Mimi disappeared out the revolving door and onto the shuttle and into the night.

And Ezra sat there, the mistletoe still hanging above the doorway, and stared out the window at the very place where his big, expansive love had turned him down, and felt, actually, for the first time in a long time, at peace.

THIRTY-SEVEN

Frankie

What had happened was Frankie’s doing, Frankie’s fault.

She ran down the aisle of Steinway, with Bono belting at her back, and knew this with complete certainty.

Gregory had been wrong. Ezra hadn’t been playing poker because of him; Ezra had been playing poker because of her.

By the time they got to Lemonhead, the two of them—Gregory and Ezra—had been quite obviously drunk. She was still sober, but the spill at Abel and the lump on her skull had the world spinning. And Ezra, alternately hysterical and self-soothing from Mimi’s voicemail, decided that, in lieu of being able to channel his energy into the world’s most perfect proposal—she remembered he’d said that as they scurried from Abel Rink: it was going to be the world’s most perfect proposal and now she can’t get here?—he was going to channel his energy into ensuring that she, Frankie, did not die of a head injury.

She wouldn’t. She kept telling him. I won’t die of a head injury. This has happened before. Frankie didn’t quite know how that was meant to be reassuring: that she’d previously been concussed. Why did she live a lifestyle that led to such things?

They’d made it to Lemonhead for their ice packs, and eventually, it became obvious that Gregory was not emerging from inside the bar. Ezra could have left her too, after also heading inside to grab her the ice. He could have disappeared into the thicket of students who descended from their dorms through the snow to drink pitchers of beer because that’s what you did on frigid winter nights in Western Massachusetts. He could have sat her down in the little folding chair by the entrance and plopped the ice pack in her hand and said: Best of luck, Frankie Harriman. But that was not Ezra Jones.

With the clock ticking down to a new century, Frankie made it to Steinway’s lobby and stopped to catch her breath, a cramp building in her side. No, that would never be Ezra Jones. A swell of emotion rose up in her. Was it gratitude? Was it nostalgia? She shook her head. She didn’t know. This was new territory for her: seeking something, someone, out instead of waiting for it to find her.

“I still hate you,” Frankie had mumbled last night at the entrance to Lemonhead as she leaned into him, her chin heavy on his chest. Though visibly intoxicated, he was solid on his feet, and he held her weight on him assuredly.

“And I still hate you,” Ezra replied, but Frankie hadn’t thought it really sounded like he meant it. Perhaps these were just lies they told themselves so that their wounds healed faster. Perhaps when you told yourself a story long enough, often enough, you tricked your mind into believing that it was true. Frankie slid down to the sodden floor of the bar and plopped her head into her hands.