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When it was just me, the kids, my parents, Landon, and Piper, it was a tight squeeze but manageable. With the addition of the four Michaelsons, the house is bursting at the seams, but I’m having the best birthday I’ve had in longer than I can remember.

Twenty-seven. Shit.

This time ten years ago, Piper and I lay under the Christmas tree in my parents’ living room, dreaming about the future, tipsy as hell. We were close enough to eighteen, and sensible enough, that my parents didn’t care if we had a few drinks at home.

We all expected that to be Piper’s last Christmas in Clover Pines—she swore she was leaving for college and never setting foot in the town unless she absolutely had to. Our admissions offers had started trickling in a few weeks before, and though neither of us said it, we both knew we were going to end up at the University of Alberta, in Edmonton. Piper wanted to be further away, but her dad was too sick to be more than a short flight away. We couldn’t have known he would pass before he could see her off to college.

“Where do you think you’ll be in ten years?” she asked, and the thought both terrified and thrilled me.

“Probably working in Calgary for some big research company where no one really knows each other because there are a billion employees. Maybe I’ll be married, and starting to think about having kids. I have no idea. What about you? Where do you think you’ll be?”

A grin lit Piper’s face. “Tokyo, teaching English. Or Barcelona, Prague, Doha … I could be anywhere in the world, but I sure as hell won’t be here. I’m so fucking excited.”

“I’m going to miss you.”

Piper twined her pinky with mine. “Let’s make a deal. Wherever we are in ten years, whatever we’re doing, we’ll meet halfway and spend your twenty-seventh birthday and Christmas together.”

“Deal,” I agreed, squeezing her pinky. “But let’s make it somewhere sunny. Barcelona sounds nice …”

We were too young, too full of hope, to have ever guessed what the next two years had in store for us, let alone ten. But here we are—as promised, twenty-seven and together—standing in my living room, watching Landon and Fallon chase the kids.

“Well, it’s no Barcelona,” I say, and Piper looks over at me, realization dawning on her face.

She chuckles. “That, it’s not. But that was never the important part. We’re here, we’re together. And I’m so proud of you.” She pulls me into a tight hug. “Happy birthday, Scar. It was all worth it.”

I really hit the best friend jackpot, I think as I squeeze her back. I know she gave up her dream of traveling to be here for me, though she’s never said it, and never once has she acted resentful toward me.

Regardless of where we thought we’d be this time ten years ago, we’re standing in a room full of people we love, who love us right back, and I couldn’t ask for more than that.

James runs past us, and Piper picks him up, swinging him around, both of them laughing. The kids are going to sleep like a dream tonight.

Killian is sitting on the couch with his mom, deep in conversation. When I perch on the arm of the couch beside him, he immediately takes my hand, like it’s second nature.

“All right, everyone! Movie time!” my dad shouts as he precariously carries through two trays full of homemade snacks. Ronan follows him with even more, and they somehow squeeze everything onto the coffee table. Our Christmas traditions are pretty laid-back, and mostly food-related. When I asked Killian what they usually did on Christmas Eve, he ranted for about ten minutes straight about his grandma forcing them all to go to church.

“I don’t mind church if it makes her happy, but the priest is fucking dull. Would a bit of festive cheer kill the man? Christ,” he’d said, glaring as if the priest could somehow see him from four thousand miles away.

While we can’t recreate church or a boring priest—nor would we want to—he also mentioned a movie they’ve watched every year since they were kids, and that we can do.

“You’re going to love it,” Carrie tells James as he climbs up onto her lap to watch the movie. I can’t believe how quickly he’s warmed up to all four Michaelsons.

Caitlin sits on Killian’s lap so I can squeeze in beside him, and between the loveseat, kitchen chairs, and a beanbag Landon carried over from Piper’s place, we all manage to get a good view of the TV.

I’ve never seen the movie they picked, The Snowman, but thankfully it doesn’t require much concentration, because Killian spends the whole time tracing patterns on the back of my hand with his finger. Even an innocent touch like this has me on edge, crackling with electricity.

It’s a sweet movie—one I can see us watching with the kids every year … until we get to the ending.

“What the hell? Why didn’t you warn us?” Piper cries from the beanbag, dabbing her face with her sleeve until Landon hands her a tissue—and keeps one for himself.

“It’s a canon event,” Fallon tells us. “Everyone cries at The Snowman.”

I wipe my face with my hands before looking around and, sure enough, almost everyone is a little teary.

“I don’t think it was sad,” Caitlin declares. “He can build a new snowman! Can we build snowmen, Mama?”

“It’s too dark outside, but you can do it tomorrow at the farm,” I promise.

The conversation turns to other favorite Christmas movies, and I lean toward the table to peruse the treats. I grab a butter tart but I don’t manage to take a bite before there’s a knock on the door. It’s unusual for me to have visitors, period, let alone on Christmas Eve. Huh.