I lean back in my chair at the bar, laugh, and suck back another sip from my ice-cold beer.

They say you should never return to the scene of the crime. They say when you’re in deep shit, you run away. They say when you’ve made a mistake, the best thing is to put as many miles between it and you as possible.

Alright, maybe I’m one for hyperbole. They do say you don’t return to the scene of the crime, though, but that’s exactly what Cassie and I have done.

“Okay, okay,” Cynthia says, putting her martini down on her napkin at the bar and clasping her hands together. Cassie’s sitting between me and her, and the three of us are huddled around the bar like a few old friends catching up at the after party of our high school reunion. “Santa Claus. You’ve got to get on the same page about Santa before you tie the knot.”

“I don’t know,” I say, taking another sip of my beer. Cassie turns to me and flashes me a skeptical smile. “I’m pretty agnostic when it comes to the big man upstairs.”

“Hey!” Cassie swats my chest, sending a jolt of excitement through me.

I haven’t had this much fun in...well, in years. Since I hung out with her and Mark on a regular basis.

“I’m not asking if you believe in Santa,” Cynthia laughs, “I’m asking how soon you two are gonna tell your kids the guy in the suit is a myth.”

“I guess I never really thought about it,” I say, running a hand up and down Cassie’s shoulder. “I think I’d want to tell my kid when I felt like they were old enough to figure it out on their own.”

“How do you think kids figure that out, though?” Cassie says, slipping her fingers through mine, resting them on her shoulder. “I think kids usually figure it out once their friends start talking about it. I just don’t know if I want my kids’ beliefs to be dictated by what they hear on the playground.”

“They’ve gotta learn the truth about the world some time,” I reply. Cassie’s smile is so fucking gorgeous. I’ve never had a girl like her on my arm before. And it feels really, really good.

“I want to protect my kids from the truth of the world,” she replies, giving me a soft smile. “I think a parent’s duty is to shield their kid as much as possible. The big world out there can be scary. No need to speed up the process of them learning about it.”

“I can see that,” I say, “but you don’t want them to be in for a rude fucking awakening when they finally do learn the truth.”

“I don’t know,” Cassie sighs, “it is just Santa, after all.”

“I think the Santa test is a good barometer for compatibility,” Cynthia says, scribbling something in her notebook. “So we know how you guys met. We know that you don’t like the same pizza toppings. That’s mildly concerning, but not as bad as the Santa thing, but I think if you guys compromise on it, you’ll be able to work it out. Okay, so now tell me about your engagement.”

“Our engagement,” Cassie says, looking back at me. “Oh, it was so romantic.”

She’s fishing right now. Fishing for the right thing to say. Even worse, she’s fishing for me to jump in and save her ass.

She looks up at me, smiling through gritted teeth.

I love watching her sweat like this.

“Honey, why don’t you tell it?” I say, moving my hand down her arm and to her back. I caress the curve of her hip and she smirks up at me, shaking her head. “I love when you tell the story. You’re a better storyteller than I am.”

“But sweetie,” she replies, “it was all your doing. You tell it. Come on.”

“Okay,” I break away from her and take a swig of my beer. “Fine.”

“Ohhh, how did you do it, Jason?” Cynthia says, leaning forward on her elbows.

“Okay,” I say, sitting back in my seat, “so Cassie and I used to have this little tradition where we would slip birthday cards into each other’s mailboxes. It was silly shit, and we’ve done it since we were kids. And then it started escalating. So like, one year she gave me this engraved chrome lighter for my birthday, with my initials on it. She didn’t want me smoking, but she knew I liked to fuck around with my lighter when I was nervous, so she got me one that was all mine, personalized and everything. And then one year I knew she was really into sailboats so I got her this really cool print from this local artist.”

“Right,” Cassie interjects, leaning her shoulder against me slightly, getting into the groove of the tale I’m spinning, “and it was the nicest thing. And it all lead up to an engagement ring in my mailbox. Oh! One time he put a card with a picture of a birthday cake on it in there. And it said ‘eat me.’”

“See, I was mad at her,” I say, raising my hand to her hip. “What was I mad about? I don’t even remember now.”

“I think you were annoyed because I was going to the prom with someone I didn’t really care about,” she smirks at me, shaking her head.

“Ohh, yes,” I say. “How could I have forgotten? But see, here’s the thing. Yeah, I was pissed off at her. But it didn’t change my feelings for her.”

“So you guys have both dated other people,” Cynthia says, taking a sip her of drink. She peers at us over the edge of her glass, her eyes flashing between us inquisitively. This is the shit she’s here for. Juicy shit, like she mentioned last night. And this is why I was against me and Cassie giving this interview in the first place.

“Yes,” Cassie replies cautiously, “we have. But that was a long time ago, right hon?”

Cassie smiles up at me sweetly, then quickly puts her arm around my shoulder.

“Right sweetie,” I say, “and anyway, that was tradition, right? Prom queen and king going together?”

Cassie’s eyes narrow slightly and a pallid langour washes over her face, her perfect lips turning down slightly at the corners.

“You remember that?” she says smally.

“Of course I remember,” I say, kissing the side of her head.

“And now look at you two,” Cynthia says, closing her notebook. “I think I’ve got enough for tonight.”

Cynthia drains the last of her drink and goes into her purse as she puts her glass down. Cassie shifts away from me softly, but she keeps her arm around my shoulder.

“Oh, allow me,” I say, waving at her, “I’ve got this one.”

“Thanks for that,” she says, winking at me. “Well, Cassie, thank you again for giving me this interview. It was really nice to see you today, and I’m sure we’ll be seeing more of each other.”

Cynthia’s eyes shift back to mine softly, as though she’s trying to tell me something through damn telepathy. She’s a bit odd, though I have had my share of journalists and girls on the road who’ve obtained press passes through some bullshit justifications to get close to me, and even more, to the bands I’ve worked with. But there’s a dark expression deep inside her eyes, as though she can see through me somehow. As though there’s part of her that knows this whole arrangement between Cassie and me is fucking bullshit, but she’s happy to be a party to it if it means adding a nice exclusive story to her resume.

“No Cynthia,” Cassie says, extending her hand, “thank you for covering us for your paper. I know you’re just doing your job. Thank you for the opportunity to tell our side of the story.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” Cynthia says, waving to us as she makes her exit.

Cassie watches as Cynthia leaves, and when the coast is clear, she exhales audibly as her feet find their way onto the dark wooden floor below us.

“Jeeze,” she hisses, looking over my shoulder. Her eyes find mine and her scowl cracks, revealing her beauty-queen-certified smile. “What?”

“I didn’t say anything,” I reply, tossing a few bills onto the bar. “I said nothing at all.”

“Yeah,” she replies, “but you’re thinking something. I know you’re thinking something.”

“I should hope so,” I laugh, “or would you prefer some vapid pretty-boy without a thought in his head and just a perfect body and a big fucking…”

“Jason, stop!” Cassie laughs, throwing her arms around my shoulders, surprising me. If her way of shutting me up is throwing her soft, perfect body against me, I’ll never say a fucking word again.

I wrap her up in my arms, making her small next to me. And she looks up at me with those fucking perfect, beautiful eyes.

“Cassie,” I say, “you are the absolute picture of grace under pressure, class and beauty.”

“If you knew what was going through my head right now you wouldn’t be saying that,” she replies, running her fingers up and down my back.

“Why?” I ask, “is it because you have some choice words for Cynthia or because you’re thinking about what I’d be like if I were nothing but a pretty boy with a big dick?”

Her hands get rougher against my back as I lean down her take her lips with mine, just as she’s about to answer.

Because the truth is that I already know what she wants to say.