When I do get home, my face is chapped and my lips are quivering. I pull off my jacket, scarf, and mittens and change into a pair of flannel pajamas and my bathrobe. Joey’s door is closed, like it always is. I know she’s home because the TV is on, but it’s late, so I don’t knock to see if she’s awake. Instead, I curl into a spot on the couch and reach for the remote.

My Thanksgivings have never been traditional. There were no fancy dinners or pumpkin pie. No extended family gatherings or football teams to cheer for. Some years I ate day-old pizza. Other years I sat in the nurses’ lounge at the hospital while my mom worked. I was alone. A lot. Most of the time, I would pretend I wasn’t. I’d make the best out of my situation. With stuffed animals and dolls, I’d create my own Christmas stories. And when my mom got done working, I’d reenact all my favorite scenes. I guess it was our own weird tradition.

Tonight I’m sitting on the couch. With restaurant leftovers. Watching a recording of the parade that took place while I was setting tables.

Another holiday alone.

Like always.

2

Levi Booker is ten thousand times hotter when he’s standing underneath the mistletoe holding my hand. I am also ten thousand times hotter when Levi Booker is standing underneath the mistletoe holding my hand. I’m dizzy and lightheaded. I think I might pass out.

“You, my dear, are a breath of Christmas cheer.” He presses his lips to the whites of my knuckles and I want to bottle up this moment in a snow globe and keep it on my mantel forever.

Me and Levi Booker. Underneath the mistletoe. Like that movie he starred in last year. I’m his leading lady. We’re in love. He’s going to propose. We’ll have a June wedding, and three children with his dreamy blue eyes and my blonde hair. A house in Connecticut. With a white picket fence. And a Range Rover.

Our Christmas cards will be legendary.

“Olivia? My bagel?”

My eyes don’t leave Levi. I throw the white paper bag at Asher. My lack of hand-eye coordination leaves it landing at his feet. I feel him scowl.

“It better be cinnamon raisin.”

“It is.”

“Double-toasted?”

“Of course.”

“Extra cream cheese?”

“A whole tub.”

Levi Booker is still holding my hand. Underneath the mistletoe. Like a freaking romantic comedy. Where is my Oscar for Best Outstanding Actress in a Dream Role?

“From the place—”

“Asher, she’s an intern. Not a waitress.”

Levi drops my hand and looks over my shoulder at Asher. I feel empty, like a box that was carelessly opened on Christmas morning and cannot be used again. I’m ruined. Destroyed. Throw me in a recycling bin.