Laughter has me struggling to open my heavy eyelids again to see what’s happening. Chairs, legs, bags, and voices fill my vision.

I can’t stop blinking because my contacts are now so dry they feel as though they’re made of glass shards. Finally, I’m able to make out Carter beside me; I can only be positive that it’s him because I recognize his voice even though it’s set at a whisper. I look up to see he’s speaking to an elderly couple, both of them sitting in chairs with small bags propped by their feet. They’re the source of the laughter that woke me, I realize as it continues.

“For being a city girl, you handled sleeping on the ground like a champ,” Carter says, bringing my attention back to him.

I sit up as my eyes slit. He’s seen me sleep on the ground countless times, usually when we were staying at my family’s lake cabin and mom invited friends or family to stay and there weren’t enough beds so we had the option of the living room floor or the tent in the front yard. I’ve pulled ticks out of his skin. Hell, I’ve climbed higher in trees than he or Brad, mastered a clutch before I was ten, and could shotgun a beer nearly as fast as he could. He knows what this “city girl” is made of.

In response, he dangles a white bag in front of me. It takes less than a second for the scent of sausage and eggs to break through my anger. Then he adds a red to-go cup to the mix, and the hot scent of coffee demands I play nice. I take a deep breath and meet Carter’s eyes. They’re painfully familiar. We share a silent conversation, one where I swear he’s asking me if I still remember everything. I attempt to remain aloof because I work tirelessly to ignore and forget those thoughts.

“I thought you might be hungry,” he says, handing me breakfast.

“Thanks. I’m starving.”

He smiles like he was expecting that to be my answer.

Carter’s conversation with the couple continues. They’re discussing traveling to their son’s house for Christmas and getting to see their three youngest grandchildren. The woman is nostalgic but happy as she talks about how she plans to use powdered sugar and the sole of her husband’s boots to create Santa’s footprints and bake a special recipe of Christmas cookies that her grandmother had taught her. Their stories expand, telling us about their favorite traditions, which include hiding a pickle ornament in the tree for their children to search for, buying special Christmas jammies for the entire family so they all match, and the special Christmas Mass that they attend each year at midnight on Christmas Eve. Experience, love, and patience weave their stories seamlessly together, as though they’re reciting a well-practiced script. It makes me feel more homesick and, for the first time, slightly grateful to have run into Carter.

“Well, we hope you kids do make it home soon and safely,” the woman says as she stands with her husband. “This storm may put up a fight, but I know we’ll make it out of here before Christmas. You just have to have a little bit of faith.”

I swallow the end of my coffee and return her smile. It’s natural and instinctual, like wishing farewell to a family member.

A woman in her mid-thirties interrupts our exchange, her focus ahead, not seeing the suitcases that have been pushed forward for the older couple to stand. Her black ankle boot catches the corner of one, causing her to stumble and trip, her arms to flail, and her face to set in horror. She catches herself, albeit it’s a messy sway of limbs and hair, shrieks and gasps.

“Are you all right?” The older man’s question is louder than the concerns being voiced from the rest of us, but Carter was fast to his feet and has the crook of her arm in hand.

She pulls away from his touch viciously, her eyes still wide with shock and fear, blazing a train of hatred straight through him. “Are you guys trying to kill someone? What were you thinking?” She kicks the offending suitcase, sending it to the floor with a loud thump, and then turns on a heel and stomps away.

Carter rights the fallen suitcase, murmuring an apology on the woman’s behalf. The couple looks slightly taken aback but not surprised—they’re New Yorkers as well; I can hear it in their accents. Chances are likely that had the woman stuck around long enough, these two would have had a sophisticated and classy retaliation that would have turned her flounce into a crawl.

“You want to get going, or are you still hungry?” Carter asks.

“Go where?” My words are still short, but my tone is slightly less abrasive.

“They’re saying all flights are canceled until tomorrow.”

My eyes widen before finally turning to the windows to acknowledge the weather. It doesn’t look that bad. I mean, it’s white, yes, but it’s not snowing nearly as heavily as it was. Chills course through me at the sight of all the snow, and I shiver. I turn back to Carter, his hazel eyes looking greener with the contrast of a new shirt that has “New York” emblazoned across the chest.

“Did you change?”

Carter peers down at his shirt as though this is news to him as well. “Yeah, someone bumped into me. Spilled coffee all over my back.”

I flinch, sucking air between my teeth. “Did you get burned?” Brad burned himself really badly once with hot coffee when we were camping as kids. Blisters and scarring and the whole nine yards.

“Nah, it was cold, but I didn’t enjoy the whole wet shirt and smelling like burnt coffee.” Carter’s lips turn up as I laugh, knowing Carter hates the scent of coffee.

“We should go find a few more supplies. Maybe some warmer blankets. I’m pretty sure your teeth were on the verge of cracking last night from you shivering.” At his words, I notice the fleece blanket draped over my legs. It’s bright red, impossible to miss, and thin enough I can make out the color of my jeans in contrast to the floor. It’s clear where it came from; many others surrounding us have a matching one slung around their shoulders, all with the airline’s name written in large, white block letters.

I crinkle up the bag that held my breakfast bagel and get to my feet.

“You sure you had enough?”

“Should I be offended that you keep assuming I want more food?”

“Food has always been your happy pill.”

My chin nearly hits my chest as I look to him. “What are you talking about?”

“You get grumpy when you don’t eat.”

“I do not.”

“Hangry,” he says, threading his backpack over his shoulders. “We need to get more supplies. Not more than what we need, just enough that we can keep you from killing me or someone else.”

“There’s no one else here I want to kill.”

Carter’s eyebrows dance up and back down, and he bends over and retrieves a small bag of cookies that he thrusts into my hands. “These are ‘don’t kill Carter, because he’s the only person here you know, and your mother would be really heartbroken to visit you in jail for Christmas’ cookies.”

“They sound really unappetizing.”

“Eat.”

If he hadn’t picked up the extra chewy ones, I would have refused them, but I can’t turn down chewy chocolate chip cookies, even when they do come with the price of spending more time with Carter.

After my third mini-cookie, Carter glances over at me, his eyes washing over my face. “I saw you on Law and Order last year.”

“If you dare to even think about saying something rude, you better stop. Cookies or not, I look good in orange.”

His eyebrows jump up his forehead as he shakes his head. “Piper, you were on Law and Order.” His eyebrows fall back down, but his lips remain parted, his eyes wide. “A top-rated show on cable!”

“It was only three seconds,” I admit quietly.

Carter’s hand wraps around the top of my arm and pulls me to a stop so that I’m facing him. “Piper, you were on Law and Order! That’s amazing! I told everyone I met that I knew someone on Law and Order. It was a huge deal. I mean, this is your dream, isn’t it?”

I drop my gaze. “A lot of people get cast as extras in the show.”

“You’re missing the point here, Pipe—you did it. You were on TV.”

“Yeah, but it’s a cameo spot. They just needed someone’s face in the picture—”

“And they chose yours.” Carter’s hand wraps firmly around my chin, forcing my eyes to meet his. “It doesn’t matter if someone else doesn’t think it’s enough, but it’s a problem if you don’t. If you’re going to think you aren’t a real actor, or that you don’t deserve to be credited for being one, no one will. If this isn’t your dream anymore, then walk away, but if it is, you need to hold your head up high and be proud of what you’ve accomplished.”

This is probably one of the best motivational, kick-in-the-ass inspirational speeches I’ve been given in some time. All too often I find myself surrounded by people who either lack any sign of confidence or are so filled with it that I feel they leech it from everyone surrounding them. Putting things into perspective, making me realize if someone had told me five years ago that I would have a cameo on a large-production show, I would have laughed in their face and said no way before sucking in a breath and trying to calm my hammering heart from hoping and imagining it to be true.

How does becoming an adult make things seem so insignificant?

“It was pretty cool,” I say.

Carter’s face splits with a smile I didn’t realize I missed until I see it along with a million memories that it brings forth. “See, that big-city attitude hasn’t fully overtaken you.”

“I am not like that woman who tripped over that man’s bag and acted like a jerk, if that’s what you’re insinuating.” Just like that, I am over his wide smile and slightly dimpled chin, moving straight back to annoyance and anger toward him.

His forehead creases as his eyebrows go up slightly, his eyes widening. His skin has always been fair; O’Brien blood attributes for it as well as the faintest sprinkling of light-brown freckles across the tops of his cheekbones and bridge of his nose, but it’s his mother’s genes that gave him his dark-brown hair, wide shoulders, and the slight dimple in his chin.

I remember one summer when I was a kid, my parents had signed me for a summer camp for acting. I had begged and pleaded for them to send me. It cost more than they could afford, but they saved, and likely borrowed, in order to get me there. A girl named Jasmine had asked me which boy at camp I was interested in, and I had replied honestly with none. She gaped and then smiled sinfully, not believing me in the slightest. It prompted me to get defensive and thus tell her about Carter—my lasting crush of far too many years. She of course asked me to describe him, and as soon as I said the word freckles, her lips twisted and her eyes closed like she had just tasted something sour. I, of course, defended his freckles because I had traced patterns across them for years, knowing them better than most astronomers know a star guide. Still I could tell she didn’t believe me. Since this was before the times of cell phones and computers, and I hadn’t thought to bring a photo of him or anyone in my family, I spent twenty more minutes validating Carter’s hotness to her. Five days later, when my family came to pick me up, Carter was in tow and Jasmine was one of the first people to see him, and I knew by the shocked expression on her face that she never would discount freckles again.

I shake my head free of the memory, realizing Carter’s still looking at me with a look so similar to Jasmine’s it makes my annoyance skyrocket and the same need arise—defend, defend, defend.

“I act nothing like her! If I had tripped, I would not have glared and then yelled at them.”

When his expression doesn’t change, I shift my weight back. “What are you trying to say? You live here, too.”

“But I plan on going back someday.”

“So, because I don’t, that makes me a rude person?”

“Your bad attitude is what can make you a rude person.”

“I do not have a bad attitude!”

Carter’s lips tighten and then purse, leashing his response. It makes me even angrier.

“Don’t look at me like that! If you want to say something, say it. Don’t sugarcoat it! What, you want to tell me that I’m horrible for not going back home more often? Do you want to tell me acting is never going to pan out? Are you going to stand there and tell me that because I have chosen to forget about you, I’m the asshole?” Anger has my face flushing. I can feel it.

Carter’s eyes slowly dance over my face. “You’d hate me even more if we slept together that night.”

His words blindside me, hitting me harder than any rejection or taunt. “I don’t care that we didn’t sleep together,” I grind out the words. “Hell, I am so glad we didn’t sleep together I celebrate it nearly daily.”

“I thought you forgot about me?”

I throw my free hand in the air with defeat, looking up to the ceiling for a moment. “I have!” My words are a yell, bringing unwanted attention from all angles.

“For the first sixteen years of my life, Brad was my best friend. For the following five, it was you.”

I don’t tell him he was my best friend for the first eighteen years of my life, causing a large hollow area to blossom in my heart when we broke our ties, or I suppose more accurately, I severed them all with a ferociousness that led him to giving up after several months of failed attempts. Instead, I cock my head to the side and ask, “Was he a better make-out partner?”

“I don’t know which of the two of you has more pride, but I can tell you this much—he at least grew up and realized when it was appropriate to not allow your ego to run your life or, in your case, ruin it.”

“Ruin my life? You think not having you as a friend has ruined my life?” I laugh humorlessly, feeling the crack that has run through my chest for so many years shake and grow in its depths.

Carter turns and begins striding through the crowds. It has always infuriated me when he has done this, and always before I’ve allowed him to walk away, but this time I follow.

“You have the audacity to call me rude, and then you walk away while I’m still talking to you?”

Carter doesn’t break stride. “You weren’t talking, Piper. You were looking for a fight. I’m not going to give you one.”