Cruel Winter with You (Under the Mistletoe collection)

Jamie, are you okay?”

I’m hugging my knees on one end of the couch, as far from where Marc sits as I can possibly manage, trying to ignore the howling of the storm that has intensified to a scary volume, the dangerous sounds of the wind beating against the trees.

I distract myself by staring at the beautifully lit Christmas tree, decorated in the same classic style Marc’s mom has favored since we were kids. Then I notice the swirls of snow traveling furiously past the high windows and have to shut my eyes tight.

I’ve always been a bit of a delicate flower. Scared of thunderstorms. The dark. Nightmares. Loud noises. Back when we were younger, Marc used to tease me about it—but then he’d miraculously be around whenever I showed the smallest signs of distress, and stick to my side until I was done panicking.

“Jamie.”

When I open my eyes, Marc is right there, kneeling next to me, the gray of his irises darkened by worry.

Honestly, he was right. Being outside would be dangerous, and staying put is for the best. Even if, for me, being stuck with him is hell, with just a tiny bit of heaven blended in.

Must be just plain hell for him, a needling voice reminds me. Given the way you treated him last time. Given his reaction to your apology—or lack thereof.

“I saw you on TV last month,” I blurt out. A bit out of the blue, but it’s as neutral a topic of conversation as any.

“Yeah?” He smiles, as if relieved that I’m finally talking to him. “Was it Dateline?”

“Of course.”

“Dammit.”

“No, wait . . . To Catch a Predator, I think.”

“Oh, come on.”

“Okay, fine. It was your testimony in front of Congress. That special hearing for all that . . . Silicon Valley stuff?”

“I didn’t take you for the type to binge-watch C-SPAN judiciary-committee content.”

“Excuse me? I live for gavel-to-gavel coverage of the US Congress.”

“Right. How could I forget.” He gives me a long, affectionate look.

I don’t get it.

“Honestly?” I say to interrupt it. “I came across the footage while looking for the Cartoon Network for one of my patients.”

“Ah. Well, that checks out. You are always working.” There is something in his tone—like he’s riding the thin line between laughing with me and at me, daring me to remember our last conversation.

“Are you really too busy, Jamie? Or are you just fucking terrified?”

So much for safe topics. “Was it fun? Giving the testimony?”

“Explaining why crypto is bad to a nonagenarian senator who has no working knowledge of the internet does have its moments.”

I chuckle. “I bet. And how’s the . . .” I wave my hand, vague. “Stocks?”

“Which ones?”

“Um . . . yours?”

He leans back, amused. His face reminds me of that picture of him at some kind of interview or convention, the one I saw online a few months ago. He looked so good, I decided it must have been photoshopped.

Clearly I was wrong.

“Would you like to know what their market value was at last closing?”

“Um, yeah. Sure. Though I’m not certain how stocks work, so a simple good or bad would suffice.”

“Good.” He purses his lips, curious. “You never cashed out, Jamie.”

“Huh?”

“When I first started the company, you insisted on investing in it. And then you never sold your shares, even though they could make you quite a bit.”

“Right.” I shift on the cushion. “I know. I haven’t gotten around to it, but I’ve been thinking about doing that.”

“Have you?”

No. I haven’t—not once. Because even if I messed up, even if I can’t be with Marc, I like the idea of us being tethered by something. And if that something has to be market-traded equity, so be it.

“You don’t look too good, Jamie,” he says after a long pause, so quiet that I almost don’t hear him over the whooshing of the snow.

“Did you just tell me that I look bad? Is this a return to our Butt Paper days?”

“You don’t look bad,” he amends. “I don’t think you’re capable of it. But you do look more tired than I’ve ever seen you. Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, Marc, I just . . .” I shrug breezily, like nothing really matters. “I mean, it’s hard sometimes. I thought it’d get easier, but the further I get into my residency . . . The hours are long, and my patients are really young, and sometimes they’re not . . . Sometimes I can’t do much for them. And then I go home and am exhausted, but I can’t fall asleep because I can’t think about anything else, and I don’t want to be alone with my spiraling brain, so I go to the gym and by the time I get back, I end up being too tired to sleep and . . .” I shrug again. Overkill, probably. “Wow. Could you please forget everything I just said? Because I’m pretty sure that it makes me sound like a total loser.”

“Not a loser. Just lonely.”

His tone isn’t mocking or accusatory, but I still feel like I should defend myself. Especially after our last conversation. “I’m not, though. I have a roommate I get along with. And lots of friends. And colleagues who—”

“I don’t doubt that. You can still be lonely.”

I glance down at my knees, unwilling to admit how right he is, but he forces me to meet his eyes with a finger under my chin.

“You can always call me, you know? Even if you don’t want to . . .” He takes a deep breath. I want to touch him so bad, my heart could explode. “I know we’ve been over this stuff. But even if you don’t want anything to do with me in that way . . . I’m still your friend, Jamie. You can call me.”

Can I, Marc? Can I call you? “I’m not sure that’s true,” I say, squaring my shoulders.

“It is.” His brow is quizzical. “You can. Anytime.”

“That’s not really my experience, though.” A bubble of resentment pops in my chest. “Not anytime.”

Marc leans forward. “Your experience? What do you—”

And that, of course, is when the whoosh of the storm reaches its all-time loudest, and the lights go out.