“Who are you competing against, and why are you so determined to win?”

  Pressure builds in my head, my temples throbbing, blood pounding in my ears. “What? What?! Win what? What am I winning? I’m exhausted, all the fucking time, all the fucking time. And when I come here, I’m just as exhausted, but I know you wanna see me, when I need those weekend days to recuperate as much as I can to make it through the following week, and the following one. I’m stretched thin, Mom, I have no energy to talk.”

  “It worries me, how much you keep inside. Do you speak to Brody, at least?”

  “Why would I speak to Brody? He’s not going to be around for much longer, anyway,” I grumble, looking away. The blood’s pounding out a harsh rhythm in my ears, and I want to punch something, hurt someone.

  “Why did he ever have to come back?” I ask miserably, sliding my eyes closed, and trying to concentrate on my breathing.

  “Oh, sweetie, she didn’t actually mean that.” Mom says, and I open my eyes to find Brody, hulking man and ninja-walker, standing in the kitchen with his plate in hand, looking like he’s just been shot.

  I glance at him, watch the hurt written all over his face and it gives me some kind of vicious glee.

  Now he knows what it’s like, to be left behind for greener pastures. Now he knows what it felt like to be left behind.

  Now he knows.

  “I didn’t know you felt that way, Amber.”

  My heart twists in my chest, a steadily growing ache as if it’s being shredded to pieces. I should say something, but I don’t. It’s not really how I feel, not really. But it’s just that we’ve been dodging each other for so long now that we’re here again, it’s all too scary for me, all too real.

  I don’t want to be that girl who marries her high school sweetheart; I’m smarter than that, and even though my parents are a prime example of it working, I know the statistics: more often than not, these kinds of relationships are doomed to failure.

  But my heart…my dumb, stupid heart leaps at the chance of spending a lifetime with Brody Kane, of getting to go on adventures with him, of slow dancing in the kitchen while we get wine drunk, laughing and kissing, and holding each other tight, tight, tight.

  Am I willing to gamble on that, on that kind of bliss that I had once upon a time, and losing it all again?

  I’m a sensitive person, it’ll take me a very long time to recover if Brody leaves me behind again. And I have too much to do to go through with that.

  Who needs the heartache, who needs it?

  Except isn’t that what you’re feeling right now?

  I woke up this morning not knowing that Brody would be looking at me like this, heartbroken, in agony as he stands there, just looking at me, making me witness what I’ve done.

  “It’s better like this,” I say, knowing it is the right thing to say, even if it doesn’t feel that way, not at all, not one bit. “You’re going to be leaving in a few weeks anyway.” I shrug, and Mom just glances between us, rooted to the spot.

  I don’t mind that she’s sitting there, watching all of this go down. Maybe she won’t ever bother me with Brody Kane and his awesomeness ever again, knowing that I’m the one to end it with the exact way that Brody’s looking at me right now, even if it feels like I’m dying a little.

  I know it could only be worse if he decided to leave first.

  So I’m taking the initiative. I just didn’t know I’d be doing this today.

  “My plans are still up in the air,” he says, moving over to the kitchen island and placing his plate and cutlery into the sink.

  I nod, because I think we both know he’s just saying that to placate me, but it’s not going to work. “That’s fine. I’m glad for you, really, that you’re figuring everything out, that you’re trying to get past what your injury has done to you.” I nod, more to myself than anything.

  “Amber…”

  I shake my head now, a quick twist of my neck that makes something pull deep in my shoulder, but I ignore it, ignore the dying star that is my heart, a violent eruption and contraction that’s agonizing. I glance down at my plate, for once, my appetite gone like it never was.

  “Yeah, I think it’s better this way.”

  “Amber,” Mom hisses but I ignore her.

  “I’ll show you out, Brody,” I say, ignoring the fact that he’s the one who drove us here, and I have no way of getting home unless I bum a ride from my parents or brave public transportation that’ll take me three times longer than the twenty-five-minute drive to get back to my house.

  There’s just no way I’m getting back into the car with him, that’s a car ride I never want to experience.

  I leave the kitchen, Mom’s voice falling on deaf ears as she calls for my dad, and I head towards the entranceway, my hand grabbing onto the cold, cold doorknob, making the soft skin of my palm throb in sweet pain, dwarfed completely by the pain in my chest.

  “So this is it, we’re done?” Brody asks, vibrating, hands clenched into fists even as he shoves his feet into his own pair of boots.

  I shake my head. “We never were, so there’s nothing that’s really done. I’m tired of doing everything for everybody when all I want to do is rest. I shouldn’t have really agreed to see you in the first place. I don’t care anymore what my parents think. I’m too tired for it all.”

  “Amber, you look pale,” he says worriedly, and his hand comes up as if he’s going to touch my face, but I step back, tripping over someone’s shoe (I blame my dad) and hit my back against the wall with an audible thud, making my heart leap in my chest. “Shit, you don’t look good.”

  I shake my head, afraid that he’s going to touch me, that I want him to touch me, that I need him to because I don’t always feel so drained when I’m with him, that I don’t have to be on all the time, that I can let myself rest with him, let myself just be.

  What’s the point if he’s leaving soon?

  Just…what’s the point?

  “I can still drive you home. You can sit in the backseat—you don’t even have to look at me if you don’t want.”

  I shake my head, twisting the doorknob and opening the door, leaning my head against it, letting the cold air prickle against my exposed skin through the darts in my giant sweater. “Just go. Please, just go.”

  “Amber…I—”

  “Brody, just go,” I growl, thunking my forehead against the door, enjoying the flare of pain that distracts me from the pain in my heart.

  “Okay, Amber. Get home safely.”

  And with that Brody Kane walks out of my life, once and for all.

  I put on my own boots, grab my purse and bag when I’m sure that Brody’s left, and I yell goodbye to my parents, heading out myself, starting to walk towards the bus terminal, letting myself drift in my head as I replay this whole last hour of my life.

  It’s better this way, easier this way.

  Or so I tell myself.

  NINETEEN

  Christmas Day…

  There’s a lot of wrangling going on Christmas morning as I rush through getting dressed, having been unable to fall asleep the night before until three o’clock in the morning, so naturally I wake up late, and I was supposed to bake some cookies for the day at my parents’ place, and I was going to do them this morning (the New York Times Chocolate Chip Cookie recipe that’s supposed to be mind-melting), but now I have to rush through everything.

  The holidays have once again snuck up on me.

  When did we get to December?

  When did we get to the almost-end of December?

  When did Christmas get here without me actively realizing it?

  I remember when we were little, Max and Vick and I, we all had advent calendars in each of our houses (mine was Disney-themed), one of those cute ones that had a Christmas tree on it, and you were supposed to pin the themed ornaments on it each day since we’d usually save the chocolate advent calendars for Christmas Eve.

  Our parents would hope and pray that after the sugar high (after eating all twenty-four of them in a row) the crash would make us sleep through the Christmas Eve night, and hopefully not wake them up so early in the morning.

  I’ve met people in my life who were Christmas people, loved everything about the entire month of December, the pretty snow falling from the sky (even though it’s a prelude to the harsh winter of January and icy, freezing rain in February), but none can perfectly describe my Aunt Ella, and her love for the holiday. Maybe it has something to with my aunt growing up in a tiny village outside of Naples, Italy and never having much on the holiday itself, but either way she goes pedal-to-the-metal when it comes to Christmas time, even though it’s my mom’s year to host.

  My presents have been wrapped since November (since I’ve been caught flat-footed too many times in the past and the way time moves very oddly around this time of year to not have my present purchased and wrapped in advance—I don’t need that extra stress in my life), and I move them towards the front door of my house, right next to my (now dry) boots, putting everything together so I can take them out to the car in one shot.

  I mix up the cookie batter lightning quick, and while I put them in to bake, I rush back upstairs to my en suite, take the quickest shower known to man, and start to get ready, racing the kitchen timer.

  It’s been three weeks or so since Brody walked out of my parents’ house, three weeks (almost four) since I took public transit home and got yelled at over the phone by my mother, as if I’m some little kid or something.

  I took the yelling, though, turning down the volume and letting her yell at me on the walk home from the bus stop about how embarrassed she was because of what I did, how she won’t be able to face Emily Kane forevermore.

  “Now, tell me why you did it?” she asks, and it throws me for a second that her volume has gone down by a few decibels and there’s actually concern in her voice.

  “Why?”

  “Yeah, kiddo, why? Why did you push him away like that? Why did you do that when you’ve been three-quarters in love with that boy since you were sixteen years old?”

  I want to laugh, but it comes out in a watery gurgle, and I hastily scrub at my face in case one of my neighbors see me and starts to ask questions. I’m too tired to fend off questions, people should mind their business. “Three-quarters in love? Yeah? Is that a thing?” I sniff hard, mopping at my face.

  “Why, sweetheart, did you push him away like that? Why?”

  “Why do you sound like you’re crying?” I sigh, sniffing hard again, really needing a whole box of tissue since I don’t think one lonely one is going to actually cut it.

  “Because you’re hurting and I’m hurting because you’re hurting. You’re so smart, but sometimes you’re a doofus.”

  “A doofus?”

  “A doofus. That boy is crazy over you! I thought he was going to drop to his knees in agony with everything you were telling him. It was like watching a romantic tragedy without all the death.”

  “Mom,” I groan, unlocking my front door, unlocking my alarm, and closing up behind me, wanting nothing more than to trudge upstairs and soak myself in scalding hot water and try to forget that everything happened today, that I didn’t say what I said, that I didn’t see what I saw written all over Brody’s face.

  “Yeah, what? I’ve got eyes, don’t I? I saw what I saw! He’s been head over heels for you since he was sixteen years old, and I don’t know why you guys just can’t—” She sounds like she’s struggling with something, like opening up a jar, or trying to fit a square peg into a round hole—it’s just not going to happen.

  “You’re both driving me crazy. Both of you. Emily and I thought this was really going to work this time, what with that poor kid coming home to recuperate from his injury.”

  “Hold on, hold on a sec.” I wrap my knuckles against my bedroom door, like a judge’s gavel, calling everyone to order, but Mom bull-dozes over me.

  “This whole time, you were supposed to see that the both of you are perfect for each other. Perfect. How badly did I screw this up with you? Did I force you into something you didn’t want to do? Tell me, I can take it.”

  I snort, clutching at my sweater over my chest, trying to find a reason why it hurts so much, why every breath hurts so much when I cut my losses, and I should be feeling better.

  “You didn’t force me into anything.”

  “Yeah…and? I swear, it’s like pulling teeth with you these past few years. Do you even remember how much you used to talk?”

  I shake my head, realize she can’t see me. “No, I was never that much of a talker.”

  “Of like, stupid shit, boring shit. But get you started on something you were excited about? Hell, you’d never shut up. Brody Kane would look at you talking like that, a besotted fool, and it made my heart flutter that you were going to have that, have a man that was excited to listen to you.”

  “It’s not always like that, Mom. It can’t be.”

  “Maybe not always, that initial rush of feeling, sure, it cools down after a little bit, doesn’t mean it’s completely gone or dead. I don’t understand some couples sometimes. But I guess I was blessed to find your father when I did. I would have waited for him forever.”

  It brings more tears to my eyes, listening to her talk about Dad like that, like he was worth waiting for.

  “I don’t…” I gulp down audibly, fighting for control over my breathing, over my emotions. God, feelings are the worst. Shit.

  “I don’t think I’m worth waiting for. We missed our chance, okay? Brody and I…it just doesn’t make sense anymore. How can I be with someone I’ve loved since I was sixteen? Isn’t that pathetic? Why aren’t you being the voice of reason?”

  Mom tuts, while I start pulling out clothes of my sleep-clothes drawer, getting a fresh pair of underwear and bra, and my fuzziest and coziest reading socks to put on after I’ve donned my flannel pajamas that I paid a fortune for but are literally worth every penny, nabbing all of them and heading to the bathroom.

  “I don’t know why it has to be one over the other—reason or emotion. Life isn’t like that, ever.”

  I stop in my tracks, glancing around my bathroom, absentmindedly turning on the bathtub faucet after plugging it up.

  “I just…I don’t want you to regret anything, to regret this chance, to settle for someone else who isn’t worthy of you. That boy…he’s the real deal, and if he’s thought of you as much as you’ve thought of him over the years…it means that this will get resolved sooner or later. So I’m gonna leave you to it, kid. Relax for today, and I’ll see you soon. I love you with my entire person, all five feet of me, and the apparent trillions of cells I seem to have.”

  I roll my eyes, then start tearing up again.

  How can I be crying so much? Am I going to be like Alice in Wonderland and drown in my own damn tears?

  It kinda feels like it.

  Now I’m here with me shoving the not-completely-cooled cookies into a glass container, wrestling with the lid enough that I’ve got a light sweat going on with all the layers I’m wearing to brave the cold, my makeup understated except for the bright red lip that’s more festive than vampy and had outside to start shoveling stuff into my car after donning my coat.

  It’s Prewitt family chaos at my parents’ house, cars parked all the way to the garage door, and I can just see Max and Izzy walking up the stairs as I pull up and park at the curb. I’m at my parents’ own house and I can’t park in the lot, the utter betrayal.

  I park, yell at Izzy who’s about to head inside, and she comes prancing down the stairs in the way that young people do (heh) and I start handing her the giant reusable bags I’ve used to pack everything together, saving me an extra trip to the car.

  We both head inside, the house unnaturally warm from all the cooking happening in the kitchen, and I’m already starting to sweat underneath my coat as I tow in the presents and place them underneath the gargantuan tree that’s too big for the house, like a crammed-in version of Christmas cheer.

  I go back to leave my coat behind in the entrance closet, fighting with everyone else’s puffy coats to make sure it fits, and then head inside, counting off people in my head, noticing that everybody got here before me, and shit, I thought I was being punctual.

  I bring the containers of cookies over to the dessert section of the kitchen table, stacking them so as not to take up too much room, give my mom a kiss on the cheek and wish her Merry Christmas before I can extricate myself from immediate kitchen help duty, and try to find my dad and the aunts who are bringing things up from the downstairs fridge, wishing everyone an MC before finding everyone else.

  I get a giant bear hug from my dad, his hand going to the back of my head in a way that he hasn’t done since I was a child, an embrace that used to make me feel invincible, that I was safe within the circle of his fragile arms, but I know better now.

  It pinches my heart, the way he just holds the back of my head for a second, murmuring “Merry Christmas” in my ear before he lets go of me, and I’m ashamed at the pain at the back of my throat, at the way my eyes are going blurry from unshed tears.

  I don’t want to do this today, I don’t want to start crying.

  The holidays in general are just another reason, a benchmark if you will, of how far I’ve come, and how far I’ve yet to go.

  I had Brody Kane back in my life for a little while, and it feels all the worse now that I’ve lost him, that I pushed him away as I had, as I had intended to do all along, it seems.

  It’s a lot of hustle and bustle until I get hugged hard by Vick first and then Max collides with us and I’m in a crushing group hug, and I’m not gonna lie, it feels pretty great to be squished with love and affection. I didn’t really know how much I needed it, didn’t know I could ask for it, until my cousins are already here and squeezing the life out of me.

  “We heard…” Max says, voice muffled against my shoulder. I haven’t even seen her properly, wondering if she’s been hiding away with Vick to avoid Evie and Izzy reminiscing about the winter carnival event they went to the week before and talking about the guys they met there. It sometimes feels like we’re more than three years apart, that generational divide somehow more apparent when we’re altogether. “We heard about Brody.”