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“You’ve what?” Beth asks at the same time as I yelp, “You what?”

Our gazes collide, and an invisible spark snaps in the space between us. Beth looks away and I look down at my mom, scowling.

“You haven’t mentioned this. I thought I was staying in town to help you.”

“Helping with the Dash is helping me.” My mom looks up at me, her deep-set dark eyes so like my own. Right now, they’re flashing with determination. “I don’t want to leave Beth in the lurch, and I don’t want to give up on establishing this event. Like you said, you’ve already cleared your schedule to be here for my surgery and recovery.”

“I’ll still have to rehearse and stuff, though,” I interrupt her. “And I have the concert this weekend I have to fly back for, and I’m recording the Christmas special on the nineteenth.”

“Sure, and that’s fine. But while you’re here, you can help.”

“I’m sure we can figure something out here.” Beth’s voice is higher than usual, bordering on frantic. “We don’t need to inconvenience Gabe. Ivy can help me.” She turns to her business partner. “Right, Ivy?”

Ivy, who has been staring at me, swallows and glances at Beth. “Actually, I’m not going to be much help this month.”

“You’re not?” Beth blinks. “Why?”

“Um, well—you know . . . because I’ll be here, running the bookstore.”

Beth frowns. “So?”

“So.” Ivy stretches out the word. She keeps glancing between me and Beth, and I have the sneaking suspicion that she’s up to something. “Since you have all your other December commitments, someone has to stick around here to keep the lights on. Literally.” She points up at the ceiling. “Enter moi.”

“But—I—we can do it together,” Beth stutters out. “Just like we always do.”

Ivy shakes her head. “We can’t both coordinate the Christmas Dash. Then no one would be around here to run the store.”

“We have our hourly staff,” Beth argues.

Ivy arches her brows. “You trust the high schoolers to handle crises and the busy holiday-shopping season? Now, if you’re ready to take my suggestion of hiring more full-time help, then we can talk.”

“We can’t hire right now, so I guess . . .” Beth’s shoulders roll inward. She glances up at me, resigned. She looks a little queasy. “I guess it’s up to you and me. I mean, if you’re up for it.”

She reaches up and massages the back of her neck, as if trying to work out a knot of stress. The sweater she has on is drapey and hanging off one of her shoulders, revealing a tantalizing swath of smooth skin, and I have to look away. I pivot my gaze to my mom, who looks up at me imploringly.

“Please, Gaber.”

I look back at Beth. “Fine.”

My mom sighs. “I knew I could count on you both. The first annual Christmas Dash is in excellent hands.”

“Thanks,” I say dryly. “Are we done here? We have to get you to the doctor so we can get your pre-op info. Right, Mom?”

“Yep. I’ll head out to the car and meet you there. You and Beth should huddle up and figure out a game plan. Time is ticking.” My mom struggles to get to her feet.

I help her get her crutches situated. “I’ll come with you.”

“No,” she says with emphasis. “You and Beth get a time figured out to start your planning.”

“But it’s icy out there, and that’s what landed you in this whole situation.” I sound desperate to leave the bookstore. In a way, I am. But it’s not because I don’t want to be around Beth. It’s because I do. And when I’m around her, it hurts too much to think about what might have been. Five years is a long time—long enough to convince myself I had moved on. But all of this close contact with my ex-best friend tells a different story. It would seem my heart’s made a U-turn and has every intention of winding up back at Beth’s door.

The guilt I feel for leading her on—kissing her—and then leaving, coupled with the fact that she’s never let me explain, wraps me in a headlock.

“Relax, Gabe.” Mom leans forward and pats me on the cheek. “I’m perfectly capable of crutching my way across the street and down the block to the car. I’ll wait for you there and then we can go.”

Sometimes I want to scream at my mother for being so dang independent. I can’t blame her. My dad left her to fend for herself—and me—when I was seven years old. She had to figure out how to stand on her own two feet. And she did. Better than most people.

I look down at her boot now and sigh. “Be careful. I’ll be out in a bit.”