"No thanks, Nagymama." I wave the plastic tub of tapioca pudding. "I'm fine."

Nagymama is Hungarian for grandmother. My Dad’s American side has a nonexistent presence in my life, so I’ve never called anyone Memaw, Pop-pop, or any of the cute nicknames other people use for their grandparents.

My gran wouldn’t want one, anyway. She has an ornery nature that was inherited from her mother, and from her mother before her. Mom is a milder clone of Nagymama, and I’m an even more watered-down version.

Whatever I am, it’s not good enough for Ronan.

"Vhy you don’t eat, Marguerite?" My grandma is the only person who calls me that. "Haff some beigli. They’re poppy seed."

A mountain of my favorite Eastern European pastries sits on a white ceramic plate. Apricot kolaches. Swiss-rolls filled with poppy seed paste. Small jam tarts sprinkled with powdered sugar. I love them, but heartbreak has stolen my appetite.

"No thanks."

"Eh?" Her silver eyebrows rise into a nest of gray curls. Nagymama doesn’t understand romantic love. At least, not the way I do. She married twice and divorced twice, declaring herself allergic to men, and never dated again.

Mom followed a similar path, marrying young and divorcing before she had me. It wasn’t easy raising me alone, but you couldn’t tell by the way she acts. I’ve only seen her cry a handful of times in my life, and those tears weren’t over a man.

But I’m not like that. I get hurt too easily. First James, now Ronan.

I know how to pick them, don't I?

I smile apologetically at Nagymama, standing. "Thanks, but I’m not hungry."

I’m not sure I’ll ever get my appetite back. Ever since we left for grandma’s, a gaping wound has throbbed in my chest. A nagging doubt pulses in my head. I’m sure it’ll go away eventually, exactly like the pain. I’ll forget our magical weekend, the whispered secrets, and the way he made me scream with pleasure. Maybe, just maybe, I’ll be able to look back on this with a self-deprecating smile.

A phone rings. Mom’s angry voice drifts from the kitchen.

I climb the stairs and disappear into my room, which smells strongly of mothballs. The MCAT books make a small pile on the floor. Another couple of weeks, and I’ll be back at school. Totally clueless about what I’m supposed to do.

I grab a book and flip through the pages, agonizing. As though a diagram of Bernoulli’s Equation will tell me what to do with my life. Physics won’t get my mind off Ronan. It’s hopelessly fixed on a man who hates me.

Soft footsteps climb the stairs. I feel Mom’s gentle presence before she speaks, like a warm lamp heating my back.

She squeezes my shoulder. "Gigi, we should talk."

"About what?" My insides cave at her tone.

"Ronan."

His name is enough to make me hurt. My eyes swim in tears. "There’s nothing else to discuss."

"Honey, did you speak to him after the parade?"

"No. Why would I do that?" I wipe my face, hating that I’m blubbering over Ronan.

I want her to tell me it’ll be all right. That I’m not doomed to be alone.

"I think you should talk to him."

"So he can humiliate me again? No thanks." Honestly, I’m surprised she brought it up. "I have no interest in being jerked around."

"You might regret it."

"Why?"

"I can't say. You should hear it from him." Mom steels herself with a great sigh. "I invited him over."

"You what?" I spring from the bed. "Mom, I don’t want to deal with him. It’s Christmas!"

"He’s coming over. You’ll find out why soon enough."

"I can’t believe you of all people would fall for his crap!" I run from the bedroom, ducking into the bathroom to scowl at my bedraggled appearance. "How soon is he coming?"

"Now."

Good Lord. "I don’t want to see him."

She rolls her eyes. "Is that why you’re doing your makeup?"

My cheeks burn. "Why did you give him the address?"

"Because," she says in an infuriating tone. "I’m your mother."

"That’s not an answer!" I smudge eyeliner all over my lid. "Damn it!"

"You look beautiful, Gigi. You always do." Mom takes a beauty sponge and wipes my chin. "Promise me you’ll let him talk."

I don’t know what’s more ridiculous—that my mother invited Ronan over, or that I’m getting ready for him. By the time I descend the stairs, Mom and Nagymama are sitting in vigil by the windows.

"He’s not staying for dinner, is he?"

Mom watches the street with her arms folded. "Don’t worry about that."

Well, that’s also a non-answer.

I pace the living room, shooting the door dark looks as though it offended me. What does he hope to gain by coming here? I didn’t take James back, and I won’t take Ronan. After James, my tolerance for bullshit with men is zero.

Finally, Mom perks up. The iPad she pretends to read slides from her lap and hits the floor. "He’s here."

I freeze. "Seriously?"

We both watch as a car slides into the driveway. The engine cuts and he steps out. His heavy footsteps crunch the snow. He stops at the threshold, wipes his feet, and knocks.

Mom beats me in a mad sprint to the door, throwing it open.

It’s him.

His cheeks are stung with cold, as though he drove the thirty minutes without a heater. A small bundle of brightly-wrapped gifts is tucked in the crook of his arm. Ronan brushes snow from his hair, smiling at my mother. "Merry Christmas."

"Come in, Ronan."

I bristle as he steps inside, confronted by my bewildered grandmother.

"I’m Ronan Smith, ma’am. “He seizes Nagymama’s hand in his mammoth grip. "I’m dating your granddaughter."

"No, he’s not—"

"Why don’t you both go upstairs and talk? Nagymama and I will heat soup for lunch."

Dimples carve into Ronan’s cheek. "Sounds great. Gigi, you heard the woman."

Nagymama’s curious gaze bounces from Ronan to me. "Ven is the marriage?"

Ronan laughs. I don’t. She might’ve forgotten about the whole fight, but I haven’t.

"We’re not ready for that." But there’s no point in causing a scene in front of her.

"This is for you," he says, handing gifts to my mother and grandmother. "Sorry, I wasn’t sure what to get, so I kinda took a wild stab."

Unsmiling, Nagymama peels hers open. "Oh. Candy."

Ronan grins at my grandmother’s deadpan delivery.

I’m in no mood for him to mock my family. "Upstairs. Now."

"Yes’m."

He follows me, his weight creaking the old floorboards. I can’t believe he followed me here. My ex barely fought when I told him I was done, but Ronan’s not James. He looks at me the way I always wished James would look at me.

The door snaps behind us as we enter my room. I sit on the bed as he slides gifts over the comforter. I recognize the one I wrapped for him.

"I thought we could open them together."

I glare at him. "Why are you here? Is this another prank?"

"You dumped me in a Christmas card." He sits beside me, sighing heavily. "What’d you think I’d do, take that lying down? You wouldn’t answer my calls."

"You know what you did."

"No, I don’t!" he bursts. "I’ve racked my brains for hours, and I have no idea."

"You acted like an idiot at the parade. You were drunk. Sloppy." I watch his mouth drop and hang open. "Your hands were all over that girl. Sorry isn’t going to cut it this time."

"Oh God." Ronan chokes with a laugh. "That wasn’t me. You saw Liam."

My insides flip. "What?"

"Liam," he growls. "He stole the suit and wore it to the parade. Before I could stop him, he climbed onto the float and almost caused a riot. It’s a long story. I spent what should’ve been our date begging police officers not to charge him. That wasn’t me, Gigi."

I’m still confused. "He did that? How did he get the suit?"

"I wasn’t home. I was out getting your present."

"Oh my God." I meet Ronan's blues as a sob chokes from my throat. " I'm so sorry. He was wearing your stuff, and I assumed the worst."

"It’s okay." Ronan pulls me onto his lap, wrapping his arms around me. "I’m not giving up on you that easy."

Guilt throbs in my chest. "What I said in the note—it was harsh. Please forgive me."

"Stop," he says, stroking my hair. "You didn’t know that it wasn’t me, and Liam and I look alike. With the beard and everything, there’s no way you could’ve known."

I smile through tears, relieved beyond words. "How are we going to do this?"

"What?"

"A—a relationship. You’re all the way in Northwestern, and I’m at Rutgers."

"I’ll quit. I’ll come to you."

Shock ripples through me. "No, you can’t!"

"Don’t tell me what I can’t do, Gigi." Ronan pulls away, a breath hitching in his lungs." I know what I want, and it’s not football. It’s you."

"No." Tears sting my eyes. "I won’t be the reason you end your career."

"I love you, Gigi. Nothing else matters."

I wrap my arms around him, burying my face into the crook of his neck. "I love you, too."

"I know," he says, the smirk in his voice. "Merry Christmas, babe."