P.S.: We have a supply room for a reason. Please stop leaving the staplers empty.

* * *

Bree pulls the paper towel away from my lip and tilts her head. I feel like a puzzle she's trying to solve.

"Honestly," she starts, "it's not that bad."

I'm a glass-half-full kind of girl, so it pains me to admit that this isn't very good. I'm a shining example of why ice skating should be left to the professionals. I'm also a shining example of why you shouldn't claim to be a professional.

"She's drooling blood, Bree." Emanuel blinks. "It looks like she got into a fist fight and forgot to punch back."

"In my defense, I did hit the ice pretty hard," I say. "I'm sure it felt something."

"Just the crushing irony of you announcing your bid for the Winter Olympics seconds before your grand finale," he says.

I frown. "Someone's going to put that on YouTube, aren't they?"

"I mean, it's already on my Snap, so..." Bree says.

She also put me vomiting into trashcan after too much to drink on her Snapchat. Bree is a great friend.

“How will I ever repay you?"

"Book me a spa day at the Ritz on Asher's card."

"You know I'm only supposed to use it for qualifying purchases now."

"So just Christmas trees, coasters, and PornHub Unlimited?"

"I got him dish towels with snowmen on them and oven mitts to match."

"I feel like those probably weren't on The List."

"They weren't, but I couldn't resist."

"I'm sure he'll be thrilled when he opens the box," Bree says and takes the plastic baggie of ice Emanuel hands to her and presses it to my lip. I shiver. "When I said this wasn't bad, I really meant you might need stitches."

"Yeah, I don't have time for that."

"I don't think you have much of a choice," Emanuel says. "You look like Nightmare at Rockefeller Center."

My fourth favorite Christmas sweater, which has a Christmas tree with semi-working lights on it—a two dollar GoodWill find—is covered in blood. I look like the aftermath of a horror movie. A bad one. With a low budget. And D-List actors. A horror movie with a serial killer who slashes victims with gardening shears.

It wouldn't be an issue if I was going home, but I'm meeting Asher at Francesca's at nine. It's an hour past being fashionably late, but we both had prior engagements. I’m here and Asher, well, he had to floss.

He must have no cavities. His dentist probably has his picture on the wall.

"I need to borrow your sweater," I say to Bree. She's six inches taller and two cup sizes smaller than me, but I can squeeze myself into her gray turtleneck. I'll shrink it back in the dryer.

"What for?"

"I'm going to a dinner party."

"Where?"

"Williamsburg."

"With who?"

Definitely not Asher.

"My college roommate."

"Why are you interrogating her?" Emanuel asks. "Are you her mother?"