I lift a hand slowly, pressing it against my wet cheek. The sleet burns so cold, my skin almost feels hot. I’m drenched. I could have ordered an Uber, but there was something poetic about walking home in the freezing rain in utter disgrace, dismissed from my job for daring to dance with a cute hockey player at my best friend’s not-so-private wedding.
The only light in my apartment comes from my Christmas tree set up in the corner. The multi-colored lights twinkle on a timer. I love those stupid fucking lights. Troy only ever wanted white lights on our tree. It was my little act of rebellion the first Christmas I lived with Rachel to buy colored lights.
Slipping out of my heels, I kick them aside. My toes are wet inside my black stockings, chilled to the bone. Slowly, I lower my hand from my face to my double-wrapped scarf. Stripping it off, I drop it to the floor with a wet plop. Then I undo the buttons of my cream Antonio Melani belted wrap coat, shrugging it from my shoulders.
I become more frantic as I go, tugging at the bottom of the silky blouse tucked into my pencil skirt. My breath comes in sharp pants as I jerk the buttons, popping one clean off. It rattles onto the counter. I need it off. All of it. Now. I can’t breathe.
I unzip my skirt and shimmy it down my hips, stepping out of it. Then I stretch my arms behind my back, chilled fingers fumbling for the strap of my bra. The clasp releases and I gasp, dropping it from my shoulders. I stand there in my kitchen in nothing but my stockings and underwear. Arms wrapped tightly around my middle, I sob. I’m so angry I could scream. I do scream. Loud. It’s feral and raw and not nearly enough of a release. The sound is sharp in my throat, stinging in its intensity.
“Fuck,” I shout. “Fucking fuck!”
Inside the pocket of my coat, my phone dings. I stand there, chest heaving as I catch my breath.
Ding.
Ding.
I snatch up my coat and dig in the pocket for my phone. Swiping the screen with my thumb, I unlock it. My messenger app glows bright.
RACHEL （11:03 a.m.）： Well, the cat’s out of the bag.
The messages below that include a few links to some of the news articles about her surprise secret wedding.
RACHEL （11:04 a.m.）： It was one of the caterers. Apparently, the little weasel took photos all night and sold them to TMZ. Bitch. I hope she gets hit by lightning.
Honestly, I’m not surprised. They weren’t going to keep this quiet for long. Knowing it was a caterer who snapped photos of Ryan and me doesn’t do anything to fix my current predicament. I’m on leave, effective immediately.
My phone dings again, and I glance down at the screen.
RACHEL （11:07 a.m.）： I let Poppy take a few photos too. Much better quality than the weasel’s sneaky, zoomed-in shots. Thought you might like this one.
A picture pops up in the feed. I tap it with my thumb, and it fills the screen. It’s a candid shot taken of several of us sitting on one of the living room couches. Ilmari is on the end looking every inch the Finnish bear. What has me pausing is that he’s clearly laughing, his mouth open, eyes creased in the corners. His arm is around Rachel who is leaning into him but turned away. I’m next to her, leaning in, also mid-laugh. My hand is slightly raised, like I’m trying to catch my smile before it runs away.
Next to me are two of the Rays, Morrow and Novikov. I think they both play defense. Jake is leaning over the back of the couch, his head down between theirs, as they share a laugh too. The captain, Sully, is perched on the end of the couch, saying something with a smile.
I don’t even remember what we were all laughing about. We look so natural, so perfectly at ease. I don’t know why, but tears spring to my eyes. I turn my phone upright and minimize the photo to see another message from Rachel.
RACHEL （11:09 a.m.）： It’s good to see you looking so happy. The boys are ready to make you an honorary Ray.
I tap the photo again, zooming in on each of our faces. I do look happy. I was happy.
Glancing around my apartment, a feeling of deep longing settles in me. My gaze lands on the only source of light in the room: my Christmas tree. The Christmas tree I bought and decorated with Rachel. More happy memories—making eggnog on the stove and ruining it with too much nutmeg, dancing in our underwear to Christmas music, eating Chinese takeout on the couch.
I used to be happy all the time. I used to laugh and love out loud. I was wild once. I was free. I’ve been trying to find my way back to that girl who danced in her underwear. Rachel was helping me find her.
I miss her.
I miss me.
Tears slip down my cheeks as I watch the lights on my Christmas tree blink and twinkle—red and blue, green and pink. Blink. Blink. Blink.