“I miss you too, Mom, but I’m fine, I promise. Better than fine—I’m having the best Christmas break.”

I deliberately do not mention my current scene is borderline depressing. I mean, yeah, I’ve lit my gingerbread candle and made myself a peppermint martini, and I’ve got Christmas with the Rat Pack playing in the background.

But . . .

The tree is also dark and lonely in the corner, and . . . heck, I’m lonely.

As mentioned, usually I put all of my Christmas tree energy into my family tree. My parents pick it up sometime during the week while I’m in the city, and then I go to their place the last Friday before Christmas and we decorate it together.

I thought if I duplicated my mom’s playlist and her trademark martini, and if I got a perfect enough tree, I could sort of recreate the whole thing, but I’m realizing belatedly that what makes the decorating of the Christmas tree magical is my parents and tradition, not the tree itself.

I give myself a quick little shake to reframe my thinking. Yes, I’m by myself, but there are perks to that! For starters, I started a new tradition: cutting down my own tree.

Sort of.

Also, my mom, bless her, is adamant about putting multicolored lights on her Christmas tree, and I’m sort of all about the white lights. So, guess what I got at Walmart? About a billion boxes of white lights.

I also got all new ornaments—I decided to go with a white and aqua theme, and found this huge package of assorted white and teal ornaments online for only twenty bucks.

A little generic? Sure. But it’ll look like a Tiffany & Company box, and it’ll save me from the extra punch of sad I’d get if I had to pull out the family ornaments with no family.

“Honey, hold on. Your father wants to say hi,” Mom says.

There’s a rustling noise as they do the handoff.

“Hey, Kelly.”

“Hey, Dad,” I say, taking a sip of my drink, then setting it aside so I can pull out the first box of lights.

“Will you please tell me that you’re having the time of your life so that your mother will stop fretting?”

“Time of my life,” I state automatically. “Really. Are you guys having fun?”

“Time of my life,” he says.

I smile, because though his tone is joking, I can tell by the relaxed sound of his voice that he really is enjoying it. My mom, too, as evident by the fact that she spent most of our conversation torn between wanting to tell me about the baby whales they’d spotted and fretting over my “aloneness.”

“You know, I just talked to Darlene, and—”

“Dad. I love you, I love Aunt Darlene, but I don’t love Christmas in Milwaukee. Christmas is just a day. We’ll celebrate when you get back.”

“I know we will. And we found you the best present at the Seattle airport.”

I wince. Airport gifts. Yay.

“Sounds amazing. Now, how about you guys go do that champagne-tasting thing Mom was talking about, and I’ll go decorate my new tree.”

“Is it big?”

“Yup.”

“Crooked?”

“Always.”

“Sounds perfect. Mark help you?”

It’s technically a question, but my dad says it more like a statement, as though it’s a foregone conclusion that my best friend would be willing to help me lug home a Christmas tree. Which I guess it sort of is.

“He did. He even helped me get it into the stand.”

He hadn’t, however, taken me up on my offer to stay and decorate, but . . . eh. I wasn’t really expecting it. Mark’s a guy’s guy. He has his limits.

I thought about calling one of my girlfriends, but my best girl (Ivy) is a mom of two and has her own Christmas thing going on. Plus she and I are grabbing coffee tomorrow.

My other Haven bestie (after Ivy and Mark) is Krista, but she’s cozied up in a Vermont cabin with her new boyfriend.

I have plenty of other friends in Haven, but they’re more the “Hey, let’s grab a beer on a Saturday” type of friends, not the “Come decorate my Christmas tree, and don’t judge if I get teary during the song ‘The Christmas Shoes’” kind.

My dad hands the phone back to my mom, who insists I take video of myself decorating the tree. I compromise by agreeing to send photos of each stage of the process so she can see, then send them on their way to their champagne tasting.

Then it’s just me, Dean Martin’s voice, and a whole lot of boxes of lights.

Taking a deep breath, I force myself to sing along with “Silver Bells” as I tug out the first strand of lights and begin the tedious process of unwinding the coil.

I’ve just plugged the first strand into the wall and have started winding it haphazardly among the bottom branches when there’s a thump at the back door.

Probably Rigby. I’ve been trying not to let my feelings get hurt by the fact that Rigby followed Mark home after the tree setup. Mark said the dog was neurotic and just needed some time to get used to the newness of the tree. A kind way of letting me deny that my dog is perhaps starting to prefer Mark to me.

It is Rigby at the back door, but the cocker spaniel’s not alone.

Mark’s changed into clean jeans and a black sweater, his dark hair not all the way dry after his post-tree-farm shower.

He’s also got a bag of groceries in one hand and wine in the other, which I know from experience means really good things for my belly.

“Sorry to distract you from the tree project. My hands were full,” he says by way of greeting as he pushes past me and heads for my kitchen.

“You’re here to help me decorate?” I say, not bothering to keep the surprised pleasure out of my voice.

“I’m here to test a new pasta recipe on you while you decorate the tree.”

He’s started to unload the groceries, but he has to stop when I hurl myself at him, my arms pinning his to his sides. I squeeze as hard as I can.

“Thank you,” I say, pressing my cheek to his shoulder.

I expect him to peel me off him or to make some joking comment, but after a moment of hesitation, he surprises me by lifting a hand and resting his palm against my arm. It’s then that I know—he’s here not to test a recipe, not to decorate the tree, but because he knew I was feeling the absence of my family and wanted to be here for me.

I hold on for just a touch too long, frowning a little when I realize I’m not ready to break the contact. I must be more melancholy than I thought.

There’s a rustling of bags from the adjoining living room, and I slowly back up to go save the tree skirt I bought at Target from my dog’s destructive prowess.

Sure enough, Rigby’s pulled the white satin tree skirt from the bag and is just settling into tearing out the faux fur trim.

“Sorry, baby, not that one,” I say, leaning down to rub the dog’s ears as I rescue the tree skirt.

I rummage around until I come up with the reindeer dog toy I bought him for exactly this reason, squeaking it repeatedly to get him excited before tossing it down the hall into the foyer.

“Where’s his snowman costume?” I call to Mark.

“Burned it.”

“I hope you didn’t put it the washing machine—it’s hand wash only,” I say, picking up my peppermint martini and heading back into the kitchen.

“Yeah, Kelly. I hand washed a dog sweater. Sounds just like me.”

He rips open a package of chicken breasts and jerks his chin toward the wine. “Pour me a glass of that, would you?”

I lift the cocktail glass. “You don’t want a peppermint martini?”

“I do not.”

“You didn’t even try it.”

“I tried it last year. I’m still recovering.”

“I improved the recipe,” I lie. The “recipe” is simply peppermint schnapps, vanilla vodka, and the tiniest dash of cream, garnished with a candy cane. Pretty much my foodie best friend’s nightmare.

He sighs and nods me over with his chin.

Since his hands are messy with raw chicken goop, I lift the glass, and he takes a sip. And winces.

“Yeah, okay,” I relent. “I’ll open the wine.”

I pull out a corkscrew and wineglass as he helps himself to my cutting boards and cooking utensils, most of which are castoffs of his. I’m more of a microwave-dinner kind of gal.

“How are the parents?”

“Good. Happy,” I say.

“Missing their precious daughter?”

“Obviously,” I say, fluttering my eyelashes as I hand him the wineglass. “What are we making here?”

“Not quite sure,” he says, surveying his ingredients before turning to the sink to wash his hands. “I’m thinking of something with a little Cajun spice, a little richness, but some fresh flavors to keep it light.”

“If you say so,” I say, poking around at the parsley, carrots, and package of pasta, looking for something to snack on while he waits for inspiration.

Drying his hands, he sees me rummaging and reaches into the bag, coming out with a box of fancy crackers and the spreadable cheese he knows I have a serious weakness for.

I make grabby hands for them, and though I want nothing more than to dive in, being best friends with a restaurateur has taught me that presentation is at least half the job of cooking.

I get out one of my serving plates and arrange the whole thing to look mostly pretty, borrowing a sprig of Mark’s rosemary to give it a more festive, fancy feel. I take a sip of Mark’s wine. Deciding that goes better with the cheese and crackers than the peppermint martini, I take another sip.

“Don’t you have a tree to decorate?” he asks, pouring me a glass of my own.

“Yes, but I’m fueling first.” I spread a generous glob of cheese on a cracker.

“You’re not going to ruin all of my hard work today by decorating it pink, are you?”

“Teal. And it was our hard work. I cut down at least half that tree. And crossed another guy off the list.”

My voice is a little glum, and he glances at me. “Sulking?”

I take a bite of cracker. “Nah. It was more embarrassing than anything. Did I tell you he didn’t even recognize me? I know it was a high school relationship, but come on. He touched my boobs.”

Mark gives a slight smile. “Your boobs are memorable?”

“I thought so,” I say with a touch of grumpiness.

I’m about to put another cracker in my mouth when I catch Mark’s gaze lingering on said boobs.

I blink a little in surprise, and I almost joke about it, except I don’t, because . . . I don’t know why.

The thought of him looking at my female parts makes me . . . tingly. And not at all platonically.

Danger.

A second later his attention’s back on breasts of the chicken variety, and I wonder if maybe I imagined the heat in his gaze.

“Don’t get full,” he says without looking at me.

“Yes, Mom,” I say, rolling my eyes and pushing the cheese away.

I pick up my wine and nod toward the living room, where Rigby’s going to town on the squeaker of his new toy. “You need any help in here, or can I go fuss with my tree?”

He waves me away, picking up a bushel of something bright green and sniffing it.

Knowing from experience that he’s in the zone, I wander back into the living room, turning up the music as I do so we can both hear it.

I go back to the neglected strand of twinkle lights and finish wrapping it around the tree. Then I add another, and another.

I’m about halfway done with the lights when I realize that I’m smiling, and, well . . . happy.

I’m still decorating the tree by myself, true, but I’m no longer lonely. Rigby’s squeaky toy mingles with the sounds of Mark’s kitchen noises (and the occasional curse), all blending wonderfully with Sammy Davis Jr.’s festive voice.

That album runs its course, and I change it to another, one of those Christmas compilations that have a bunch of modern vocalists putting fun twists on old favorites.

I’m just climbing to the top of the ladder, putting on the last string of lights, when Mark comes in with two bowls and the wine bottle.

“You know, right, that those are going to be a bitch to remove. You’ve got all the cords tangled.”

“He who does not deck the halls does not get a say,” I reply, purposely twining some of the cords excessively.

“Ah, I see. So does it also go that she who does not cook does not eat?”

“Nope, does not go that way,” I say, climbing rapidly back down the ladder. I free the wine bottle from his arm and top off my glass before going back into the kitchen to fetch his, along with napkins, since he never remembers those.

When I come back, both bowls are on the coffee table, and Mark’s sitting on the couch, Rigby by his side, looking at the tree. “There are more lights than pine needles on that thing,” he says.

“Exactly as it should be,” I say, plopping down beside him and picking up the bowl. “This smells amazing.”

“Tastes amazing, too,” he says with zero modesty. “I’m thinking of putting it on the specials menu next week. Calling it Christmas by the Bayou, since it’s got kind of a Creole thing going on.”

“Ohmygah,” I say around a huge mouthful. “So good.”

“Told you.”

He picks up his own bowl and winds some of the pasta around his fork, taking a bite nearly as big as mine.

Rigby huffs in frustration at the lack of sharing, but neither of us pays him any attention as we stuff mouthfuls of pasta in our months. In the way of people who have been friends for a long-ass time (and who skipped lunch), we don’t talk until the bowls are empty.

I rub my stomach as I slump back on the couch, wineglass in hand. “And I wonder why I’m pudgy. Being friends with you is not exactly a recipe for a size four.”

He glances over at me, his expression moody. “How many times do I have to tell you—”

“No body talk, I know,” I say quickly. “Sorry.”

He looks back at the tree, sips his own wine. “It’s not about being a size four. It’s not about being a size anything.”

I look over, surprised. For as long as I’ve known him, Mark’s always refused to indulge any body image woes on my part. Sometimes I’ll get the “You’re not fat, and we’re not talking about it” line, but mostly he just glowers.

This is new.

“What’s it about?” I ask curiously. I genuinely want to know, since Mark’s not exactly a guy who has a type. He’s dated blondes, brunettes, redheads. Short, tall, skinny, curvy. Of all the guys I know, he seems to truly be more interested in a girl’s personality than her looks, and yet he’s also a guy. He’s got to have something that turns him on.

Instead of answering my question, he gestures toward the ornaments still in their packaging on the ground. “Shouldn’t you start with those?”

Got it. Conversation over.

“Yeah, probably,” I say with a sigh, rolling into a standing position. Despite the big, carb-heavy meal, I feel more energized than anything. For starters, Mariah Carey’s “All I Want for Christmas” has just started playing, and that’s kinda my jam.

That, and like for most people, the ornaments are my favorite part. The lights are kind of a pain in the ass, if I’m being honest.

I tear into my jumbo assortment of ornaments, as well as the little package of another brand, and begin placing them around the tree, taking breaks to peek at the picture of my dream tree on Pinterest.

“Isn’t that cheating?” Mark says, coming back into the living room.

I look up in surprise, not realizing he’d gone into the kitchen in the first place. “Tell me you didn’t cook and clean.”

He shrugs. “Beats watching you dance around the tree agonizing over the placement of each snowflake.”

“Admit it,” I say, hanging up one of the few remaining glittery aqua balls. “It’s pretty.”

“It’s pretty,” he says dutifully, sitting back on the couch.

Rigby hops up beside him, melting my sappy heart by putting his sweet face on Mark’s knee. Then my heart turns into even more of a puddle, because Mark’s big hand rests on the dog’s head, his fingers rubbing gently.

Lucky dog.

I wince. Stupid girl.

I turn my attention back to the tree, taking great care with the placement of the last few ornaments, not only because I want this tree to look amazing on Instagram but also because the sooner the tree’s done, the sooner Mark will head home, and I’m not quite ready for this Christmas-perfect night to be over.

Finally there are no more ornaments to hang, and with a sigh that’s half contentment, half sadness, I step back and take a picture. As requested, I’ve been snapping and sending pictures as I’ve gone along in the process, and this time I add a little “Done!” with a heart next to it.

The time difference between New York and Alaska means that Mom’s awake, and she replies right away. So gorgeous! Now you just need something for the top.

Surprised, I glance back at the tree. “How’d I forget that?”

“What?” Mark asks, not opening his eyes from where he’d fallen semi-asleep a few minutes ago.

“I forgot a tree topper!”

“A what?”

“Something for the top of the tree. Star. Angel. Bow.”

“What do you usually put up there?”

“The star I made in second grade,” I say, chewing my fingernail.

“Where’s that star?” he asks in a bored tone.

“In a box in my parents’ attic with the rest of the ornaments.”

“And the four-minute drive to their house to retrieve it is . . . too much?”

“No, I want this tree to be different than my family tree. I want this to be our—to be my tree.”

I’m glad my back’s to him, because I don’t even want to see if he heard my little slip-up. Obviously, Mark and I wouldn’t have a tree together. It’s just . . . he helped me cut it down, set it up, and though he didn’t hang a single ornament, he was here, and, well, that means something.

I don’t know why the lack of a tree topper is bugging me so much. Now that I know it’s missing, the absence is all I can notice. But what’s even more annoying is that I don’t want to put just any old thing up there. I mean, yeah, I could get some white ribbon and make a big bow like the one in the Pinterest picture. Or I’m pretty sure Target and Walmart have white stars that would work with the color scheme.

But I don’t want any old thing, I want the perfect thing.

And I don’t know what it is.

“Besides,” I say hurriedly, trying to push the topic, “that star I made a million years ago is gold. This tree is aqua and white.”

“Yeah, I think even me and my testosterone can recognize the color scheme, Kell,” he says, pushing up from the couch and coming to stand beside me. “You’ll figure it out,” he says, looking at the tree instead of me.

“Figure what out?”

There’s a long pause before he replies.

“The perfect tree topper.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

He must sense my change in mood, because he puts an arm around my shoulder—second time that day—and pulls me close for a quick side hug.

“I’m gonna head out,” he says quietly. “Need anything?”

“No, I’m good,” I say, letting my head rest on his shoulder just for a second, still preoccupied with the empty top of my tree. “Thanks for coming over.”

He turns his head, presses his lips to the side of my head. Not quite a kiss, but . . . a linger. “Anytime.”

Mark pulls away, and out of the corner of my eye, I see him give Rigby the silent stay command, telling the dog not to follow him home tonight—to stay with me, because I need the dog more.

It’s a seriously sweet gesture, though Mark would hate that I saw it.

A few moments later, I hear the back door close behind him, and then it hits me.

This entire evening, I haven’t thought about what’s next—or who’s next—on the ex list, not even once.