“Sure,” Carly said, but still in the same tone that she’d taken my toast order, so I wasn’t sure she’d actually listened to any of this.

“Thanks,” I said to Palmer once Carly had departed.

“I’m just trying to save us all some time,” she said with a grin. “Remember the Bacon Incident of last May?”

Tom shuddered. “I do.”

I rolled my eyes and reached over for Palmer’s water glass to take a sip. “It wasn’t an incident,” I said, then focused back on Tom. “But why are you celebrating Christmas in June?”

“The holidays . . . just aren’t the holidays without a Country Table ham,” Tom said to me earnestly. “This year, that’s what I want for Christmas.”

I just stared at him for a moment. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s for an audition,” Palmer explained, and I could hear the pride in her voice. It was one of the reasons that they worked so well together. The two of them were beyond supportive of each other, and they both still seemed to think they’d won the lottery by being with each other. If they weren’t Palmer and Tom, it would have been pretty insufferable. “In New York,” she added.

“Oh,” I said, feeling like things were starting to make more sense. Tom had gotten an actual agent when someone had seen him in last fall’s production of You Can’t Take It With You. Now he went into New York City pretty frequently to audition, clutching the headshot we’d all helped him choose. He’d booked some regional commercials, but so far, nothing national. “But why are you dressed like that now?” I asked. “Aren’t you hot?”

“A little bit,” he admitted, taking a sip of his water. “But I really want to get into character. Like, why does David—I’ve decided his name is David—care about ham so much? Why does he want a ham for Christmas? Is something else missing in David’s life? Probably, right?”

“And the sweater helps you come up with answers to these questions?”

“It can’t hurt,” Tom said, taking another long drink.

“Anyway,” Palmer said, turning to me. “So you got a call this morning at seven a.m. . . .”

“Right,” I said. “It’s a Baltimore area code, so of course I answer, and—”

“We’re here!” I turned to see Bri arriving at the foot of the table, with a grumpy-looking Toby in tow.

Tom sighed. “I’ve lost my seat again, haven’t I?”

“Fraid so,” Palmer said cheerfully as Tom slid out of the booth and went off in search of a chair.

“Hi,” Bri said as she slid in next to me. “Sorry we’re late. I literally had to drag Toby out of bed.”

I looked across at Toby, who was now slumped against Palmer, wearing what were unmistakably Bri’s clothes, nice ones, looking like she was about three seconds away from falling asleep again. “Hey, Tobes,” I said.

“It’s so early,” she moaned, rubbing her eyes. “And why does nobody at this table have coffee?”

“We’ll get you some coffee,” Bri said, already looking around for a waitress. “You big baby.”

“Babies don’t need coffee,” Toby said, burrowing her head into Palmer’s arm, who gave her hair a distracted pat. “Because people actually let them sleep.”

“You needed to get up,” Bri said firmly. “You have to be at work in an hour, and I’m not taking the blame if you fall asleep and crash into a Monet.”

I frowned. “Wait, what?”

“Here you go,” Carly said, returning with my food and Diet Coke, not even batting an eye at the fact that two new people had arrived at the table, while one had vanished. “Get you anything, Freckles?”

“Coffee,” Toby said, sitting up a little straighter. “And waffles?” she asked, looking at Bri. Toby almost never ordered anything just for herself. She always wanted someone, usually Bri, to share stuff with her and was forever asking if we should get something “for the table.”

“I’d have waffles,” Bri said, nodding. “Can I get a black tea?”

“Coming up,” Carly said, disappearing again. I looked down at my plate—I was thrilled to see that the bacon looked practically black—and realized how hungry I was. I had just speared a bite of my scrambled eggs when Tom appeared again, hauling a chair and looking out of breath.

“Sorry,” he said, his face now matching his sweater. “I’m back.”

Bri frowned at him and gestured to his outfit. “Okay, what’s going on here?”

“That’s David,” I said, as I crunched into a piece of bacon, “and he really wants a ham for Christmas.”

“The holidays . . . just aren’t the holidays—” Tom started, but Palmer interrupted.

“Tom has an audition this afternoon,” she explained, then turned back to me. “But Andie was about to tell us what’s going on with her.”

“Wait, who wants a ham for Christmas?” Toby asked, sounding more awake than she had yet this morning. “I mean, that’s just weird.”

“Exactly!” Tom said, leaning toward Toby. “That’s the question I’ve been asking myself.”