I laugh, shaking my head. “No, your instincts were right. It feels good to do something fun and”—my chin weakens and my throat gets tight—“I sat with it alone for so long, it’s nice to do this. She would hate this, but I love it!”

The few people listening laugh, and so do I.

The night is so fun. There’s a live jazz band in the restaurant playing old holiday standards. We’ve gotten dozens of oysters, fried calamari, bread and butter, and prawn cocktails—which are a lot different than shrimp cocktails in America, possibly not for the better—and bottle after bottle of champagne.

This is exactly what I want. To be around good people and have a nice time, laughing a lot. Giving something like her birthday a little happiness and festivity. She always hated that it was so close to Christmas, but for me, I think of it as a way to ensure that every year, the world decorates for her.

After dinner, we all say a long, chatty goodbye on the cold, snowy (yes, snowy!) sidewalk outside the restaurant, making excited comments about the upcoming performances, which start in a few days. Then Nelle, myself, and a few others decide to keep going and head to a nearby pub.

The place is cramped and cozy, reminding me distinctly of Cairdeas Pub, which I’ve imagined would have been almost too adorable around the holiday season.

It’s decorated with delightfully tacky tinsel, garlands, and colorful lights. There are ugly sweaters everywhere and there’s a drunk Santa in the corner with his fake beard pulled down beneath his chin.

I squeeze up to the bar to order us a round of beers, insisting that I’ll get them while the others go to a table.

The bartender comes over and I order a round of five Guinnesses. He nods and goes off to get them, and then, through the din, I hear a voice.

“Christ on a bloody knitting needle, I’ve been waiting fifteen minutes for a pint!”

I know that voice.

I look around and see, two people down from me, the most distinctly familiar face. Freckled. Bright blue eyes.

Kiera.

I stare at her and she sees me. The moment of recognition from her makes my heart nearly stop as she points and says, “Feck, it’s you!”

I stop short of saying her name as she squeezes past the people between us and says, “You’re Lana bloody Lord, aren’t you?”

Of course. The look of recognition isn’t because I’m Meg. It’s because of TV.

But that doesn’t explain it. How is she here?

I nod, speechless, and she says, “I wondered how you got a drink so fast. What are you doing in London? Please tell me that Brilliance is coming back for another season.”

I shake my head. “No, no. It’s over.”

“Damn,” she says.