“The judge, um, knows,” Kate continued. “She told me that she didn’t approve of her clerks getting married or pregnant but said that she wasn’t going to do anything about it.” Kate said this as if she believed the judge could, but had decided not to, take action against her pregnancy. “I’m, um, going to tell Evan and Matthew, but can we all just not talk about it? I, um, don’t want to make it, um, any more obvious than it is.”

Teenagers had been trying to hide pregnancies for centuries. I wasn’t sure how Kate was going to succeed where legions had failed.

If nothing else, it was an unusual Christmas morning. Never before had I spent the holiday alone and without a tree. Well, that wasn’t true—I’d taken the weeping fig home the night before and placed the tiny wrapped box Matthew had given me underneath it. It was a charity gift, I presumed, considering he at least got to spend the day with Heidi at her parents’ house in Trenton. Heidi seemed like the kind of girl who’d dress up as one of Santa’s elves and spend the day sprinkling sugar cookies. I’d stopped trying to wrap my mind around how someone like Matthew could be with someone like Heidi—given that I’d dated a closeted meat eater for over two years.

After exchanging holiday greetings with my family, I opened the gift from Matthew. Inside were Roy’s napkin ring and a note: “I figured it was big enough to squeeze your head through should the holiday take a detour south. Have a Merry Medieval Christmas, Sheila!” I laughed my way to the freezer, put a frozen pepperoni pizza in the microwave, and counted my blessing—a full day with nothing to do but stuff my face, watch romantic comedies, and read trashy magazines.

Just as I popped Dave into my VCR, a trauma of gargantuan proportions occurred: The crushed red pepper canister was empty. The convenience store up the street claimed it’d be open on Christmas Day, so I bundled up and made a break for it. I took advantage of the deserted streets to openly peer into a window on the corner. A young couple in flannel pajamas was opening gifts—voyeurism never went out of style. As I passed an alley on 12th Street, I noticed my favorite prostitute/drug dealer with bad skin hovering in the shadows. His guest looked up at the sound of my footsteps and made eye contact. Oh God—it was Evan! Shoving Roy’s napkin holder around my neck didn’t sound so bad.

Evan appeared to be hatching an exit plan as he walked over to me, eyes bloodshot. “Sheila? Um, hey. Ah. Merry Christmas?” It was one of the few times that a statement actually deserved a question mark.

“Evan. What are you doing here?”