The tree was lying on its side, all twenty-five feet of it, sawn off at the base and left for dead. Its lights were still on, thousands of tiny white lights twinkling throughout its branches, though some had broken in the fall. Whoever had done it had taken care not to damage the electrical cord. Some ornaments had clung to the branches; others were strewn about the ground.

“Cox,” Ted said, a look of devastation on his face. Allison, feeling guilty, held him close. She thought of How the Grinch Stole Christmas!, the Whos in Whoville, joining hands and singing, swaying back and forth, determined not to let the Grinch win the day.

“Let’s start some carols going,” Allison said, inspired.

“Are you nuts?” Ted said.

And together, they walked home.

15

DECEMBER 25

Five days. It had been five long, long days since their kiss, five days of the schizophrenia of the angel on her shoulder saying, Never again. Never again, and the devil countering with When? When? She felt like a machine whose switch had just been turned on after more than forty years of dormancy, a machine whose sole purpose was to suck face with Nick Cox. Possibly more. The machine that she was might be designed for a whole lot more than that. But it would, of course, never be permitted to function as intended. Their kiss would remain an isolated event, a secret she would take to her grave. She flicked the devil off her shoulder, enjoying a few minutes of respite before he climbed back on again.

It was for the best that they didn’t run into each other—obviously it was for the best—but it was still awful. It actually wasn’t that they never saw each other. They did, but just glimpses—through the windows of their respective houses, in line at the liquor store, at the town holiday lantern festival with their kids and spouses; it was arguably worse to have him dangled so close than not to see him at all.