“You’re thirty-five, Cole. People our age have kids who are in high school. You’re past old enough to be Father Christmas. And I think you are overestimating the Carrigan’s experience.”

“It’s basically the set of a Hallmark movie, right?” His eyes were those of a kid waking up the morning of a Disney World vacation.

She tried to temper his excitement and her own anxiety at the same time.

“I mean, that’s not wildly inaccurate. But remember, I haven’t been back in ten years. And the Christmas festival doesn’t start until November first, which isn’t for a couple of weeks. It might not even be Christmas-y, yet. I don’t know what it’s like now, especially with Cass gone.”

“My body is ready. My faith is going to be renewed. I’m going to find true love.” Cole gestured wildly. “I’m prepared. I packed my candy cane boxers. I can’t wait to meet the real Santa, thinly disguised as a large white-bearded man named Kris.”

She laughed a little, but it threatened to turn into a sob. He put his arm around her shoulder, shuffling them both up to the ticket counter.

“You’re Miriam and Cole,” the woman at the computer said, her eyes wide. “Oh my gosh. Can I take a selfie with you? I always hope I’ll run into you around town, this is so exciting. Are you going on a buying trip for the new store?”

Miriam winced. Not a Bloomer, not right now. The fandom for her online store, and its associated Instagram and Pinterest, was big enough that her followers had given themselves a name. She was used to getting recognized by Bloomers in public, but she couldn’t put on her Bloomer Face today.

Her carefully cultivated persona was for her own privacy. She was incredibly grateful to her fans for making her artwork a viable career, but they wanted to know her, and she barely wanted to know herself. Having that Bloomer Face to slip into had helped her avoid spending too much time in her own brain over the years, but today, when her past was at her doorstep, it was an ill-fitting costume.

She was grateful when Cole took over the conversation, snapping a selfie with the woman while he handed her both their IDs. He steered Miriam meekly to the winding line for TSA. She could barely feel her feet touching the floor. He continued their conversation as if she was responding. It was how he’d been talking to her, basically without stopping, for seventeen years.

“Isn’t Tara freaking out that you’re not helping her prepare for some terrible rich-people party her parents are throwing?” he asked as they put their shoes back on past security.

“Your parents are friends with her parents,” she pointed out. “You’re richer than she is. You took Tara to cotillion.”