Page 16 of Cruel Winter with You

My stomach drops. For the longest moment, I cannot breathe. “I should have known,” I say, glaring, “that you’d start with a very invasive question.”

He grins. “Meanwhile, Ididknow that you’d squander yours in the name of peacekeeping. So, last time? When?”

I down my shotexclusivelyout of spite. The thing is, Marc knows that Shane and I broke up last year, when he proposed and I couldn’t bring myself to say yes to him, because ... because he’s a great guy, who deserves to be with someone who’s crazy about him. Ideally, somebody who’s not in love with someone else, either.

I have no intention of admitting that there hasn’t been anyone else. “I should ask you when the last time you had sex was, too,” I mutter, the burn of the tequila still trailing fire down my throat. I watch Marc’s strong hands as he pours more, already feeling a little lightheaded.

“Is that your question?”

“No,” I bark. I have subzero interest in finding out how he amused himself after the last time we saw each other. There’s something else I’d rather know. “Dad invited you to spend Christmas with us multiple times. And you kept saying no.”

He stares calmly. “That’s not a question.”

“Why?”

He glances down at his still-full shot glass. I’m convinced he’ll drink it, but his eyes calmly meet mine again. “Because I wasn’t sure I wanted to spend time with you over the holidays.”

It’s like a knife is planted into my abdomen. I have to clench my fists against the almost-physical pain. “And byyou, you mean the singular you—me—or my entire family—”

“No follow-up questions. It’s my turn.” His smile has a crooked, cruel edge. “Are you happy, Jamie?”

“I . . . Right now?”

“In general.”

“What kind of question is that?”

“The one I wanted to ask.” He points at my glass. Tops it off. “Your drink is right here, if there’s something you don’t want to admit to.”

So I do just that. I swallow the alcohol in one big gulp, then set it back on the tray with too much force. “Areyouhappy, Marc?” I ask, immediately retaliating, daring him to lie to me or drink.

He doesn’t waver. “No, I’m not,” he says simply. “My turn.” He refills my glass again. And asks, “Whatwouldmake you happy?”

“I— This is way too generic. World peace. Puppies. A magic wand that destroys greenhouse gasses—”

“You’re right,” he concedes. “It was a poorly formulated question. Let me ask you again: Is there anythingIcould do, right now, that would make you happy?”

On the plus side, my panic is long gone. However, it’s now swallowed by anger—toward none other than Marc. I think I might hate him. Actually, I’m certain of it, as I angrily pick up my glass with trembling fingers, ignoring the liquid sloshing stickily to my fingers. I usually have a pretty high tolerance for alcohol, but the last time I ate was several hours ago, and—

I’m not drunk yet, but a hazy wave of heat and ethanol hits me all at once. It softens my defenses and dissolves all my filters.Fuck it,I think. Right when it’s my turn again.

“Are you angry at me?” I ask. Or maybe the tequila does. “For what I did to you the last time we saw each other?”

His expression hardens. “Yes, Jamie. I am fuckingfuriouswith you.”

Chapter Five

It happened four months ago.

On my last birthday.

After the worst week of my career.

It wasn’t the first time I’d lost a patient. It was, however, the most unexpected. I probablyshouldhave seen it coming, but I’d beensocertain that it would all work out. Then it hadn’t, and even though my attending physician insisted that nothing more could have been done, I wasn’t so sure that I could easily forgive myself. It had been a rough shift in a series of rough shifts, with lots of questioning my life choices and wondering whether I was cut out for keeping alive anything more complex than a San Pedro cactus. But when I stepped out of the hospital, Marc was standing there, tall and handsome and soreal, for a second I thought,It’s going to be okay.

I’d seen him several times in the previous five years. Back at home, of course, whenever our visits overlapped, but also here in the Bay Area. We didn’t hang out every week, or even every month. But once in a while he’d contact me, ask how I was doing, and take me out for lunch or dinner.

It was an interesting, meticulously arranged dynamic. Other people were always present—his friends and colleagues, for the most part, who all seemed to already know me andwhat I did for a living, and probably thought my role in Marc’s life was much larger than it really was. We’d have a nice meal together as a group, laugh for a couple of hours, keep each other updated on what was going on in our lives, and then Marc would make sure I was delivered back home.

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