Page 6 of Meet Me on Christmas Eve

Did my eyes look bloodshot? I didn’t sleep well last night. That’s probably why they were stinging. I suffered from dry eye syndrome. I wasn’t the crying type; itsurelywasn’t that.

I smoothed my hand over a tiny piece of lint on my shoulder, frowning as I debated whether to go change my top.

Then I noticed it: My blonde, chin-length hair looked … wavy.

Oh, hell no, I thought as I retrieved my straightening iron out of the closet behind me.

*****

I was just turning the straightening iron off when Hazel knocked on the door. “Mari? Are you alive in there?”

I laughed. “You’re in luck. I am.”

Maybe if I joke with her, she’ll forget we were going to discuss something serious.

“Good,” she said, opening the door. “I was just—” She halted, looking at me with a strange expression.

“What?” I tried to avoid looking in the mirror to see if something was still out of place.

“You were in here refreshing your makeup?” Her eyes were narrowed, and she looked down and saw the straightening iron still on the counter. “Oh my god, did you just do your hair?”

People like her could never understand why people like me needed to spend a lot of time and energy on hair and makeup and exercise. She was naturally gorgeous. She looked betterwithoutmakeup, and her long dark hair was perfectly straight and just … perfect.

I couldn’t get away with the no-maintenance approach she took to appearance. I’d be a troll. Besides, fitting in with an elite crowd meant meeting certain standards, looking polished and refined at all times.

“Just a bit of touching up,” I said, unable to keep the defensive note from my voice. “We can’t all be naturally beautiful 24/7.”

She rolled her eyes. “No, we can’t all. Butyoucould. You’re gorgeous, Mari, when you let go a little.”

I gave her a small smile of appreciation as we left the restroom. She was wrong, of course. But she was my best friend, really my only friend, so she had to say these things. And I had to let her, I supposed.

“Come on, let’s get cozy by the fire. I made us some hot chocolate.”

“Oh, I’m not thirsty—”

She gave me a side-eye glance. “Uh-huh. I’ll drink yours if you insist. But come sit. Tell me about Terry.”

I sat down on the sofa by her and stared at the steaming mug on the coffee table in front of us. I should say no because, well, I was trying to cut back on sugar. Wasn’t everyone? But it might make this whole thing a little easier …

“Or should we call him Mr. Pinecone?” When I broke into a slight grin, she added, “Made you smile.”

She was quiet for a long moment as I picked up the mug and took a sip. I looked into the fire, trying to decide what to say, where to even start.

Hazel knew that my childhood hadn’t been easy, spending a lot of time in foster care. Many details she didn’t know, and I’d take them to my grave if I could.

“I met him a couple years before you. I was working here as a summer job. A temp thing. I was a broke college student, as you might remember.” I tried to laugh, as though it was funny and not something I was extremely sensitive about.

She didn’t laugh. “So he was here … as a guest?”

I swallowed with some effort. “Yes, he … Terry stayed here with his family for a few weeks that summer. His parents and sister. As you can imagine, like all the guests who come here, his family was, uh, well off. Rich enough to own a house in the Hamptons. But his dad grew up here, so that’s why they visited that summer.”

“So, you thought he was out of your league?”

“Hewasout of my league. So, so far out. I would never have dreamed … but somehow he ended up interested in me, for some reason. Maybe he was in a stage of rebelling from his family and I was his way of doing that, I don’t know.”

Hazel’s brows furrowed. “Or maybe he just liked you.”

“Maybe.” But I had never been able to figure out why.

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