat. All I wanted was a drink to unwind. A TV to stare at. A low hum of conversation to drown out the thoughts ringing in my head.

Everyone in here might as well be screaming.

One of the women sidled up to the bar turns around and her entire face lights up. “Finn!”

Who the hell is she?

“Finn Wyatt! Oh, my God, I can’t believe you’re here, too! Who invited you?”

Who invited me? I wasn’t invited. I live here. This is where I go, now that Jimmy’s is a deserted ruin. I search her face for a clue…and that’s when it hits me.

This is a regular high school reunion.

How oblivious does a person have to be to miss that? Up until a few years ago, when things with my dad got really bad, we’d have dinner together, crack open a six-pack, and part ways when it was empty. It never occurred to me to come out on a holiday.

“Kenzie,” I say finally, my tongue tripping over the word. I’m having flashbacks of her as a pretty timid goth, all black hair and black lipstick. It’s why her face isn’t computing right now. She looks decent, though her dress is about a mile too short for the kind of weather we’re having, and she seems to have moved up in the world, because she’s here with none other than Chance Cunningham, who was the star quarterback all four years we were in high school.

He finally notices me over her head. “Wyatt, buddy, how you been?” He shouts out the greeting so the words carry over the noise, raising his drink in a toast.

I can’t do this.

I didn’t go to the five-year reunion, and I didn’t go to the ten-year, and eleven years out of high school, I am not interested in shooting the shit with Chance Cunningham. Or Kenzie Drew. Or any single one of them. The longer I look, more faces pop out at me from a decade ago, only we’re all grown up. And if they’re all here—

If they’re all here… I don’t want to see her.

I raise my hand in an awkward wave and then reach desperately for the phone in my jacket pocket. By the time I have it out and in my hand, Chance has already turned back to the crowd, which is par for the course. Even Kenzie, who made all that fuss, is distracted by some other woman barreling in for a giant, shrieking hug, the kind I can’t stand.

I don’t know why I pretend to get a text message, but I do, and then I turn away from the bar and start advancing through the crowded tables. It’s way too hot in here. The grocery store won’t be open today, but I can stop at the gas station to pick up some shitty beer and drink it at home, alone, in relative peace, and hope for the holiday season to be over. There’s something about the holidays that makes my chest ache, and I hate it.

I’m three steps from freedom when a voice calls out, “Wait!”

I know it’s her before I look.

I shouldn’t look.

I look anyway.

I haven’t seen her in eleven years, but Emily Powell looks exactly the same. Better, even, and my heart twists in my chest at the sight of her big green eyes.

She’s dressed in jeans so tight they could be leggings, and a white sweater that’s so long it covers her ass, somehow looking both gorgeous and like she could face the cold without looking like an idiot, and she’s holding a beer in each hand.

“Hey, Finn,” she says, like we’ve never been apart a day in all these years. My name is that familiar on her tongue. “You look like you could use a drink.”