She gives me a look that lightens my mood even more. “You gave it to me a couple of Christmases ago.”

“Did I?” I study the layers of tulle. “Well, it looks nice on you. I obviously have great taste.”

Inside, she hands me a plate of pasta with fried bacon bits, tomatoes, basil, and cubes of mozzarella along with a scoop of green salad. We all sit at her small table, but before she eats she reaches over and touches my arm. “I’m glad you’re here.”

I pull back, surprised by her sudden tenderness. “Me too.”

She gives me a tight smile, then stabs the pasta with her fork. “Your hair looks nice. Alice said she cut it for you this morning.”

A prickle of heat runs across my scalp, and I’m opening my notebook but Ruth is still talking.

“She lives in Whittier now and she’s sober.”

I’m nodding; even if I don’t know this, I don’t think it shocks me. My hand retreats from the pages, and I turn to the plate of food in front of me.

Tate smiles, points to my notebook. “You’ve always been so organized. Do you remember how you used to keep a rating system for my w . . . w-eed?”

Ruth groans. “I’m glad those days are over.”

I play with a strand of my hair, smile, letting the memory wash over me. “One was for chill, two for sleepy chill, three dopehead chill, and four . . .” I tap my chin, thinking.

“Four w . . . w-as for mostly dead chill.”

We both laugh; Ruth shakes her head, eats a tomato.

“I wasn’t that creative, was I?” I look down and try to ignore my racing pulse.

He leans across the table, and the air around me fills with the light scent of sandalwood and leather. His eyes are a deep green that glows next to his black hair. I look away, pull on a loose blue thread poking out of the cuff of my shirt, and try to remember that I am a thirty-six-year-old woman with no real future, not a teenage girl with everything ahead of her.

Tate’s smile creases the skin around his eyes in pleasant lines. “Do you remember that t . . . t-ime we snuck into the reindeer pen and tried to . . . take the biggest one for a walk?”

It comes easily to me—most memories with Tate do—and my back muscles relax. “Using a pair of Ruth’s pantyhose.”

Tate eases back against his chair, laughs. “Why didn’t we think to find a rope?”

“Why did we think to do it at all?”