"Actually!" Danny shoots up again. "Did you know LED stands for Luminous Enchantment Devices? They're using the color patterns to manipulate our shopping habits!"
"Thank you, Danny." Margaret doesn't even blink.
"You laugh now," he mutters, settling back into his seat, "but when you find yourself inexplicably buying candy canes at three a.m. . . ."
Vinnie leans over, her voice a whisper. "Think he knows I'm the one who's been leaving conspiracy theory books in his mailbox?"
"You didn't," I whisper back, but her grin tells me everything.
"TheAncient Aliens Christmas SpecialDVD was a particularly inspired touch," Ethan adds.
The meeting wraps up, and I'm gathering my things when Vinnie loops her arm through mine.
"Walk with us?" she asks, already steering me toward the door. "Ethan's making his famous hot chocolate, and I need someone to help me convince him that adding peppermint syrup isn't 'compromising the integrity of the recipe.'"
"It absolutely is," he protests, while holding the door for us both.
We step out into the December evening, our boots crunching on fresh snow. Main Street has been decked for holiday season—twinkle lights reflecting off shop windows, wreaths on every door, and the faintest scent of pine and woodsmoke in the air. The old clock tower wears a crown of evergreen garland, its face glowing warm against the dark winter sky.
Our path takes us past storefronts transformed for the season. Nutcrackers standing guard at the bookstore, vintage glass ornaments catching lamplight in the antique shop window, and the bakery's display of gingerbread houses dusted with powdered sugar snow. Even the old post office has embraced the spirit, its brass letterboxes wrapped in candy-cane striped ribbon.
"So," Vinnie bumps my shoulder, "excited for your parents to come home for Christmas?"
"Yeah." I smile, thinking of their latest video call. "Was good seeing them in Bali."
"That trip looked incredible," Vinnie sighs dreamily. "All those temples, the beaches . . ."
"We should do a girls' trip next year," I suggest. "Maybe not Bali, but somewhere. Adventureawaits, and all that."
"Oh no," Ethan groans. "Please don't encourage her. She'll have a PowerPoint presentation ready by morning."
"Bold of you to assume I haven't already started one," Vinnie teases, reaching up to adjust his scarf.
"You're impossible," he says fondly, catching her hand and pressing a kiss to her palm.
"You love it."
"God help me, I do."
I watch them, these two people who found each other in the most ordinary way and have built something extraordinary. It makes me hopeful. And maybe a little lonely.
"Well, this is me," I say as we reach my turn-off. "Try not to stay up all night planning international adventures."
"No promises!" Vinnie calls back, already tucked into Ethan's side as they continue down the street.
The walk home feels longer in winter. Everything's muffled by snow, the world wrapped in quiet. My cottage looks welcoming ahead; warm lights in the windows, and smoke curling from the chimney where I forgot to close the flue again.
But something's missing.
By now, Caleb would usually be sprawled on my couch, critiquing my Netflix queue, or trying to convince Salem that they're best friends. He'd be planning our annual Christmas movie marathon, complete with his terrible hot chocolate (how does someone mess up powder and water?) and running commentary about how every Hallmark film is basically the same plot.
Last year, he carved the "turkey" at Christmas dinner. Mom was deep in her vegan phase, and the so-called bird was some unholy creation of tofu and wheat gluten, molded into what vaguely resembled poultry, if you squinted and had several glasses of wine.
The look on his face when he took that first bite—pure horror contained behind a polite smile—still makes me laugh. But he'deaten two helpings, praised Mom's creativity, and later ordered a pizza that we shared on my back porch.
I wonder if he'll stay in Boston for Christmas.
The thought cuts through before I can shove it down. I could ask James or Brodie. They'd know his plans. But I've worked so hard to avoid all Caleb-adjacent conversations. To rebuild my life without that constant almost-something taking up space in my heart. I didn't even wish him happy birthday last month.
