I’m scheduling you at eleven o’clock, baby. You know what happens if you’re late.

“It’s my last night of production,” she clarifies. “They have us on a really strict diet, which blows but, y’know, anything for the craft. Except I refuse to give up carbs.”

“And why should you?”

I love carbs the way most people love their children.

Possibly more.

I would take a bullet for a quality baguette.

“Your outfit is really cute,” she tells me. “I can’t find a pair of overalls that fit me right.”

“I found these in a thrift store in Queens.”

“Really? I never think to go thrifting.”

“I’ll take you some time.” It just slips out. “I’m a fantastic barterer.”

“Really? I’d love that.”

I realize, after downing the last of my peppermint hot chocolate, that this is a little strange. What ex-girlfriend wants to go thrifting with the current girlfriend? Are we going to compare notes on Asher over racks of vintage t-shirts? Laugh over lunch about his laundry list of weird habits? Why is she so nice to me? She’s supposed to be ragingly jealous because we’re so happy and in love.

And FYI, I’ve been ragingly jealous in the past and this is not how a normal person acts. She should already have a detailed plan of my well-executed disappearance.

Unless her plan all along has been to get me alone, so me offering to take her thrifting just makes her plan to discard my body in a dumpster in south Jersey a whole lot easier.

“Olivia, our room is ready.”

“Thank God.” I’m hungover and cookie drunk. It will be a Christmas miracle if I’m conscious for the party tonight. “I’m going to sleep for the next twelve years.”

“I’m surprised you’re alive today,” Francesca laughs. “You can really throw back a drink.”

“It was my minor in college.”

Francesca laughs, but Asher doesn’t. When Brent joins us, we all end up walking to the elevator together. Asher looks like he wants to die when he and Brent both reach to press the number two.

“Same floor,” I say because we’re all thinking it.

“Small hotel,” Francesca says.

We realize just how small when we turn right and walk to the end of the hall. Asher and I stop at 203 and Francesca and Brent at 201.

“Hopefully the walls are thick,” I say and slap Asher’s back. “Teeth grinder over here.”

Asher is shooting laser beams at me as he slides the keycard into the door. It clicks. He opens the door and I hurry in before he can slam it in my face.