“I think he felt I . . .” “Took something that was personal, private, and put it on your fucking blog without telling me.” “Should have talked to him about it first.”

“Please. You have a gift, Jo. You need to share it.”

“So do you,” I said. “Seriously, Beth, this show could be your big break. When you get a chance at doing something—something you love—you have to grab and hold on with both hands. Don’t let go.”

“You sound like Colt,” she said.

Colt Henderson, the show’s star. “Is that a bad thing?”

“Not bad. Just not me.”

Something in her voice triggered my protective instincts. Beth had always been our little homebody. Not ambitious like me or discontent like Amy or eager for a family of her own like Meg. Meg’s worries that Beth was starstruck, that she was in over her head relationship-wise, came back to me. “Is everything all right?” I asked. “With the show and everything?”

“Everything’s fine,” Beth said. “I just miss you all. It doesn’t feel like Christmas without you.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat. “You’re an angel in a Christmas show,” I pointed out. “It doesn’t get more Christmassy than that. This is your shot, Mouse. Don’t throw it away.”

“Are you quoting Hamilton to me now?” The smile was back in her voice.

“Whatever works,” I said.

“I don’t know.” Beth sighed. “What if I’m not—”

“Scrappy?” I suggested. “Hungry?”

“—good enough?”

I swallowed. “Oh, Beth. You’re so good. You’re so talented. We all think so. You know Momma would want you to stay.”

“No fair using Mom,” Beth protested.

“It’s true,” I said, comfortable now that we were back in our familiar roles. “Promise me you won’t quit the show.”

“Only if you promise to write me a special blog post for Christmas,” Beth said.

So I promised.

But when I opened my laptop, my brain and fingers stalled. A Christmas blog brought up too many memories. Of writing to Dad all those years he was away. Of New York. Of Eric.

A week ago, before our fight, I’d thought we could go together to Bryant Park to sip hot chocolate and watch the ice-skaters. Or search out the few remaining chestnut vendors on Sixth Avenue. But what did I have to write about now? Who wanted to read about my life in Bunyan?

I scrolled through past posts, hoping for a spark. The speculation from strangers had died down, but there were plenty of new comments from regular readers who felt they knew me, followers who liked me, their comments ranging from teasing to concern.

Did you really work at Gusto? Not anymore, I thought.

Is Eric Bhaer your boyfriend? In another universe, maybe.

What are you doing for Christmas? Nothing. Nada. Zip.

A sense of what I’d had, of what we’d lost, of what could have been, choked me. When you get a chance at something, don’t let go.

I went downstairs to my sisters’ old bedroom. Beth’s teddy was still there among the pillows. Hugging it tight, I climbed back to my attic and crawled into bed. Then I opened another tab on my laptop and typed “osteomyelitis” into the search bar.