During the day, I keep myself busy with work. But it’s the nights that are the hardest. There’s no escape in the dark and silent witching hours, when all the demons tormenting my heart are let loose. This room is haunted by the ghosts of our kisses and touches and… I shouldn’t be thinking about that!

I hope that once I get back to my apartment, I can finally shake off every last, painful memory of Diego. We never shared a room in New York, and I’m so grateful for that now.

It’s that expectation alone that allows me, two days later, to leave my parents’ house filled with a decent amount of self-imposed optimism. After loading the trunk of the rental car with my luggage, I honk twice to signal Blair it’s time to go. I’ve already hugged my family goodbye, and I’m ready to get back to New York and turn the page on the worst December to date. The new year will help with that. I’ll write a list of resolutions and try to stick to them for once. First item on the list: avoid memories of a certain dark-haired, green-eyed person at all costs.

I watch as Blair and Chevron burst out of their house. The dog is wearing paw booties and looks absolutely ridiculous. But we’re trying to keep the rental car as clean as we can, so as not to forfeit the deposit.

Chevron, however, has different ideas. Halfway down the walkway, she strays into the front garden, drops to her back, and rolls in the snow. If she were human, she’d be making angels. Blair drops her bags and runs screaming after her, but the damage is done. Dirty paws are the least of our problems right now. There’s a head-to-toe wet mutt Labrador to transport.

My parents, who must’ve followed the scene from the windows, promptly come to the rescue. They help me line the backseat with trash bags, which we lock in place with duct tape. It’s not the best cover job in the world, but it should do the trick.

“I’m so sorry,” Blair pants, dragging a now-leashed Chevron behind her. “I don’t know what got into her.”

We both turn to stare at the dog, who tilts her head and gives us a first-class show of contrite puppy-dog eyes.

“I’m not buying it, Miss,” Blair chides. “You knew exactly what you were doing.”

Chevron whines and uses a paw to cover her eyes.

“She’s good,” I say to Blair.

“Too good,” she agrees.

“On with you.” She opens the car’s rear door. “Get in.”

“Oh, don’t scowl at her,” I defend Chevron, and scratch her behind the ears. “She’s too cute to be told off.”