He threw the gearshift into DRIVE and made another turn—he didn’t know how many total now—around the block. A slick black Lexus pulled out from a parking spot and left a lost-tooth gap next to the curb. He slid his truck into the space and looked up at the house; Amy opened the door, hugged a guest goodbye.

There she was: touchable and untouchable, present and lost, his and another’s.

Reese’s battered Jeep sat parked at the curb. Nick was surprised Reese had made the trip. He hoped the entire OWP group was inside. He smiled; so many things were bringing him and Amy together—it was inevitable.

He glanced down at his clothes. He’d been interrupted in the middle of dressing and had neglected to bring a coat. He stepped from the pickup truck and began to walk toward the house, stuffing the notes in his back pocket. It was freezing, the air a knife of wind where his shirt flapped out and exposed his waist. He stopped, tucked in his shirt and smoothed his hair back with his fingers. A couple emerged from the front door and leaned against each other, murmuring something he couldn’t hear. The woman laughed, threw back her head. They didn’t notice him and almost walked into him. He stepped aside, but the woman’s purse brushed his arm.

“Excuse me,” Nick said.

The woman looked up and stopped, released the man’s arm. She wore a long black coat, gloves, and a lipstick red scarf was wrapped around her neck and pulled over her head. She tilted her head: Carol Anne. He’d seen her at the tailgate party, but he hadn’t spoken to her. He almost told her that in an odd, ass-backward way he’d always been grateful to her: if she hadn’t asked him to the formal, he might not have found Amy again, or if he had, the moment might have passed, the destiny disintegrated.

“Carol Anne?” He held out his hand, which dangled in the air, purposeless, as she stared at him without reaching out her own.

“Nick.”

“Yes, yes. It’s good to see you.” He put his hand down.

“Oh, I wish I could say the same.”

“Wow. What Christmas cheer . . .” His warm feelings for her vanished in a surging flood of animosity.

“Nick . . . I’m sorry. You don’t need to go in there.”

The man whose hand she was holding stepped forward. “Do you know this man, honey?”

Carol Anne turned to the man, who was also in a long black coat. “This is Nick Lowry. I knew him in college. Old boyfriend of Amy’s.” She turned back to Nick. “This is my husband, Joe.”

Nick held out his hand and this time the other person was polite enough to grab it. “Nice to meet you, man.”