I spend Christmas in Palo Alto. With a newfound conviction to be present and invested in my life, I finally claim the family that has been waiting for me for years.

Phillip, Victoria, and Allison are as overjoyed as always to have me, only this time I embrace the gift. I participate wholeheartedly in every silly tradition they have, and enjoy myself more than I ever imagined I would.

There’s checkers and charades and peppermint hot chocolate on Christmas Eve, and on Christmas morning we stuff ourselves with peppermint pancakes and chocolate bacon (I had no idea that was a thing). After breakfast, we settle in the family room to open presents, which Victoria distributes one at a time based on the alphabetical order of our first names.

The traditions continue in the afternoon with a completely insane amount of home-cooked food. Catatonic and happy, we spend the evening watching Christmas movie classics and sipping peppermint eggnog.

By the time my mom drives me to the airport the following day, I have plans for dinner with Allison when she gets back to Seattle, gifts crammed into every corner of my carry-on, and a vehement desire to never eat or drink anything flavored with peppermint again.

After securing a promise to visit in a few months, my mom shoos me off with tears in her eyes.

I smile the whole flight home.

Not until I let myself into my dark house does loneliness return. And oh, it returns with a vengeance. In lieu of impulsively adopting a pet, I counter the emptiness around me with the only outlet I have

I write. Page after page in journals and on my laptop. I have no idea what I’m writing about, or whether it will eventually take the shape of a novel. But I’m writing and that’s enough.

It has to be enough.

* * *

New Year’s Eve, Claire and Griffen pick me up at eight and we head downtown for dinner and drinks at our favorite Italian restaurant. Along with the multitude of happy couples around us and our empty fourth chair, we ignore the elephant in the room: they’re leaving at the end of the week for Houston.

After delicious chicken cacciatore—and three stiff drinks—it’s easier to forget that my best friends are moving away. Griffen is especially helpful in that department, as he’s the most jolly drunk I’ve ever had the pleasure of drinking with. His accent also thickens, which amuses the sober Claire to no ends.

It’s close to eleven by the time she manages to corral us into the car. Somehow, Griffen and I end up in the backseat together. As Claire drives us through the glittering night, he belts out his favorite country song, only he’s drunk enough that he forgets most of the words.

Laughing so hard I’m crying, I don’t notice where we’re going until Claire parks in a tiny slot in a narrow alley.

“That sign says Reserved, Claire-bear,” I say, leaning between the front seats.

She grins at me. “Tonight it’s reserved for us.”

Squinting, I can just make out the faded business name on the sign drilled into the brick wall. My eyes widen with recognition, then veer to her happy face.

“Oh my gosh, this is so perfect,” I squeal. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of it.”

White Harp Pub.

She laughs. “Our last hurrah in our school-days bar. I couldn’t resist.”

“White Harp?” Griffen hoots, finally catching up. “Aww, hunnybear, this is the best surprise ever.”

“Hunnybear?” I hiss out of the corner of my mouth.

Claire just laughs and turns off the car. “We have VIP privileges tonight, kids. Clock’s ticking—let’s go!”

We grab our coats and emerge into the cold, crisp air. As Griffen swings Claire around and covers her face in sloppy kisses, I bang on the steel door with faded scrollwork and lettering. Moments later, it opens on the smiling face of the bar’s longterm manager, Henry Leary.

He beams at us, arms spread wide. “My favorite customers! Right on time. Forty-five minutes till the new year!”

I give Henry’s rotund middle a squeeze, then hustle past him into the warmth of the pub’s back hallway. Music and voices flow over me along with a colorful cascade of memories.

Once Griffen and Claire wrap up their love-fest, Henry leads us to a roped-off booth with a Reserved card on it. It’s the only vacant spot in the place. Removing the velvet rope with flourish, he gestures us forward. I can’t stop grinning as he takes our drink order and heads to the bar.

Around the crowded space I spy many familiar faces, former students and faculty alike, and just as many unfamiliar ones. Pride and nostalgia mingle as the three of us end our long tenure and celebrate the newer generation of students staking their claim to the venerated pub.

Visitors to our table come and go over the next half-hour. In the interims, we trade our best memories of White Harp—and a few we’d rather forget.

“Remember that freshman you TA’d a class for?” Claire asks me, her eyes bright with mirth. I groan, knowing exactly who she’s referring to.

“Mark? Mike?” I ask, wincing.

“We’ll go with Mike.” Struggling to contain laughter, she turns to Griffen. “He’d been crushing hard on her all quarter, leaving anonymous notes and flowers on her desk—the whole nine yards. The weekend after finals, Iris and I were here having a few drinks, decompressing and whatnot, when Mike showed up with some friends. He stared at Iris for a freaking hour before approaching her. I remember the look on her face so well—resignation and sympathy. She was going to let him down easy, but the poor kid didn’t get one word out.”

Griffen laughs. “What, he ran away?”

“Oh, no,” says Claire, giggling wildly. “He opened his mouth and puked all over her.”

Griffen chokes on his beer, spits a mouthful back into the glass, then laughs so hard his face turns red. Claire pats him on the back, laughing along with him.

I roll my eyes. “He ruined my favorite shirt.”

From the bar comes Henry’s megaphone-enhanced voice, “Five minutes, people!”

Claire squeals and straps a sparkly party hat on Griffen’s head, then pulls on one of her own. When she reaches for me with another, I jump out of the booth.

“I’m going for a refill.”

Griffen points behind me. “It’s insanity right now! You’ll be crushed!”

I glance at the sea of people between me and the bar, then shrug. “I’m wily. Plus, we’re VIP, right? See you guys in a few.”

I wave and turn away before I can see the compassion and gratitude in Claire’s eyes. She knows the twofold reason I’m escaping. This was where their romance began, and I want to give them the magic of a private New Year’s kiss. And I also don’t want to be the awkward third party with no date.

So depressing.

I don’t bother trying to reach the bar. Griff was right—there’s no way I’m getting through without bruises. Skirting along the edge of the crowd, I head for the front. It takes some time and when I finally get there, the countdown is starting.

“10… 9… 8…”

I duck past a screaming celebrant and out the front door into relative peace and quiet. The sidewalks are virtually empty; a few stragglers hurry to stomp out cigarettes and join indoor celebrations. Further down the street, light and voices spill into the night from other bars.

I lean against the damp wall between White Harp and the dark bakery next door. Eyes closed, I smile as I listen to the distorted din of hundreds of voices counting.

“3… 2… 1!”

In the following roar, I don’t notice the sound of a car door slamming and running footsteps. When hands grab my shoulders, I gasp, my eyes snapping open. But my momentary panic is decimated by a sucker punch of emotion to my heart.

“I knew I’d find you, little muse.”

And then his mouth is on mine, hard and hot and urgent. Familiar and not. I melt against him, opening for his tongue.

He tastes the same.

My James.

With a guttural groan, he lifts me and backs me into the wall. My legs instinctively circle his hips. We feed on each other, artless and animalistic, insatiable after such a long drought.

I wonder if I’m dreaming.

He grinds into me, hard and thick against the seam of my jeans. “Does this feel like a dream?”

“Yes,” I gasp.

He nips my lower lip and draws back. Drugged by arousal, I slowly open my eyes. He’s still there. Still holding me, his strong fingers under my thighs.

“James?” I ask, my voice small and hopeful.

He shakes his head. “No. Don’t, please. Just… can we forget it all tonight? I need to be inside you.” He rocks against me and I whimper. “That’s all I want. Please.”

I nod.

Knowing I’ll regret it tomorrow, I still nod.

Because as much as he needs me, I need him more. And right now, I’ll gladly take scraps from his table.