“Shut up for a minute.”

She shut up. She watched herself in the mirror. She was wearing faded jeans and an Old Navy sweater with a penguin on it. Her hair was pulled into a ponytail, but half a dozen dark curls had worked their way free.

Owen looked dapper.

Libby looked . . . not. Libby looked like Libby. Tall and sloppy and careless. She looked like the kind of girl who’d never needed help zipping up a fancy dress.

She pushed a curl behind her ear and leaned toward him.

“You’re a good dancer,” she said again, more clearly.

“Thanks.”

“And it’s a dance. So you’ll be fine.”

“Right,” he said, staring at the floor.

He had a sprig of something green attached to his lapel. “That’s nice,” she said. “What’s that?”

“What?”

“On your jacket.”

He glanced at his collar. “Mistletoe.”

“Nice touch,” she said.

“It’s a Christmas dance.”

“I know.” Libby nodded. “The Snow Ball.”

He stared at the ground.

“Much Christmas,” she said. “Very dance.”

“You could come,” he said, still looking at his knees, “if you want.”

“What?” Libby sat back.

“You could come to the dance.”

“With you and Camden?”

“Well, not to dinner—but you could meet us at the dance. A bunch of our friends will be there.”

“No, thank you,” she said.

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t dance.”

“I’ve seen you dance, Libby.”

“You have,” she said. “But no one else needs to.”

“It might be fun.”

“It’s Christmas Eve Eve, Owen. There are traditions to uphold. Somebody has to watch Meet Me in St. Louis—it isn’t going to watch itself. Somebody has to eat chocolate oranges and light a candle for Judy Garland.”

He rolled his eyes. “I said I’d watch it with you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow is Christmas Eve. On Christmas Eve, we watch It’s a Wonderful Life. Don’t upset the natural order of things.”

“You might like it,” he said. “The dance.”

“I won’t like it.”

“How do you know?”

“Because it’s a dance, Owen. It’s everyone I already don’t like from school—but all dressed up and dancing. If I don’t like them sitting in desks, why would I like them dancing?”

“It’s not about them.”

“It’s about Kaitlin?”

“No. It’s about you,” he said. “Trying something new.”

“Something new . . .”

“You only get so many high school dances in life.” He waved his hand around. “You may as well go to one. So that you don’t look back and feel like you missed out on something.”

“Huh,” Libby said. “Yeah. That’s a compelling argument. Then, after the dance, maybe I should put my hand in the fireplace. Just so that I know how it feels. Just so I know I’m not missing out on something.”

Owen fell back on the bed. “You’re infuriating.”