About midway across the bridge, the couple paused and turned to ask us to snap their picture with the white lights as background. Arthur accepted their phone and as he was taking his time with the precise framing, the guy withdrew some mistletoe to hold over his wife’s (girlfriend’s? mistress’s?) head, pulling a goofy face as he kissed her cheek.

“Thanks, kid,” the guy said, as he accepted his phone back. “Want one of you two?”

“Oh, that’s not—” Arthur started.

“Sure,” I interrupted, and handed over my phone to the woman. This might be the one chance to sneak in a pic of the two of us and I was not about to let the opportunity slide.

Arthur assumed his usual robot-posture when caught off guard, but I knew he would and took further advantage of the moment to slip my arm through his and smile like a goofball.

As the woman framed the shot, the guy held up the mistletoe. “Wanna borrow . . . ?”

“No, thank you,” Arthur said.

“It’s a parasite,” I added.

The guy frowned at us in confusion, but Arthur looked down at me and we smiled at our own inside joke.

Ten minutes later we were on the other side of the bridge and in yet another line, this one for a hot beverage at one of the food trucks. I kept my eyes peeled for Grandma Jo and Aunt Esha, but neither was around. Which was fine. We were supposed to meet them back over by the camels in twenty minutes anyhow.

Once Arthur had his hot apple cider and I my peppermint tea, we slowly strolled toward the edge of the pond and stood there, side by side, gazing at the lights on the other bank. We were away from the hordes and it was quieter.

The moon shone down from high in the indigo sky, and the sounds of the festival seemed more distant from where we were, so that it felt like we were isolated. The bridge was very much in view still, which made me think of the photo we’d taken, and that reminded me . . .

“So, what was her name?” I asked, not expecting him to know what I meant, which he didn’t.

“Whose name?”

“Mistletoe girl.”

He returned his gaze out over the water and for a second I wasn’t sure he would answer.

But then he said, “Astrid.” And sighed heavily, almost a huff, and I saw his breath dance on the cold night air.

“Astrid,” I repeated, taking it in, rolling it around in my mind for a moment and deciding it belonged in the same family as Poppy or Millicent. “Is she still around?” I kept my voice casual. I was proud of that.

He shrugged one shoulder. “Somewhere.”

“Waiting for you?”

He laughed without humor. “No.”