“Do you want to sit at a gate or look for an open space?”

“I plan to sit wherever the least amount of people are.”

Carter chuckles at my reply, threading his arms through the straps of his backpack. “All right, well, in that case, we should probably head to where there are fewer gates. There’s a map over there,” he says, nodding behind me.

“I need to get back to my gate so I don’t miss my flight.”

“What flight?”

“The one that’s taking me home. Do you think I came here for the food and company?”

“No, because that would require liking people.” His hazel eyes look nearly brown from the burgundy henley he’s wearing. There are traces of humor dancing in them along with flecks of truth, which I ignore because although I haven’t seen Carter in nearly four years, I recognize his shirt. Know it because I not only have seen him wear it on countless occasions, I’ve peeled it off of him. “There’s a greater chance of you singing ‘Jingle Bells’ karaoke-style than there is of us flying out of here tonight.”

I release a deep sigh and move forward.

“Piper!”

I keep moving. A small hesitancy climbing in my chest makes my feet move faster.

“Piper!” Carter calls, his voice faint enough I can tell he hasn’t moved. “You’re going the wrong way!”

I stop and look up, finding a sign that informs me that I am in fact heading in the wrong direction. I should keep going. He said so himself—we aren’t leaving tonight. I might as well see what I can find, but one of my last reasons for hating traveling is my complete lack of direction. Many aren’t aware that dyslexia strongly skews one’s sense of direction and oftentimes leaves me utterly lost. This is why when I learn a route to get somewhere, I never alter my course. This airport is too big for even my ego to try to compete with, so I stop and turn around to find Carter showing off his dimples once again with a broad smile.

He falls into step beside me when I make it back to him, carrying a duffel bag in his hand, pronouncing more muscles that I add to my list of things to avoid looking at.

“Did you call your mom yet?”

I ignore him. Lunch was a mistake, one that I don’t plan on making twice. There’s no chance I’m going to invite him into the personal side of my life.

“She’s crazy excited to have you home since you haven’t been able to make it back the last few years,” Carter continues. His words cause a stitch in my heart to match the one building in my side. My first year living here, I had gone home for Thanksgiving even though I’d planned to be home for Christmas a few weeks later. I had been excited to see everyone, to the point it felt like it had been years rather than months since I’d moved away. A sense of melancholy had settled in my chest the moment we pulled into the driveway and had me anxious and willing to do everything with my family in preparation of Thanksgiving. It was while in the small local grocery store that I experienced my very first taste of humor at my expense because of moving to New York to pursue acting. I was there for the fourth time that day—a bag of marshmallows was all I’d needed. Lindsey Burke was there. We’d gone to school together and had never been friends, but I was drunk on eggnog, home-cooked meals, and the holiday spirit, so when Lindsey smiled, I stopped and reciprocated the gesture. But like any good predator, her smile was her bait.

“How’s New York?” Lindsey asked.

My smiled grew wider. It seemed like flattery that she’d known I was gone and where. “It’s definitely different than here.” The words were unfiltered, a sentiment about home because the few days being there had me questioning my goals and ambitions.

Lindsey laughed. “Aren’t you cute? So, I’m assuming you haven’t been cast in anything yet? A movie? A TV show?”

I swallowed, my guard starting to activate, but it was too late.

“Not even like a commercial? Surely there are tons of companies who could use someone like you. Acne medicine? Shampoo for dry hair? Whitening strips for teeth? Weight management?” She eyed my waist, judgement thicker than her cat-eye eyeliner.

My entire body heated, anger and embarrassment tangling into a tidal wave that left me speechless and forgetting to pick up the marshmallows.

Prior to my moving, a few had openly shared their surprise with my ambitious goals, but most were supportive, but my encounter with Lindsey was only the first hurdle I faced. Muffled laughter and pointed fingers were more frequent than pumpkin pies—and far more bitter.

I didn’t return for Christmas. If people were laughing at me then for not having landed anything but a handful of part-time gigs to afford my rent, what would they think when I returned with only another waitressing job on my growing resume?

The next two years, I truly was busy and couldn’t make it home. I received my first callback and was cast for a small live production one year, and was a featured extra in an episode of Law and Order the next. You can actually see my side profile and ponytail thirty-nine minutes into the episode for exactly three seconds. My parents, of course, were ecstatic and proud. They have always been supportive of my dream, though I think they secretly hope I’ll eventually outgrow this phase—like they did after growing their hair to their waists, wearing purple-tinted glasses, and smoking pot to better understand music lyrics and harmony. I should remind them when I’m home that Woodstock still happens—even if they’ve moved on, the dream hasn’t.

Mom started talking about me coming home for Christmas before last Christmas even happened. Though we never discussed my run-in with Lindsey, I’m sure she had a good idea. After all, Christmas has always been my favorite holiday. In February, after the episode of Law and Order aired with my small role, my parents watched it so many times they became unofficial understudies for each of the characters, and I promised to return home. I was riding the high that came with my parents proudly telling anyone who would listen that I was officially a TV star, mailing me a box of eight-by-ten glossy photos of myself to sign and ship back so they could mail them to everyone in the family.

A month later, Emily called on her way to a town council meeting, and I overheard someone ask her if I would ever land a role where people could actually see my entire face. The comment was followed by laughter that sounded more good-natured than cruel, but it made all of my work and practice feel like a waste. Like working two jobs and standing in mile-long lines for countless auditions at all hours equated to absolutely nothing.

For a while, it was really hard not to jump on the bandwagon so many at home already seemed to be riding with a drink in their hand and judgement on their lips. But one night, while I was filling a random shift for a friend as an usher at the ballet, my dreams of being on stage were renewed as I watched the artists perform their craft. That night, I became even more dedicated, my primary focus becoming proving everyone from home wrong and avoiding them until I did.

But, I love my parents more than I hate those that created and ride on that bandwagon, so I followed through with my promise, and in August, I booked a flight home. My trip isn’t as long as either of my parents would have preferred, but the cost of living in New York City has me skimping and doing without fairly often, and I can’t risk missing too many auditions or days off work.

“I bet your dad’s made a double batch of eggnog for tonight,” Carter says, drawing my attention back to the present.

I pull my shoulders back, recalling what brought forth those ugly memories. Calling Mom. Telling her I’m delayed. Stuck at the airport with the one person I dislike even more than Lindsey Burke. “I texted Em.”

A smile flashes across his face. “I’m shocked she hasn’t convinced Brad to move up to New York.”

“No, you aren’t.”

“No, but I am shocked you guys have made it nearly four years apart.”

I don’t respond. If Emily hadn’t married my brother right out of high school, I’m confident she would be here with me. I didn’t hate when they started dating. I didn’t even hate when they got engaged or were married or when I found out they were pregnant. Somewhere along the way though, I’ve started to like it less and less. Emily doesn’t call me first when she has a problem or exciting new—she calls Brad. While a rational part of my brain understands this, even accepts it, the part of me that says we have known each other our entire lives, experienced everything together, still struggles with the reality. It was me who waited up all night on Christmas Eve with her in the past. It was me who brought over yogurt-covered pretzels and Swedish Fish when she went through a breakup. It was me who spent hours on my back beside her as we alternated family lake houses every weekend in the summer, sipping lemonade and searching for frogs and turtles and, later, hot boys and sneaking beers. It was also me who held her hand when she was sixteen and lost her virginity without using any kind of contraceptive and had to take a pregnancy test. Thankfully, she failed that test, but still, it wasn’t Brad who was there.

“Brad said they found a new Christmas tree farm you’re going to like just as well as Mel’s this year.”

His news is like two missiles shooting off in my head, one carrying the message that the tree isn’t up yet. My family religiously decorates the Christmas tree on the second Sunday of December. It’s a big deal. The first batch of eggnog is drunk, the giant C7/C9 Christmas lights are untangled, mom makes her pork tenderloin and fried apples, and we all sit in the living room with only the tree lighting the room while we watch Miracle on the 34^th Street. It’s tradition. The second missile firing off is carrying the message he said I’ll like it as well as Mel’s.

I blink several times, trying to make sense of his words. A mess that shouldn’t be requiring so much thought but currently seems bigger than the fact that I’m stuck in the airport during a snowstorm with Carter O’Brien. “What do you mean I’ll like it ‘as well as Mel’s’?”

“He said they bring in reindeer and have sleigh rides like Mel’s was, but they only have instant cider, and it hasn’t been set up with speakers or lights yet.”

“Was?”

Carter’s eyebrows sink low over his hazel eyes. “They…” he begins, but his words trail off as his eyes grow round. “No one told you.”

“Told me what?”

Carter places a hand on my arm and directs us to the side of the longer hallway before stopping. He removes his hand before I can consider pulling away or asking him to move it. “Pipe, Mel died. They closed the place up, and then his daughter sold the place off in chunks.”

“He died?” I cry. “Sold it off in chunks?” My words are only a whisper now. How could I not have known he passed? How did no one tell me?

“I thought you knew.” His forehead creases with visible sorrow.

I shake my head. “I had no idea.”

Carter sweeps my hair back over a shoulder and grips the back of my neck. His touch is firm and sure. Lacking the hesitation and uncertainty I’m currently drowning in. I stare at him. My shock at Mel passing away and the tree lot my family has been going to since before I was even born being sold off wanes, replaced by the shock that he’s touching me so casually, so easily.

Carter’s lips purse, and he closes his eyes for a moment of sorrow. “I thought you knew.” His eyes open again, holding my stare as his fingers constrict with just enough pressure that I’m certain he can feel how tight my muscles are. “It was peaceful. He passed while sleeping.” Carter O’Brien has just read my flipping mind again. My family didn’t tell me about this news, which seems quite significant to me, and one of the traditions I have carried out for my entire life, omit the past three years, is now over. I feel angry, sad, disappointed, selfish, and a little homesick as I picture the fields of fresh pine trees, feel the frigid temperatures seeping through my layers and the scarf I always had to wrap around my nose and mouth while I sought out the perfect tree. There’s an art to finding the right Christmas tree, one that my dad and I have perfected and my mother has critiqued to the point we quite literally have the most picturesque tree you’ve ever seen each year.

Without a word, we start walking again, our steps slower, more measured.

“Stay here for a sec; let me go find some chairs.” Before I can argue, Carter is on a mission, his shoulders squared to show off their full width.

I move one of his bags and sit on the floor, leaning my head against the wall and closing my eyes. Thoughts of Christmases past are playing through my mind, intermingling with the same burdens I’ve been thinking about for weeks.

Will I make enough money to pay for rent next month when my small savings is gone?

When will people learn that tipping housekeeping is something you should do just as much as tipping a waitress?

Do people really live in the conditions that they leave their hotel rooms in?

I wonder if that casting director, Laurence, will call me back. My audition was flawless, and I’m pretty sure he sees potential in me.

I do have potential … right?

What in the hell is everyone going to say when I get home? How do I act? What do I say?

I lean back, the weight of my fears exhausting me. I close my eyes and nestle back into my sweater.

I open my eyes to the sound of a man yelling. I’m disoriented, my muscles fatigued and my eyes dry as I try to place where I am. The man across from me is yelling at someone with the airline, bringing forth my current predicament: I’m stuck at the airport.

The large window reveals it’s still early evening. My eyes burn and itch from having slept in my contacts.

“You should get some more sleep,” Carter says from where he’s sitting on a chair on the other side of his bags, reminding me that the snow is the least of my concerns.

“I’m okay. I need to go find out if they have any updated information.”

Carter nods to the large screens showing arrivals and departures. “Everything’s been canceled.” He stands and lifts his chair, revealing a second one beneath.

I groan, my head falling back against the wall. A bobby pin fastened near the back of my head painfully digs into my scalp.

“Things could be a lot worse,” he says, lifting my carry-on as though it isn’t inappropriately heavy and placing it on one of the chairs.

“Are you crazy?” My voice is pitched high, coated with annoyance, and dusted with malevolence.

“We have power, food, water, warmth. This could be a lot worse,” Carter repeats, sliding down the wall so he’s sitting beside me, his hip and shoulder grazing mine.

“For now we do,” I mutter. “Can you scoot over?” If this was four years ago or more, Carter would have shoved closer to me until I was laughing and he was in my lap. Granted, if this was four years ago or more, I likely wouldn’t have snapped at him. But it’s now, and he reminds me of that when he scoots several inches away and then reaches into his bag and retrieves a laptop. I don’t ask him what he’s doing. I don’t care. After this, Carter O’Brien will go back to being someone from my past and nothing more.

Seconds pass before I hear someone humming “Jingle Bells,” causing my temples to throb.

I ball my coat up and lean my head against the scratchy wool and add another reason to hate traveling:

Discomfort.