Grandma Jo had told me that was when they were headed out. Clearly, they wanted to leave as soon as possible. Why else travel on the actual holiday? Arthur’s magic credit card could easily buy them a longer hotel stay. But that wasn’t what they wanted.

They wanted to blow this Popsicle stand.

Deuces.

Peace on Earth on the way outta town.

I couldn’t blame it all on Grandma Jo, either. I knew I played a part. I also knew Arthur well enough by now, and even his aunt to a degree, to know that if either of them had expressed even the slightest interest in staying, whether it was in Oklahoma itself or the Hoyden specifically, the other would have given in at once. I liked that about them, how they supported each other.

But it was obvious neither had done that. And so I would likely never see Arthur again. Not if I stayed here. In Christmas.

I’d been standing outside for close to ten minutes, my hands in my coat pockets, my red knit cap pulled down over my ears. I had on a scarf and gloves, but my shoes were just basic Adidas and my socks only slightly thicker than average so my toes were already icicles.

It’s what broke me from my inertia to finally go inside.

Along the way I passed a few familiar faces, but though my time away hadn’t been long in the grand scheme of things, it took a few extra beats for their names to click. Kimmy Bunting’s little sister was in the middle of chugging a bottle of Bacardi 151. Her parents were gonna love that.

I only got some waves and head bobs, which I returned in kind before entering the blessedly warm house.

I knew this house. Brody and I used to come here all the time less than a year ago. God, was it really that recent? It felt like an eternity.

Nothing had changed. The foyer was still lined with framed photos of him, his parents, and his older brothers. Benton and Bryson.

It smelled the same, too, despite the overwhelming pungency of spilled beer and booze, pot, and cigarettes. Mrs. Tuck always liked to keep bowls of potpourri stashed around the house, which she would change with each season. Spring was roses, summer was lavender, autumn was cloves and oranges, and winter was pine. I could make out the hints of pine, buried beneath it all.

The noise level was overwhelming. The living room was crammed with people, shout-talking, laughing, smoking, lotta dancing. In the minute since I’d walked in, the temperature had gone up by forty degrees, but I didn’t unbutton my coat.