The next morning, I do what any good daughter would do and dutifully “like” each and every photo my mom posted on Facebook. Of their hotel room. At the Seattle airport.

All twenty-one of them.

Even the one of the bathroom soap that apparently “smells divine.”

Then I text both parents telling them I love them, to have a great time, and to post more pictures!

Considering their cruise leaves this morning, I think it’s safe to say that the photos will improve from here on out . . . I hope. But if all I get is toiletry photos, I won’t mind as long as they’ve having a good time.

Daughter duty fulfilled, I turn my attention to the rest of my Facebook feed, smiling at all of the babies-with-Santa photos. I’m definitely at that age when more and more of my friends are having kids. Most of my high school girls still live here in Haven, so I’ll get to coo over their babies in person. But I went to college in Boston, and my sorority sisters are scattered all over the country. Social media’s a must for staying in touch with that set of friends.

I’m about to shut my laptop when my eye catches on a picture that makes me do a triple take to make sure I’m seeing it right. Eventually I realize that what I thought I saw is in fact what I’m seeing.

“That bitch,” I seethe, blood pressure skyrocketing.

It’s not a word I use lightly, as I’m all for girls supporting other girls, but there are some occasions that call for it, and this is one of them.

This time I do shut my laptop—nay, slam it—and I’m out the door and charging across my backyard, Rigby barking happily at my feet.

Whoops. I realize when I’m halfway across the lawn that it snowed a little bit last night, and I’m still in my PJs and red fuzzy slippers. I yelp-hop the rest of the way, Rigby really getting into it, thinking we’re playing.

I give a quick knock at Mark’s back door, then charge right in because I need my wet slippers off, stat.

Rigby dashes into the kitchen ahead of me, his cute little feet leaving snowy paw prints in his wake. I start to charge after the dog in my bare feet, then skid to a halt when I see my best friend sitting at his kitchen table staring at me with a bemused expression.

“Oh. Hey.” I give him an awkward nod.

He glances down at my bare feet, which are practically turning blue. “Really?”

“I was in a hurry. Can I borrow some socks?”

I dash up the stairs to his bedroom before giving him a chance to respond. Huh. Mark makes his bed on Sunday mornings.

Interesting.

I’ve been in his bedroom before, but mostly just after he bought the house and I was snooping. I’ve never had much reason since.

It’s very . . . guy-ish. There’s an old-looking dresser, a big bed with a navy duvet cover. Two functional pillows, and not a throw pillow in sight. A shame. A few teal polka dots would be just the thing to brighten the room.

I open the upper right drawer. Whoops. Boxers, nope. I shut that and go with the top left drawer. Socks. Bingo.

I grab a fuzzy-looking green pair, then blink in surprise when I see what’s nestled at the bottom of the drawer. Well, not so much nestled as covered in socks, but still, it’s there.

My Magic 8 ball.

I carefully lift it and give it a shake, smiling when I see it still works.

Technically, it’s not my Magic 8 ball. As established, I already have two of my own, one for work, one for home. Three, if you count the one on my key chain. Don’t laugh. The Magic 8 ball has helped me through some major life dilemmas. College decisions, what to wear, breakups . . .

Anyway, this one was a gift, and I thought he’d sent it to Goodwill a long time ago.

“Does Mark ever use you?” I ask the ball before giving it another shake.

Very doubtful.

Huh. Yeah, can’t say I didn’t see that coming.

I put it away and hop into the socks before heading back downstairs.

Mark’s put a towel on the floor beside his chair, and Rigby’s curled up, chewing his favorite penguin toy, which resides at Mark’s house.

It’s a cozy picture, and one I’d like to think I fit into. I pour myself a cup of coffee from his pot, top off his mug, then sit across the table from him.

“When’d you get the glasses?” I ask, cupping my mug and studying him over the steam.

He gives me a look over the top rim of them. “Few months ago. They’re reading glasses. Doing the books gave me a headache.”

“I like them.”

“I’m so glad,” he says, leaning back in the chair as he tugs the glasses off and sets them on top of his notebook. “Since I was just wearing them for fun, and not at all because I was trying to place orders for next week.”

I wince. “Sorry. I forget that just because you don’t work the brunch shift doesn’t mean you get to take Sunday off.”

He narrows his eyes slightly. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I say, remembering the reason I dashed over here, and stalling for time.

He looks down at his mug, picks it up, and waits.

I hesitate for only a second, instinct telling me that he probably doesn’t want to hear about my disastrous kiss with Jack, but I need to talk about it. And yeah, it’s a better topic to save for my girlfriends, but they don’t live next door, so . . .

“So, my mistletoe test with Jack.”

He closes his eyes. “Nope.”

“It was . . . well, it was conclusive, but not in the good way.”

He sighs in resignation and opens his eyes. “Meaning?”

There’s a plate of half-eaten toast on the table, and I pull it toward me, helping myself to a corner of buttered sourdough. “Eh. Well, we kissed . . . and . . .” I take a bite of the bread. “What are those little chickens you serve at the restaurant sometimes? But they’re not called chickens.”

“Cornish game hens?”

“Right. Those.” I point the toast at him. “Anyway, the second Jack put his hands on my waist, all I could think was that his hands felt like Cornish game hens. Like ham hands, except . . . little chicken hands.”

“You’ve decided he wasn’t the one because his hands are like Cornish game hens.”

“Yup.”

For a second Mark only stares at me. Then he rubs his temples. “How is it we’ve been friends for a decade, and you can still surprise me?”

“Best friends,” I specify.

He merely shakes his head.

I drop the toast back on the plate, because I’ve suddenly lost my appetite as I remember why I came over in the first place. “I need to talk to you about something. Your love life. Not mine.”

“What about it?”

I swallow. “Well, you know how you refuse to get on Facebook, because you think it’s poser nonsense?”

“Not my precise words, but yeah.”

“Well, I’m still on Facebook, and I’m friends with Sheila because, well, I wanted her to like me, and . . . Sheila’s hooking up with her old boyfriend,” I say in a rush. “In Atlanta.”

I blow out a breath and wait to see on a scale of 1 to 10 how crushed he looks and how quickly I need to force him into a hug.

His only response is a slight smile. “Why are all the women in my life hooking up with exes?”

I open my mouth, then shut it. “That’s a remarkably calm response. Did you miss the unspoken part where she’s cheating on you?”

Mark picks up his glasses and puts them back on, attention already going back to his computer. “Sheila and I broke up.”

I gasp. “You did not. When?”

He doesn’t reply, and I reach across the table to shut the laptop. “When?”

“Friday afternoon.”

“But I saw you guys on Friday afternoon . . . I walked in on you guys . . .”

“Saying goodbye.”

“You were not. You were kissing.”

“A goodbye kiss.”

“No, it was not. . . . Was it?”

He lifts his eyebrows. “Not as perceptive as you think, huh?”

“I am too perceptive. I know when each and every one of my students is lying to me.”

“Fine, I stand corrected. You’re excellent at reading eight-year-olds. Not so good with anyone over the age of twenty.”

I purse my lips. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why’d you break up?”

He runs a hand through his rumpled hair. “If I tell you it’s because she’s a Capricorn and I’m a Virgo, will you drop it?”

“No. One, because you don’t even believe in that stuff, and second, because Sheila’s a Scorpio.”

There’s a long moment of quiet, interrupted only by the squeak of Rigby’s toy.

“It just wasn’t working out. We don’t have to make a big deal about it.”

“But you broke up during Christmas.” Understanding dawns. “Oh man. That’s why you’ve been so pissy?”

He rolls his eyes. “Will you please leave me to do my work?”

“Depends.”

“On?”

I pick up the piece of toast again. “Can I use your truck this afternoon?”

“No.” He doesn’t even bother to look up.

“Why, are you using it?”

“No, but last time you used it, you scraped half the paint off.”

“An exaggeration. And Mrs. Cleary even said that wasn’t my fault, and she paid for all of it.”

“What do you need it for?”

“I don’t have a Christmas tree yet.”

He groans. “So, you want to not only borrow my truck, but fill it with pine needles.”

“It’s a truck. It’s supposed to have a messy destiny.”

“Uh-huh. And let me guess. You weren’t planning to go to one of the dozen tree stands around town, were you? You were going to go cut your own down.”

“Of course.” I sip my coffee. I’m trying to learn to drink it black to cut calories, and it’s awful.

“And how exactly were you going to chop down the tree and get it into the truck by yourself?”

I grin. “I wasn’t.”

Mark sighs. “I’m going with you, aren’t I?”

“Yup.”

“And that was your plan all along, wasn’t it?”

“Definitely.”

He sighs. “Fine. Let me finish my work.”

“No problem,” I say, sitting back and propping my sock-covered feet on one of the other chairs.

When I quietly sing “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,” I sing all the lines rather than just the first line over and over, so as not to drive him nuts . . . and wonder whether or not I should mention that I’d heard through the grapevine that my high school boyfriend works at Holly Tree Farm.