Owen laughed and shook his head at her. “You’re really weird. And not in a normal way. You’re genuinely odd, you know that?”

“I guess. Is that important?”

“You’re weird. And you make everything difficult. And—could we have been kissing for the last year?”

“Probably even before that.”

“Jesus. You’re infuriating.”

She pulled on his lapel. “But . . .”

“But, yeah . . .” He kissed her again. “I’m going to get really good at this, I promise.”

“I believe you. You can do it.”

Owen kissed her. Every single kiss was softer and longer than the one before. Fibonacci sequence. They were never going to leave this room.

“Okay, Libby,” he said the next time he pulled away. “Jesus. Okay.”

“I’m glad we worked this out,” she said, taking a breath.

He laughed. She smiled.

Then he pulled away from her. “You know I’m still going to the dance, right?”

Libby did not know that. “What? You can’t!”

“I have to! Kamrin’s waiting for me.”

“But, Owen, what was the point of all this if you’re still going to the Snow Ball?”

“I’m going to pretend that you didn’t say that . . .”

“Owen.”

“I’m not a monster, Libby. She’s waiting for me.”

“You’re going to go with her?”

“I am.”

“And you’re going to dance with her?”

“I am. And I’ll probably have a really great time because I am in a fantastic mood.”

“Owen!”

“And then I’ll come back to your house, or here if you want, and I’ll watch Meet Me in St. Louis with you.”

Owen stood up. He tied his bow tie. He watched Libby watching him in the mirror.

She wanted to argue with him, but she also wanted to run her fingertips over her lips.

When Owen turned back to face her, his tie was crooked. “Will you wait for me?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

He unpinned the sprig of mistletoe from his jacket and attached it to Libby’s sweater.

If the Fates Allow

Christmas 2020

REAGAN WAS CARRYING TOO MUCH.

Her overnight bag and groceries, plus a glass pan of Jell-O salad—too much Jell-O salad—because she didn’t have a smaller glass dish, and Grandma had always made it in a glass dish, so you could see all the colors.

Reagan was carrying too much, and the driveway was slick as fuck. There was snow on the ground, and her grandpa hadn’t salted the driveway or shoveled his walk. She couldn’t really blame him—he never went anywhere. Her parents dropped off his groceries once a week.

She walked extra slow, taking small steps.

“Hey there!” a man called.

Reagan looked up, and her foot hit a patch of ice. She went down quick, landing on one knee—and then on her hip, and then on the groceries, twisting the whole time to keep the glass pan in the air. “Fuck.”