An overpriced Yankees jersey and an even more overpriced teddy bear wearing a shirt that reads “My Heart Lives in New York.” I tried to talk him out of buying the bear, suggesting he get earrings for his mom instead, but he didn’t listen to my reasoning, feeding me a grin as he went to stand in line. I had picked up some ChapStick and a deck of cards. If nothing else, I could play solitaire by myself. We went into two additional shops, both of which I stayed outside and waited because they were both packed. People were hungry, bored, and restless.

I glance across the sea of people before peeking back to where Carter’s standing in line. I watch as he exchanges his credit card for bags, then head to the exit to meet him. He has five plastic bags slung from his wrists.

“Can I help?”

He shakes his head once.

I didn’t expect him to accept my offer. Carter O’Brien has been the perfect balance of chivalrous gentleman and supporter of women since birth.

“Did you find everything?”

“Not exactly, but it will do.”

My phone tears my attention from his hazel eyes that had turned to look at me. I swipe my thumb across the screen, seeing a text message but not paying attention to the sender because I already know it is from either my mom or Em.

It isn’t.

It’s a picture.

A picture of a penis.

“What!” My single word is barely audible as I look to see who the message is from. My eyes bulge, and my steps falter, nearly making me trip. I know it’s too late to pretend it was nothing. With Carter’s clenched jaw and narrowed eyes, it’s clear he saw the text. I shake my head, my lips pursing with anger.

“Who in the hell is that?”

My head shakes again, this time in short jerks. “Some guy I auditioned with. They warned me he was a cocky bastard. I just didn’t realize they meant … that.”

In one clean move, Carter yanks my phone from my hand. I yell a protest and reach for my phone, which he yanks farther away from me.

“What are you doing?”

He doesn’t answer, moving with purposeful strides down the hall that have me running to catch up.

“Where are you going?”

“To return the favor.”

“What? You can’t do that!” I’ve seen Carter naked, but that was a long time ago. Having a picture of him naked on my phone would carry our relationship to a whole new level of awkward and strange. I run faster to catch him. “Carter! Stop. You can’t send him a dick pic!”

“I’ll bet he leaves you alone.”

“Yeah, because he’ll think I’m a dude! I have enough rumors about me at home. I don’t need another one that includes a sex change.”

“He’ll think you’re with another guy.”

“We don’t need to reply. Just erase it.”

“You think that will stop him?”

“I’ll tell him to get lost then.”

Carter shakes his head and then stops, focusing his attention on my phone. Omit a return pic, I couldn’t care less what he responds with. A threat, a joke, something to encourage him to send more so he can post them on the internet—all options seem like fair game at this point. However, my curiosity to see which route he chose has me inching closer, lifting my chin so I can see past his shoulder.

You need to find a new hobby that doesn’t consist of sitting in ice baths and sending people the results. Send me shit like that again, and you’re going to see your pinky finger on every damn billboard in NY.

I’m slightly disappointed by his response regardless of my smirk. “Better?” I ask.

“I’m keeping it until he responds.”

“How do you know he will?”

“Anyone with a dick knows he’ll respond.”

“Suit yourself.”

Carter slides my phone into the pocket of his jeans and then crawls into our makeshift fort with his bags. Within moments, he’s back out, feigning calmness that I can see through with only a glance. His lips are pressed together too firmly, his eyes are tight around the edges, and his hands are balled into loose fists. Not knowing what to say to ease the tension, I nod in the direction we just walked from. “Want to get some food before I get hangry again?”

He recognizes my attempt to be funny with a slight twitch of his lips, and then his arm is around my shoulders and we’re walking.

“The last gift shop said restaurants are starting to close because they’re running low on food but that a few over in the E gates are still open.”

We’re at terminal B.

Reasons I hate traveling: you inevitably have the longest walks in the airport.

“They’re saying the snow is supposed to stop tonight,” I say.

“That’s what they were saying in the store. It’s crazy right now. I’ve never seen anything like this while living here.”

Though I now live here as well, there’s something painful about discussing him living here, so I don’t comment or even look in his direction as we keep walking amongst crowds of people where a few are starting to look familiar.

We eat cheese steaks for dinner, and while we haven’t had much to eat today and I should be hungry, I’m not. It sits heavily in my stomach, making the walk back to our gate slow and uncomfortable. We’ve barely spoken, and the silence is similar to my stomach: filled with unease and a tension that’s becoming more difficult to ignore.

“Look,” Carter says, lifting his chin toward a group of people surrounding one of the small artificial trees that has been flocked to remain politically correct. I have little interest in what they’re doing, but Carter places a hand around my elbow, and we approach them as they begin singing “O Holy Night.” The group shifts to accept us and others who have come closer. The woman leading the song is clearly a practiced performer. Her voice is strong and clear, beautiful and hypnotic. Many others join her, and as they do, her ears seem to pick up the addition, and she turns her head in their direction and smiles warmly with encouragement. They sing several songs before Carter brushes my arm to get my attention and then lifts a finger to indicate that he’ll be right back.

I sing along quietly to “Deck the Halls” once he goes, lost in the trance that the crowd has created against the backdrop of the windows revealing the snow still adding to the couple of feet of white powder covering the ground.

We sing several more songs before Carter reappears with his arms juggling a mess of random objects that he drops on a chair nearby.

I fall back from the group and move to him as he starts pulling strands of lights free from the mess.

“What is this?”

He shrugs, untangling a pair of scissors from the lights. “We need some decorations for the tree.”

“The tree?”

He nods again to where the people are gathered and singing, like the answer is obvious. “Where’d you get this stuff?”

“The shops were using it for window displays,” he says, untangling a strand of lights and moving on to the next.

Though the idea is crazier than remaining here with him, I move closer, helping him untangle each item. Then, Carter moves to the group and quietly speaks to a couple of men who fall back from the group and peer around, exchanging more words. A few women nearby hear them and join their small group. Carter points to the Christmas lights he has wrapped around one shoulder and then the tree. They laugh and then disappear down the hall toward the other gates.

Those left singing carols step back, providing more room for Carter and the other two men to wrap the lights around the tree. They don’t spend time on wrapping branches or to conceal the cords, with only two strands it doesn’t even reach the bottom of the tree, but they share a smile of satisfaction as they move the tree a little closer to the wall, and then Carter moves back to where I’m still standing, and he grabs two rolls of aluminum foil. His eyes meet mine, and he smiles before shrugging his chin, indicating for me to follow him. I do along with several others who are now paying attention to what he’s doing.

“What is this for?” I ask.

“We need some tinsel,” he explains, handing me a roll and a pair of scissors. I shake my head, laughing at the absurdity. “Christmas requires tinsel.” His smile grows wider when he uses my mother’s tagline.

I open a roll of foil and sit on the floor so I can focus on trying to cut the thinnest and straightest pieces of foil I can manage. A few others join me, grabbing scissors, and some tearing when we run out. Others hang our handmade tinsel that is many shapes and sizes. It doesn’t drape like tinsel, and many strands are so thick they make the tree look like a science experiment rather than a Christmas tree, yet as more and more is added, I stop seeing it as leftovers my dad attempted to cover and get lost in the sounds of the carolers still nearby, now joined by the strums of a guitar and many more voices.

The tree shimmers with silver when we’ve finished adding the last of the foil. A man whistles, calling everyone’s attention over to the tree. The carolers pause, and others who have been watching with fascination and interest gather to form a wide circle. The man with the guitar begins playing the notes of “O Christmas Tree,” and the woman who had begun the carols leads the first notes of the song. The man who had whistled claps a hand to Carter’s shoulder and directs him to the tree, but Carter pauses. He stops where a little boy spins in circles. Carter says something to him that has the little boy’s face lighting up. Then he follows Carter to the back of the tree and picks up the cord of the light and plugs it in.

We’ve managed to create what is without a doubt the ugliest Christmas tree ever. It is the opposite effect of Charlie Brown; we took a pretty tree and decorated it with ridiculous adornments. But, as it shines—a strand of clear lights and one of color glittering off the foil—the crowd goes crazy with applause and cheers, and I can’t help but think it’s the best Christmas tree ever.

The group breaks apart after a few more songs, falling into smaller groups where people chat and laugh. I join a little girl who had been my tinsel runner and color a Christmas coloring book and listen to her as she tells me about her plans for Christmas, what she wants for Christmas, and how being stuck here has made this year the greatest Christmas ever.

“Here,” Carter says, dropping to a knee beside me, offering me a cup.

“What’s this?” I ask, feeling the cool condensation drip from my fingers upon contact.

“Eggnog.”

“You got me eggnog?” I eye the clear plastic cup, not able to look at Carter.

“Don’t tell me you hate eggnog now, too.”

My mind wars with my mouth. I need to regain some of the anger and resentment I’ve harbored for years, remember why this leads to one painful ending. My head is telling me to set the cup down. Ignore the fact that it’s nice and cold, making my fingers redden. Forget that I haven’t had a single cup of the calorie-packed goodness because I’ve been saving myself for the good stuff at home that is laced with bourbon and seasoned to perfection by Dad. Home. That’s right. I’m going home. I will have the opportunity to drink myself comatose on eggnog, eggnog that I am sure is better than whatever this store-bought imitation-riddled crap is.

The straw is between my lips though, and I’m taking a long pull of the drink because while my mind is smart, ready for battle and the many games that are played, my stomach is my Achilles’ heel, and dammit if Carter doesn’t know that.

I don’t know if it’s because I haven’t anything but restaurant food in the past forty-eight hours, or if Mrs. Claus is here in the New York airport with a herd of elves to make homemade eggnog, but it rivals my dad’s recipe. Though I’ll never admit that.

I moan. It isn’t exaggerated or top-ten most embarrassing moments worthy, but it is enough that my cheeks redden as Carter’s eyes look up from our coloring pages.

The urge to keep drinking is so strong my stomach growls in protest as I pull the cup away enough that I can ask if there’s any news about the storm.

“More restaurants are starting to close because they’re running out of food, but most of them are in the busier areas.”

“Are they saying anything about flights?”

Carter shakes his head. “Not yet.”

“I hope we get to stay another day,” the little girl remarks as she grabs a red crayon to color Santa.

“Come on. I found something you’ll like,” Carter says, extending his hand to me.

I look to the little girl, expecting to find an objection, but she’s smiling widely with acceptance. I don’t take Carter’s hand but climb up and allow him to lead me over to a small group of people whom I recognize from decorating the tree.

“Piper, this is Hannah, Joe, Lori, and Randall,” Carter says, pointing at each of them. “Guys, this is Piper.”

They smile warmly, and my lips follow suit and then turn even higher when Lori pulls a large rectangle from a gift-shop bag and unwraps the plastic to reveal a new box of dominos.

“Want to play?” she asks.

I can hear the smile in her voice, but I miss it because I’m looking at Carter, knowing full well this is another thing that he has done.

Done for me.

His lips curve upward into a gentle smile. His hazel eyes smile, too, but there’s hesitation there as well as he stares at me. I don’t know if he’s seeking forgiveness, friendship, acceptance, or approval. Perhaps a combination of all, or maybe it’s just asking to move forward.

I finish my eggnog before it’s able to reach room temperature with Carter’s knee brushing mine. Several hours pass as we play, exchanging stories and jokes. A unique and comforting comradery is built between our group. Soon it’s my thigh brushing Carter’s, my knee firmly against his leg.

“Look!” Joe cries, pointing behind me. We turn as he exclaims, “They’ve added flights!”

Sure enough, the screens are starting to register flight times by numerous destinations, and when my attention moves forward, headlights from plows out on the runway catch my eye.

“We’re going home for Christmas!” Hannah cries, hugging Joe. I knew they were a couple when I’d approached. I had seen them exchange gazes and touches that were intimate and practiced. Seeing them now makes my chest expand and burn with happiness and yearning as I move my attention back to the domino tiles.

“I’m going to see if we can get some flight information.” Carter leaves without inviting me, and Hannah and Randall begin flipping the tiles over and stacking them back into the box.

“Good news?” Lori asks when Carter returns.

“Eight thirty tomorrow morning,” he says. “I’ll be home by lunch.”

The others cheer, and I make it to my feet to go get my own flight information because I discovered yesterday that Carter and I weren’t scheduled to be on the same flight.

“I already texted Brad to let him know. He said they’ll be there to get us,” Carter says, stepping to my side.

“Us?” I ask.

Carter shrugs. “With all of the planes being canceled, they’re changing flights and just trying to get people to where they’re supposed to be.”

There have been numerous times I’ve wanted space from Carter since yesterday afternoon, and yet knowing he’s going to be with me feels like an early Christmas present.

“We should get some sleep. It’s already past two,” he adds.

I look back at the others and smile. It feels like we should hug, exchange phone numbers—something, yet I think we all know this was a shared experience we will all look back on fondly as a memory.

Lori hands me the bag of dominos and clasps the back of my hand when I take it. “Merry Christmas, Piper.”

Carter and I move back to our fort, a comfortable silence settling between us until we reach our destination. Then my heart begins beating to the rhythm of “Carol of the Bells.” The idea of lying beside Carter while cocooned in darkness and blankets sounds so romantic and perfect that I’m forming an objection. Then Carter grins at me. “It’ll be like camping when we were kids.”

Camping. Friendship.

Right.

He spent all of today doing kind and generous things for me, but it was to show me that we can be friends. We can do friendship. At least some form of it.

Right?

I crawl in after him, accidentally bumping my elbow against his chest as I try to right myself. He coughs once from the blow. Then he shifts, and without a single word and only the quietest of clicks, brightly colored bulbs illuminate the small fort with a rainbow of colors. I’m entranced with them, staring at each bulb and then the sight of them collectively. “Where did you get them?” My voice is a whisper, one that carries so much awe and appreciation I nearly feel self-conscious from it.

“This morning at that first gift shop. They had lights in all the windows, and I asked if we could have a strand. They aren’t the big ones your dad uses, but I thought it would help make the place look a little more like Christmas and a little less like a cardboard box on the street.”

Lord help me—I’m laughing, and I don’t hate it.