“I have a theory too. It goes like this: Every decision I make is wrong. There is no end to the ways I have and can and will screw up my life.” The venom in my voice is gone. I sag against the shelf behind me, too tired to keep sparring. Fitz and I almost kissed, and now we’re fighting. That’s not a coincidence. All of SIM’s lists, all my what-if scenarios, all my painstaking decision analysis out the window—for what? To be his next heartbreak? If he really had feelings for me, it wouldn’t have taken a romantic winter wonderland for him to figure it out.
“When have you ever screwed up your life?” he asks in a sharp voice.
“Do you know what the butterfly effect is?”
“You know I don’t, because you are much smarter than I am.”
“It’s a scientific theory that says a butterfly flapping its wings in China can cause a hurricane in Texas.”
“Forgive me for being slow, but what does this have to do with you ruining your life?”
“I’m terrified that the decision I make today will be the reason I’m unhappy tomorrow, or next week, or next year.”
His face softens. “I suppose it won’t make a difference if I tell you that won’t happen?”
“Maybe it will, maybe it won’t. But what matters is that it feels true. That fear is the reason for my panic attacks, and it’s why I’ve literally put my destiny in the hands of some cheesy Magic 8 Ball app.”
“What?”
“The only reason I’m here in Williams is because some app told me to come.”
“Oh.” He stuffs his hands into his pockets and rocks back on his heels, blowing out a long breath. “Answer this: If you had kissed me on that train, would you lie awake at night regretting it, wishing you could turn back time?”
“Probably,” I whisper. We were both swept up in the moment, but the fact is that it would have meant more to me than it did to him, and it’s not a stretch to imagine that a month or two from now, he’ll move on to someone else and I’ll be worse off than I am now.
“We don’t talk about the night of the carnival, but I always wondered if you lied about being sick. Do I trigger some kind of panic button in you?” His eyes are trained on our shoes.
“I guess so.”
“I don’t ever want you to feel terrible because of me,” he whispers.
“I know. That’s why it’s better that we were interrupted.”
Hurt flashes across his features, gone in an instant. I want to say something, do something, to make sure he never looks that unhappy again. But before I can figure out what to say, he squares his shoulders and clears his throat. “It’s getting late; we should head back to the cabin.”
He turns without a word, and I’m left trailing behind.
* * *
On the morning of Christmas Eve, I wake up warm. I snuggle deeper into the covers, drawing the cozy quilt to my chin, unwilling to open my heavy eyelids.
And then I remember.
Last night rushes in like a nightmare. I tried to kiss my best friend. I leaned in and practically threw myself at him, only to be interrupted by one of his exes. I’m frustrated at myself and angry at him and sad about the whole situation.
But I didn’t do anything I can’t take back, didn’t say anything I can’t apologize for. And for that, at least, I’m grateful. Another day of maintaining the status quo means another day of Fitz and me. And that’s not nothing.
I dress in leggings and a sweater and wander out of my room. The fire is roaring, but Fitz’s blanket is folded neatly on the end of his couch. I climb the dark stairs and pause at the top, watching him crack eggs in the kitchen with his mom and Meg.
Pretend with me, I think. Pretend that nothing happened. He looks up and sees me, and I realize too late that I’m directly under the mistletoe.
“I hear those things are poisonous.” He grins as he cracks another egg against the side of the mixing bowl. I breathe a sigh of relief, because that’s exactly the joke he would have made yesterday. Status quo: maintained. But relief isn’t the same thing as happiness, I realize as I watch him show off by cracking an egg one-handed. He fails spectacularly, and his laugh fills the cabin as yellow yolk runs down his hand. I wanted him to pretend like nothing happened, but now that he has, the sharp knife of disappointment twinges deep in my gut.
I sit across the table from Darcy and watch her work on a thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle. “Want to help?” she asks.
“No thanks.”
“Are you sure?” She holds out a piece of all knobs, offering it to me. “It’s totally addictive.”
I accept the piece and spin it in my fingers. “Who’s to say that putting this piece right there”—I gesture to the spot where it belongs, near the top corner—“won’t cause a cyclone in Japan?”
Fitz scoffs loudly from the kitchen.
“It’d be a mistake to make your decision based on that,” she muses.
“Why?”
“If you’re trying to avoid a cyclone in Japan, who’s to say making me place the puzzle piece won’t do the same thing?” She raises an eyebrow. I hand her the piece anyway. The outcome might be the same, but I’d rather her be the cause of it. Avoiding responsibility for anything and everything is basically my MO.
With my head in my hand, I watch her assemble the puzzle. Every so often Fitz wanders over and places a piece before returning to breakfast.
“You miss your mom?” Darcy asks casually as she tries and fails to find a spot for an all-white piece.
“I guess so,” I say, even though I do miss her. We texted a bit this morning, and it sounds like she’s having a good time with her friend. “She usually works the morning of Christmas Eve so that she can have Christmas with me. Do you miss your wife?”
“Ugh. So much,” Darcy says. “She’s working today too, and tomorrow. She’s a firefighter.”
Fitz sets a large platter of baked eggs next to the puzzle and the family swarms the table, leaving me with no time to find out more about Darcy, April, or their spontaneous wedding.
The rest of the day is spent lazing around the cabin: working on the puzzle, watching the cheesiest, fluffiest holiday romance movies, lively debates about the merits of each one, and pulling Gray away from the roaring fireplace every thirty seconds. Starting in the early afternoon, Mrs. Wilding spends most of her time in the kitchen. Fitz and I offer to help, and they teach me to make homemade tamales. It’s not as meditative as baking, but it’s still enjoyable. By the time we drop the tamales in the steamer, I’m openly grinning at Fitz as he sets the table. It’s so different than Mom’s and my tradition of Chinese takeout on Christmas Eve, but I could get used to this easy routine with his family. Even Whit isn’t so bad once he calms down with all the teasing.
Shortly before dinner, my phone rings.
“Hey, Clover! What’s up?”
“I feel terrible for asking, I know it’s Christmas Eve and you’re probably snuggled up under a blanket next to the fire playing footsie with Fitz—”
“I’m watching him set the table. He keeps forgetting which utensil goes on the left and which goes on the right.”
Fitz lets the rest of the silverware drop to the table with a clatter and raises his arm in a giant shrug, making me laugh.