School had let out for winter break, and I was lying in bed, savoring that invincible, one-whole-week-off feeling. I was making plans for the new year, wild ones. I’d learn French, because that was alluring, unlike Spanish, which my parents had been making me take because they insisted it would benefit me in the corporate world.

Maybe I’d apply for my first real summer job that didn’t involve babysitting rich camp kids. I’d care more about my appearance: I’d use whatever money I got for Christmas and buy pieces for my wardrobe that I could accessorize with the help of YouTube so that everyone would think I was an artsy, classy chick. Maybe I’d dye my hair blue. I still didn’t have a thing, but I was okay with it. Like Declan said, it was okay. Not having a thing was my thing.

And when Declan went off to UPenn (he hadn’t gotten accepted yet, but he was a shoo-in), I’d visit him in Philadelphia every weekend. He’d show me off to all the jealous girls in his dorm, and we’d walk down the city streets, hand in hand, like real adults. We’d stop in little shops and admire the offerings, and we’d share an ice cream cone. I could see him dropping to his knee and proposing, like he’d talked about. As ridiculous as it had sounded when he’d first mentioned it, I’d gradually warmed to the idea.

At this time, next year, I could be Mrs. Declan Weeks.

I grinned as the doorbell rang downstairs. I checked my phone. It was after noon. Throwing my hoodie over my PINK tank top, I scuffed into my giant unicorn slippers and ran downstairs. I opened the door to Declan. He was holding a tiny wrapped box.

He narrowed his eyes at me. “Let me guess. You just woke up.”

I nodded. “Hell yes. It’s the first day of winter break.” I motioned to the box. “Is that for me?”

“It’s actually for your mom,” he said as I pushed open the screen door for him. “Of course it’s for you, dummy.”

I grinned. Then I read the little Christmas-tree-shaped card on the top, and my expression soured. “‘Do not open until Xmas’…really? Why give it to me now? Scumbag.”

He dug his hands into his pockets and looked sheepish. I knew him so well that I found myself bracing for the big bomb drop. “Because my stepdad surprised us with a trip to Split Rock Lodge,” he said. “We leave this afternoon.”

“What?”

He let out a bitter laugh. “You know me and winter sports,” he said, twirling a pointer finger in the air. “Woo-hoo. I mean, why go to church on Christmas when you can freeze your ass off on top of a mountain?”