“Arms up,” Mr. Johnson instructs. “Now suck in. There we go.”
The jacket pulls across his shoulders in a way that should look awkward but instead highlights every line of muscle underneath. His wrists show past the cuffs—somehow even that's attractive. This is deeply unfair. I want to kiss him senseless right here in front of Mr. Johnson.
Near the wings, the mice are in the middle of a sword battle run-through, cardboard weapons covered in additional layers of tin foil.
Josh, mid-battle, breaks into his tap step.
Mrs. Kowalski holds up her hand. “Beautiful footwork, Josh, but mice don't tap dance.”
“Why not?” Josh asks, genuinely curious.
Everyone pauses. It's a good question.
“Because,” Mrs. Kowalski says slowly, “mice ... scurry.”
Josh considers this, then nods solemnly. “That makes sense.”
“Places for Act I!” Mrs. Kowalski calls. “This is it, everyone. Final show. Make it count.”
Party parents file to their positions. Kids scramble to the wings.
Evan takes my hand as we move to our entrance spot. “Ready?”
“With you? Absolutely.”
The lights dim. The overture begins, pulling us all into its charming world. The curtain rises.
We walk onto the stage together, and I'm not thinking about the photo or the past week or what comes next. I'm just here, in this moment, with Evan's hand in mine.
The party scene unfolds around us. We move through the choreography we've learned, smooth now, easy. I catch Evan's eye mid-scene. He's grinning, unguarded. Completely present.
Marie enters as Clara, radiant in her party dress, about to receive her nutcracker doll. Offstage, Josh is adjusting his mouse costume.
The tree hasn't grown yet. Everything is still about to happen.
Epilogue
HOLLY
Six Months Later - June
Will Harrington's launch party is nothing like what I expected from a billionaire who just sold his company. No ice sculptures, no champagne fountain, no corporate executives in Italian suits. Instead, there's a rescue dog adoption station in the corner, craft beer from local breweries, and Will himself in jeans and a button-down with—yes—actual dog hair on it.
“This is perfect,” he tells me, surveying the converted warehouse space. “Not a victory lap. Just ... saying thank you to everyone who helped build BarkMatch.”
Will's mom places her hand on his arm. “Now Will, tell me again how this works.”
“Mom, you know this. Like a dating app, but for dog adoption. Matches dogs with potential owners based on compatibility.”
“So like Grindr for dogs?” someone jokes.
“No, definitely not.” Will nearly chokes on a laugh, but recovers quickly. “More like Plenty of Fish but, you know, dogs.”
“And AI,” a party guest adds, looking confused. “How does that even?—”
Will grins. “The AI analyzes behavioral patterns from successful adoptions to predict compatibility. It's pretty straightforward?—”
“Magic. Got it,” the guest says, wandering off.
