Ugly Sweater Weather

I figured what I said was right.

Rebecca and Zach were my friends. And the rules of breakups—friendship and otherwise—said that whoever had the friends first, got to keep them after the fallout.

Dea knew that. After her last semi-serious relationship, she'd cut ties with a girl she'd really clicked with because she was the ex's sister.

She wasn't going to show up at my friends' Christmas Eve party.

Rebecca and Zach lived in a top floor open-concept loft that they'd lovingly renovated over the past eight months. It was all dark wood and exposed brick with a square-shaped sectional surrounded by packed low bookshelves.

A massive dining room lined the back of the sectional, butted up close to the floor-to-ceiling windows. To the right of that was the kitchen with its stainless steel everything—countertops included—subway tile, and open shelving.

There was a room to the side of the kitchen that was likely intended as a third bedroom, but was being used as a home office.

There was a hallway just inside the front door that led down to the giant bathroom that was still missing its walls, and then the two bedrooms.

Rebecca and Zach were platonic life partners. They had been for longer than I had known them, so going on six years. Neither had any interest in marriage or children, but liked having someone around to work on projects with, to eat dinner across the table from, to go to events with.

And aside from being incredibly self-aware and forward-thinking in their unique lifestyle, they also threw the best parties known to mankind.

Nothing was overlooked. Which meant the entire loft was decked out in twinkle lights. They lined the walls, draped the ceiling, wrapped around the massive tree that was decorated in ornaments they'd carefully picked out together along their travels over the time they'd known each other.

The kitchen island was covered in finger foods. The sideboard was loaded down with liquor. The speakers were pumping out carols. And the people were crushed into the large space.

I knew a handful of faces, but found myself avoiding them as I drank my first, second, and third drinks, starting to feel a warm numbness that was chasing away the aching sadness inside.

Maybe I should have just gone home. But I knew there was nothing for me there but thoughts of her.

And I was also acutely aware of the fact that a part of me was hoping I was wrong, that she would show up.

I was a glutton for punishment.

I needed to get a grip, to stop thinking about her, to stop hoping to run across her.

But then... there she was.

In a tight silk red wine dress that dipped low in the front and cut short in the thigh, looking like far too many dreams I'd had of her.

It was a kick to the gut and a knife to the chest to see her standing there, looking like she looked, her gaze moving around the room, likely looking for Rebecca and Zach.

But then her gaze fell on me.

I half expected her to turn and bolt, to go anywhere but near me.

Then she was taking a deep breath.

And making a beeline right for me.

My heartbeat skittered in my chest, and I didn't know if it was from nerves or excitement. Maybe both.

She seemed nervous, too, as she made her way through the crowd. There was no warm, open smile like I'd gotten so used to seeing on her face when she spotted me.

There weren't tears, either. And that was a relief since I wasn't sure I could stand my ground if faced with them.

Nor did there appear to be any anger on her face.

The look I found there, instead, seemed unexpectedly determined. Like she had a mission. One that involved me.

"Deavienne!" Rebecca shrieked over the music, arms going up over her head as she rushed through the crush of people to wrap her arms around Dea, turning her away from me.

What did I do?

The cowardly thing.

I ducked behind a large group of people I didn't recognize, but who all must have previously been basketball and football players due to their size, and carefully made a wide circle around the room, slipping down the hallway, and disappearing back into Zach's room.

The bed sat on a wooden pallet frame that was painted a deep navy color. The bedding was completely obscured by the dozens of coats piled across the surface.

Zach was, by profession, a scientist. But at his core, he was an artist. His room was evidence of that with an easel set up by the windows, various hand-sculpted bowls and cups lining the sill. The man even had a loom half-blocking the door to his closet, some multi-colored cape thing mostly finished on it.

"Hey, if you need somewhere to fuc—" Zach's voice trailed off as he came into his room. "Oh, hey. Sorry. Thought a couple was trying to do it on my bed again."