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Dude

Answer your phone.

Bastian

Fox. Where are you?

Nikko

Ok, not funny anymore.

Please tell me you didn’t drive somewhere.

Fox, I swear to god.

There are no messages from Finn.

I stare at the screen.

He hasn’t sent a single message all day.

That’s worse than anything he could have sent.

I unplug the phone and grab my car keys from the dresser. I also pick up the sprig of mistletoe, which is brown and brittle and mostly falling apart at this point.

The road to Winterberry is empty. It’s Christmas Eve, almost midnight, and everyone in the world is at home with the people they love.

I’ve spent weeks driving this road at odd hours. I know every curve of it.

Tonight, I drive it like I stole the car.

The lights of Winterberry come into view.

I turn onto Main Street. The town is quiet.

I park in the semi-hidden spot behind Finn’s building, my hands shaking a little on the wheel, but I don’t think it’s the cold anymore.

I get out and close the door quietly out of habit, even though there’s no one to hear.

I take the mistletoe out of my pocket and hold it as I go up the stairs.

I stop outside Finn’s door and take a breath.

Then I knock.

TEN YEARS AGO

FOX

I’ve been staring at the Chicago skyline through the window of my hotel suite for two hours, when I should be sleeping.

There’s something about the last performance on a tour that brings a level of exhaustion we manage to keep at bay in between stops. In a couple of days, we’ll fly to a beach destination in Europe for a short vacation before the European tour. It’s the only rest we’re allowed.

But rest is the last thing on my mind because, after dinner, everyone retreated to their suites—including Nikko and Stone, who usually go out to at least one bar after hours—but Finn said he was going around the block to walk off dinner.

I said goodnight too. I came up to my room, showered, and put on soft clothes. I did all the things a normal person does after a long day at work.

And then I sat in this chair, and I haven’t moved since.