So, Joey doesn’t even recognize me.

I can’t figure out if that’s a good thing or not. I mean, I wasn’t the hottest girl in high school, but I wasn’t a complete train wreck either.

So either I’ve improved so much since then that he was like, “Damn, who’s this babe talking to me?” or I’ve deteriorated so much that he’s like, “Why’s this hag wasting my time?”

But here’s the kicker: I live in a small town, remember? It’s not like Joey and I have stayed besties or anything, but I just saw him a few months ago at his uncle’s retirement party.

And we talked.

Either he’s forgotten me since then or he didn’t remember who I was when we discussed the merits of bratwursts versus regular ballpark dogs.

You know what? I’m overthinking this. I’m going to just go forth as though I’m getting a glorious fresh start, a chance to put my best foot forward.

And lure him beneath the mistletoe.

“Oh right, Kelly. Hey,” he says, already looking bored with the conversation.

Hmm, this won’t do.

Maybe he’s more of a touch guy and needs a tangible reminder of, oh, say the time I let him get to second base after junior year homecoming.

“It’s sooooo good to see you,” I enthuse, going in for one of my trademark hugs.

And now you’re like, What the heck is a trademark hug?

Just take my word for it, I’m a really good hugger. Not one of those people who clings too long, but I give a good squeeze, and I’m not afraid to put my whole body into it.

I note Joey’s look of surprise as I wrap my arms around him. After a second—a long second—his arms wrap around me, but . . . well, let’s just say he doesn’t have a trademark hug, because I’m underwhelmed.

And when I pull back, I can tell that he is, too.

I catch sight of Mark over Joey’s shoulder, talking to a cute blonde. He catches my eye for the briefest of moments, lifts his eyebrows as though to say, How’s it going?, then turns his attention back to blondie.

Joey shuffles his feet awkwardly. Sensing he’s about to polite-excuse his way right out of this conversation, I turn a big smile on him.

“So, what have you been up to? How are your parents?”

True story: I adored Joey’s parents back in the day. Perhaps even more than Joey, if I’m being super-honest. His mom always had something delicious on the stove, and his dad was short, sarcastic, but really sweet.

“They’re good, really good. They’re, uh . . .” He runs a hand over the back of his neck. “Excited about their first grandbaby.”

“Oh, I didn’t know Sienna and George were expecting!” I say, referring to Joey’s older sister and her husband. I don’t know them well, but I see them at the restaurant on date nights quite a bit, and they always seem so happy. They’ll make fantastic parents.

Joey has a weird expression on his face. “No, ah . . . you remember Raina Joyner? A few years behind us in school? Like, six years? She went to Washington High?”

I blink. Ignoring, for a second, that if Raina is six years behind me in school, we didn’t attend high school at the same time, so um, no, doesn’t ring a bell.

Add in the fact that Joey and I went to Lincoln High, and that Washington High is thirty minutes away in another town . . .

“Hmm, I’m struggling to put a face with the name,” I say politely.

“Right. Anyway, she, uh . . . we, uh . . . we’re having a baby.”

It takes me an embarrassingly long time to understand what he’s so plainly telling me.

Joey Russo’s about to be a dad.

“I mean, my parents were kind of mad we weren’t married, but I’m getting to that. It’s why I’ve taken up a few extra shifts here at the tree farm . . .”

Oh, poor, poor Joey. He was always a sweet kid and a people-pleaser. It’s one of the reasons I broke up with him when we were seventeen. He always did whatever I wanted to do, and while it was kind of nice at first, it got old after a while.

And he’s doing it now, obviously sensing that I’m fishing for some sort of reunion and doing his best to tell me that he’s off the market.

I smile, and I’m about to give him an enthusiastic congratulations, all while mentally crossing him off my list.

Before I can speak, Mark appears at my side, dropping an arm over my shoulder. I’m instantly suspicious. Mark is 100 percent not a PDA type of guy, even in the casual friend kind of way. He endures my hugs, sometimes, but never in public. Every now and then he’ll let me link arms with him as a way to keep him nearby as I chat at him, but initiating . . .

Something’s up.

“Hey, Joe, how’s it going?” Mark asks, extending a hand to Joey, who tugs off his work glove.

The two men shake hands, and I don’t miss that Joey looks relieved to have a distraction from talking with me.

Note to self: don’t come on so strong.

“You get a tree?” Joey asks, his attention on Mark, who’s clearly a safer conversational target than his clingy ex.

“Just helping out Kelly here.”

“Ah. Need help loading it into your car?”

“Nope, all good.”

Joey looks disappointed to have his escape route thwarted.

“You sure you don’t want a tree for yourself?” he asks.

“Mark hates Christmas,” I inject, tired of being ignored.

Both men look at me. Mark frowns. “I do not.”

I look up at him. “Okay, you don’t hate it, but you don’t really get into it. You never get a tree, you won’t hang lights, you wouldn’t even let me put a wreath on your door last year.”

“Because it was white and had a pink bow.”

“It was flocked, and pink and white were very in that year.”

“I have the crew put a tree in the restaurant.”

“A fake one,” I argue. “It’s Christmas sacrilege.”

Joey is starting to back away slowly, but Mark pins him with a stare and makes his move.

He pulls something out of his pocket and dangles it in front of my forehead. “Hey, Joe, you guys sell this?”

“Ah, what’s that—mistletoe?”

I bite back a groan and Mark grins. “Yup.”

Joey shrugs, looking indifferent. “I think so. You ask the gift shop guys? I think it’s like three bucks, five if you want the one with the bow.”

Mark glances down at me and gives the mistletoe a wiggle. “What do you think, Kelly? Bow or no bow?”

He extends the mistletoe a bit farther, lifting it as high as he can so it’s more or less positioned between me and Joey.

I widen my eyes, trying to get him to do that silent best-friend-speak that we do. Sometimes.

“I already have mistletoe,” I say in a slightly menacing tone, reaching up and grabbing his wrist.

He’s stronger than me and holds firm, his arm barely moving even as I put my weight into it. “Oh, that’s right. Well, maybe I’ll get this one, then. Remind me how it works again . . . whoever’s on either side of the mistletoe, they make out, right?”

I give up on moving his arm and settle for wrapping an arm around his waist and using my thumb to try to dig for a vital organ.

He lowers the mistletoe and takes his wallet out of his back pocket, pulling out a few ones and handing them over to Joey. “I already paid for the tree, but this is for the mistletoe. Unless . . .”

Mark starts to lift his arm again, but I snatch his wrist. “Mark. Did you know Joey’s going to be a dad?”

Mark’s arm freezes, then he drops it back to his side. When I glance up at his profile, I’m pretty sure he’s trying to hold in a laugh. His shoulders shake, just a bit. Yep. Definitely.

He thinks this is funny.

My high school ex is slowly backing away. “I really should . . .”

He doesn’t even bother to finish his sentence before shoving the mistletoe money in his back pocket and heading over to a couple struggling to get a tree atop their Prius.

I shrug Mark’s arm off my shoulder and turn around to glare. “Happy now?”

He’s watching Joey’s retreating back with fake confusion. “Was he not the one?”

My eyes narrow. “Did you know?”

“Know what—that he hasn’t been pining over you all this time?”

“That he’s having a baby?”

“Nope. Sort of regretting I didn’t see your face when you found out, though. What are you thinking . . . stepmom?”

I jab a fist into his rib cage.

He grunts. “Why are you so violent these days?”

“Oh, I dunno.” I grab the mistletoe and hold it between us. “Really? Was this funny in your head?”

Mark looks at the mistletoe, then at me, raising his eyebrows in question.

I realize that the way I’ve dangled it, it seems as though I’m putting it between us, and hurriedly drop my arm. After the weirdness under the tree, the last thing I need to do is to let my brain even think about what it would be like to . . .

Yep, see, no. Not doing that.

“I felt bad about getting you all dirty when you were trying to woo your high school boy back. Thought I could help with the mistletoe, but since you won’t be needing it . . .” He holds out his hand for the bough of mistletoe. “Mine.”

“Seriously? We just established that you don’t like Christmas crap in your home.”

“Never said that. Just has to be the right crap.”

“You should have gotten the one with the bow,” I say, looking down. “Maybe I should get one. This is prettier than the one I bought at the grocery.”

“Yeah, that’s just what you need. A spare mistletoe,” he says, plucking the greenery out of my hand. “Come on, let’s get your dumb tree home.”

“Will you help me get it in the stand?” I ask, trotting after him toward his truck.

“Do you have a stand?” he asks, not turning around.

Whoops. Usually my Christmas tree enthusiasm goes into the one set up at my parents’ house, and I so don’t feel like trudging into their attic to find the ancient tree stand.

“Can we stop at Home Depot on the way back?” I ask.

Mark just shakes his head.

Despite his irritation with me, he goes around to the passenger side of the pickup and opens the door for me, even offering a hand to make it easier for me to hoist myself up into the high cab.

“Thanks.” My voice is just a tiny bit grumpy, because I’m cold and covered in mud, I’ve just realized I’ve lost a glove and don’t feel like searching for it, and my short list of exes just got even shorter.

He holds my hand a second longer than necessary, waiting for me to meet his eyes. “Even without the baby on the way, he was never going to be the one.”

“You don’t know that.”

Mark drops the mistletoe in my lap. “Don’t I?”

He slams the door before I can figure out what the heck that’s supposed to mean.