“Chloe, I have a Christmas gift for you,” I say, holding out the paper bag from Trash & Treasure.

She smiles. “Do you want me to save it for Christmas morning?”

“That’s up to you,” I say. “And your moms, of course.”

“Will you be at our house with Uncle Asher on Christmas?”

“Oh, no, I won’t.”

“Why not?” she frowns. “You’re Uncle Asher’s girlfriend. That means you have to eat pancakes with us on Christmas morning. Then you get to watch me open up all of my presents.”

“Chloe,” Vivian says, narrowing her eyes. “Olivia probably has plans with her family.”

“Oh! Are you going to spend it with your mom? Will you give her the card I made for her?”

My throat goes a little tight, but I force a smile. “Of course.”

Asher’s eyes catch mine as he sets Chloe on the ground. I don’t let him hold my stare for long. It’s too unnerving, like he knows something I don’t want him to know. Mind reading is a violation of Christmas spirit.

I turn to Chloe and watch her tear into the bag with grabby hands. It takes her .45930248 seconds to rip it apart. She holds up the pink vintage leather jacket for all of 5th Avenue to see.

“This. Is. So. Cool!” she shrieks, throwing herself at me. She’s the epitome of though she be but little, she is fierce.

“Chloe, what do you say?”

“Thank you, Olivia!” She squeezes me so tightly that I lose my breath. “Are you gonna come to breakfast with us? I’m getting Nutella stuffed French toast. I’ll share with you.”

“I appreciate the invite, but—”

“You want another raincheck?” She frowns.

God, how do I say no to that face? No wonder Asher spoils her rotten. Disappointing this child should be a crime.

“You should come,” Asher says with the same look of hope Chloe has.

I want to say yes. I want to live in this feeling that I belong. But everything is still so fresh and I don’t know how I feel about anything. Just that I’m hurt and confused and definitely in love.

“I’m sorry, I… have an appointment… with my gynecologist. Reproductive health is important, y’know? Nothing says holiday cheer quite like a pap smear! Oh, that rhymed. I should pitch it as tagline. Or put it on a card. I should… go. Bye!”

As I run off down the street—ashamed to stick around for their reactions—I contemplate stepping in front of a delivery truck.

* * *

For the second time today, I’m sitting in an auditorium. This time, it’s not a bunch of first graders entertaining me—it’s an entire company of dancers. Francesca flits around the stage like a nimble-legged gazelle. She’s all high-kicks and pirouettes. I wonder if spinning so much makes her dizzy.