My True Love Gave to Me

I didn’t tell anyone how dire shit had become.

Yeah, maybe my old man could slip a few bucks in an envelope, mail it to my Brooklyn apartment (where it might get carried off by a pack of gangster rats), but he had his own worries. He was saving up for my little sis’s summer camp. And our dog, Peanut—probably the most flea-bitten, bucktoothed crossbreed you could ever imagine—had just required an emergency dental extraction. I know, right? The dog with the busted grill has dental needs. Okay. But according to my sis, the procedure cost over three hundred bones, and they had to put my old man on some kind of payment plan.

It’s fine.

I’d just go hungry this holiday season.

Nothing to see here.

“Mijo,” he told me over the phone on my first full day of cat sitting. “Everything is good up at your college?”

I stuck Mike’s acoustic guitar back on its stand. “It’s all good, Pop.”

“That’s good,” he said.

This word good, I thought. How many times did he and I throw that shit around these days? My old man because he didn’t trust his English, me because I didn’t want him to think I was showing off.

“Next year we’ll get you a ticket so you could fly home for Christmas,” he said. “And me, you, and Sofe will be together as a family. How we belong.”

“Sounds good, Pop.”

He didn’t know it yet, but by next Christmas I planned to be living near home again, in southeast San Diego, taking classes at the local community college. Everyone seemed to think I had it made out here in New York—and on paper maybe I did. Full academic scholarship to NYU. Professors that blew my mind every time I sat in one of their lecture halls. But to understand why I planned to drop out after my freshman year you’d have to read the e-mails my sis had been sending. Some nights my pop—the toughest man I’ve ever known—cried himself to sleep. She could hear him through her bedroom wall. He wouldn’t eat dinner unless my sis physically dragged him to the table and sat him down in front of a plate of food. Point is, back home real-life shit was happening. Genuine mourning. And here I was, clear across the country, having the time of my life.

It would be impossible to describe the weight of that guilt.

There was a long, awkward pause between me and my old man—we’d yet to master the art of talking on the phone—before he cleared his throat and told me: “Okay, mijo. You will be safe from that storm. The news says it’s very, very bad.”

“I will, Pop,” I said. “Tell Sofe to stay away from dudes.”

We said our good-byes and hung up.

I slipped my cell back in my pocket and went to Mike’s cupboards for the two hundredth time. One multigrain hot dog bun and a few stray packets of catsup. That was it. The stainless steel fridge wasn’t any better. An unopened dark chocolate bar, a half-full bag of baby carrots, two plain yogurts, and a bottle of high-end vodka. How could such a beautiful apartment contain so little food? My stomach grumbled as I stared at the beautiful yogurt cartons. But I had to conserve. It was still three days before Christmas, and I wouldn’t see a dime until the day after that.

My manager at the campus bookstore, Mike, and his wife, Janice, were paying me to cat sit at their brand-new apartment—which was about three hundred times nicer than the broken-down room I rented in Bushwick—but Mike forgot to hit the ATM before he left and asked if he could pay me when they got back from Florida.

No problem, I lied.

To make matters worse, a few hours after they left, a record-setting blizzard sucker punched New York City, blanketing Mike’s Park Slope neighborhood in thirteen inches of angry-ass snow. Translation: even if I wanted to dust off the survival skills I’d picked up back home (how to mug somebody), I couldn’t. Everyone was waiting shit out in the warmth of their cozy apartments.

I closed the fridge and went into the living room and stared out the front window, next to the cat—Olive, I think Mike said her name was. My empty stomach clenched and twisted and slowly let go, then clenched again. The few remaining cars parked along the street were buried under snow, and it was still falling. The trees that framed my view all sagged under the weight of the stuff.

I turned to Mike’s cat, said, “I promise not to eat you.”

She looked at me, unimpressed, then hopped down onto the hardwood and sauntered off toward the kitchen, where a heaping bowl of salmon-flavored dry food awaited her.

Faulty Plumbing

I was a quarter of the way through one of Mike’s precious yogurts when there was a knock at the door. I froze, my spoon halfway between my mouth and the plastic carton. Who could that be? You could only enter the building if you got buzzed in, and Mike told me I was the only one in the entire seven-story complex who hadn’t traveled anywhere for Christmas.

More knocking.

Louder this time.

I stashed the yogurt back in the fridge, went to the door, and looked through the peephole. A pretty white girl was standing on the other side—long sandy-blond hair and porcelain skin and light brown eyes. I was still getting used to being around people like this. The kind you see in movies and commercials and sitcoms. Back home everyone you passed on the street was just regular-old Mexican, like me.

I undid the chain and pulled open the door and tried to play it cool. “Can I help you?”

“Oh,” she said with a look of disappointment. “You’re not Mike.”

“Yeah, we work together at—”

“And you’re definitely not Janice.” She looked past me, into the apartment.

“Mike’s my boss,” I said a little too quickly—definitely not cool. “I’m cat sitting while he and Janice are in Florida visiting friends. He totally knows I’m here.” My heart picked up its pace. I didn’t need this sitcom girl thinking she’d stumbled into an active crime scene. I pointed into the apartment, but Mike’s cat—my lone alibi—was nowhere to be found. “I’d be happy to pass along a message. They’ll be back the day after Christmas.”

“Do you know anything about pipes?” she asked.

“Pipes?”

“Pipes.” She paused, waiting for a look of recognition from me that never came. “Like, sinks and showers and . . . you know, pipes.”

“Oh, plumbing.” I didn’t know the first thing about plumbing, but that didn’t stop me from nodding. When it comes to attractive females my policy has always been to nod first and ask questions later. “Sure. Why, what seems to be the problem?”

The cat strolled out from its hiding place and rubbed itself against my leg. “Awww,” the girl cooed, kneeling down to scratch behind its ear. “She likes you.”

Mental note: Give Mike’s cat extra food before bed. It’s impossible to look like a criminal when there’s a well-groomed calico rubbing against your calf.

“Yeah, we’ve really hit it off these last twenty-four hours,” I said. “I’m already dreading our good-byes.”

“You’re a little cutie, aren’t you?” she said in that strange voice girls reserve for animals and small children. I watched her scratch down by the cat’s tail. She was wearing an old, beat-up sweatshirt, ripped jeans, and Ugg boots, but I could still tell she came from money. This gave her a certain power over me that I was nowhere near schooled enough to understand.

She stood back up, and when our eyes met this time, my stomach growled so loudly I had to cover it up by faking a small coughing fit.

“You okay?” she asked.

I straightened up, nodding. “Yeah. Wow. Excuse me.”

“Anyway,” she said. “I have a little situation upstairs. When I try and turn on the water in the shower, nothing comes out. Like, not even a drizzle. Do you know about stuff like that?”

“A little bit.” Lies! “Need me to take a look?”

“Would you?”

“Lemme grab the keys.” I darted back into Mike’s living room trying to call back all the times I’d seen my old man go at the plumbing underneath the kitchen sink with his trusted wrench. I could still picture him lying on his back, halfway in the cabinet, twisting and turning things in a chorus of clanging metal.

Why hadn’t I paid more attention?

Fake Espinoza

Her place smelled like tomato sauce and garlic bread and Parmesan cheese. As she led me through the kitchen, into the long hall, my mouth started watering its ass off. Maybe I was better off staying in Mike’s pad, where I’d been able to convince myself that the entire borough of Brooklyn was participating in a Christmas fast.

“I’m Haley, by the way.”

“Shy,” I told her.

She glanced at me, still walking. “Like, S-H-Y?”

“Exactly.” I’d been through this exchange dozens of times since landing in New York. Which I found strange. Nobody back home even thought twice about my name.

Haley shrugged and we shook hands awkwardly on the move, and then she stopped in front of the bathroom door and motioned me inside. “This is it. It’s the same thing with my roommate’s shower, too.”

Her bathroom smelled of perfumed soaps, and there was a framed poster of a couple kissing in front of the Eiffel Tower. Her sink was covered with makeup and eyelash curlers and this fancy circular vanity mirror that made my face look three times its normal size. There were pastel-colored towels in two sizes stacked neatly beside the black polka-dot shower curtain, which Haley swept aside. She turned both valves all the way on, but nothing came out. “See?” she said.

“Interesting,” I told her, staring at the faucet and rubbing my chin. I turned on the Hot valve again, then the Cold. They didn’t work for me, either. Then I ducked my head under the bath spout and stared up into the matchbook-sized hole, pretending to be studying God knows what.

I knew my old man was proud of me in certain ways. When NYU called from across the country offering to pay my entire tuition—as well as a monthly stipend for living expenses—he even threw a party to celebrate. My aunties, uncles, a few cousins, and my girl at the time, Jessica, all came over with home-cooked dishes and booze, and just before we sat down to eat, Pops held up his can of Tecate to say a few words (in English out of respect for Jessica). “I never believe this was possible,” he said, looking around our small living room. “A college boy is an Espinoza. But it happens. Congratulations to my son, Shy!” Everybody clinked glasses and drank and patted me on the back and told me they always knew I would do something special.

But at the same time, all of us were aware that I’d failed to learn the one thing that defined Espinoza men: the ability to work with one’s hands. Pops had tried to show me how to change the oil in his truck, how to strip shingles off an angled roof and lay hot tar, how to rewire a dead outlet, but it didn’t take long for him to realize I was a lost cause. My one talent in life? Filling in those little bubbles on Scantron sheets. That was it. Honest to God, I had a gift for those damn bubbles.

“I wonder if it has something to do with this weather,” Haley said, as I continued turning the valves back and forth. “Like, maybe the pipes froze.”

“I was just thinking that.” I looked up at her. “It would explain the lack of water pressure.” I had no idea what I was going to say next until I said it.

“Great,” she said, sarcastically. “My shower doesn’t work, and the super’s upstate until after the holidays. I guess I’ll be growing some holiday dreadlocks.”

“Seems weird the pipes would freeze in a brand-new building,” I said.

“Right? And why does the toilet still flush?” Haley pushed down the silver handle to prove it, and we both watched the water swirl and suck down the bowl in a gurgling crescendo before slowly rising again. “Maybe they’re on different lines or something?”

“They’re definitely on different lines,” I said, because it sounded pretty logical. Plus, I would hate to think my shitter was connected to the faucet I used to brush my teeth.

“The kitchen sink works,” Haley said, “but not this one.” She turned those two valves as well and nothing came out. She shook her head. “I should be back home in Portland right now, standing under a scalding-hot shower. But like an idiot I waited until the last minute to book my ticket. And then, you know, they canceled all those flights.”

“You’re welcome to use Mike’s shower,” I said.

Haley looked at me for a few long seconds, like she was thinking. “That’s sweet, but I’ll be all right. Isn’t it supposed to be good for your skin to occasionally skip showers?”

“I’ve heard about that.” But I knew the real reason. I didn’t strike her as the trustworthy type. I was wearing ripped jeans and an ancient-looking T-shirt. I had my home area code tattooed clumsily onto my knuckles on both hands.

Don’t ask.

I was only fifteen and tequila was involved.

“Something about the natural oils or whatever.” She shrugged. “Anyway.”

I turned back to Haley, who was obviously waiting for me to leave now that I’d proven useless. “Well, I should probably get back downstairs to feed the cat. Sorry I couldn’t help.”

“No worries.” She led me out of the bathroom and back through the hall and kitchen, where my empty stomach sounded like the Fourth of July.

She held open the front door.

“Happy holidays,” I told her.

“You too.” She smiled. “And I appreciate you coming up here to take a look.”

As I walked toward the elevator, I listened for the click of Haley’s door behind me. When I finally heard it, I felt crushingly alone.

How to Pass a Night

I finished the plain yogurt for dinner along with half a hot dog bun, then I broke into Mike’s vodka. I sipped a few glasses over ice while strumming the guitar in the bathroom—my favorite place to play because of the acoustics. Mike’s guitar was about six thousand times better than mine. It was like playing a stick of butter. Basic open chords came alive inside the tiled walls, especially after I flipped off the lights.

Once the vodka kicked in, I even sang a few of the tiny songs I’d been making up since high school—melancholy tunes about females and back home and losing my mom. Tunes made out of minor chords, where my pedestrian voice was no more than a whisper.

This was where music had always existed for me.

Inside a dark bathroom.

Alone.

The feeling it gave me was an odd combination of weightless self-pity and excitement. I understood my life was meaningless, and this knowledge freed me up to accomplish absolutely anything.

Anyway, I passed most of the night this way.

The cat came into the bathroom a few times to check me out. And whenever I’d hear Haley’s subtle footfalls—her place was directly above Mike’s—I would stop singing and strum more softly.

Around midnight, I put away the guitar and pulled out the book I was reading and moved into the living room, and it wasn’t long until I found the cat curled up next to my feet. I guess we were becoming actual friends. Something like that. I leaned over to read the charm hanging from her collar: Olive.

Mike had told me her name when he showed me how to do the food and change the litter, but this felt like our true introduction.

I scratched behind Olive’s ear the way Haley had and listened to the ceiling, but it had gone quiet up there.

Long-Distance Relationships

Late the next afternoon, there was another knock at the door.

I turned away from the window, where Olive and I had been sitting together, staring at the perpetually falling snow. I kicked the blanket off my feet and went to the door and looked through the peephole. Haley again. This time she’d brought with her a towel, a change of clothes, and a bathroom bag. I opened the door, saying, “You changed your mind.”

She peered into the living room. “Your TV’s not on.”

“Uh . . . yeah.” I looked over my shoulder, at Mike’s dormant big screen. “I mean, no. Wait, why?”

“What do you do in here all day?”

“I cat sit.”

Haley rolled her eyes. “Most cat sitters can manage to watch TV at the same time.” She switched her bathroom bag from one arm to the other, adding: “Not sure you’re aware of this, but we’re kind of snowed in right now, which is the perfect excuse to stream Netflix. I watched an entire season of Downton Abbey yesterday.”

“Is that the one about those rich British people?”

“I’m pretty sure your TV feed didn’t go the way of my shower pipes,” Haley said, ignoring my question.

I pointed to her bathroom bag. “I see you reconsidered the Christmas dreads.”

She let out a dramatic sigh. “I thought about it last night. And I’m going to take you up on your offer.”

I sensed a but coming.

“But here’s my thing. . . .” Haley glanced around Mike’s apartment. “Interesting,” she said, distracted. “It’s the exact same layout as my place, but at the same time it looks totally different.” She turned back to me. “In order for me to feel comfortable taking a shower down here, we have to both share something about ourselves first. Then I’ll feel like I know you better. And it won’t be so weird.”

“Seriously, Haley. I’ll stay way on this side of the apartment. I promise.”

“That’s not the point.”

I glanced into the kitchen where Olive had gone back to housing her wet food. My empty stomach was beyond the cramping stage now, which made me wonder if I’d started digesting muscle. I stepped aside, motioning for Haley to come in.

She walked over to Mike’s L-shaped couch and sat down.

I sat, too. “So, what kind of stuff are we supposed to say?”

“Anything,” she said. “It could be about your childhood. Or about where you’re from. Or why you’re wearing a beanie indoors. Seriously, anything.”

I pulled off my beanie and opened my mouth to ask a follow-up question, but she cut me off. “On second thought, maybe you should put that back on.”

“Why?” I stood up to look in the mirror mounted on the wall behind the couch. My hair was a rats’ nest of thick, brown waves. It was the longest I’d ever had it. I put the beanie back on, saying: “I guess I kind of need a haircut.”

“You think?”

Sweet, another thing I couldn’t afford.

Back home my auntie Cecilia always cut it for free.

“Okay, I’ll start.” Haley paused for a few seconds, looking around, then said, “Long-distance relationships are all about patience. And my boyfriend, Justin, is probably the most patient man alive.”

“How so?” I took the bait, even though I knew what she was doing. This was Haley’s way of establishing that she was in a relationship, which she believed would lessen the risk of me trying to sneak into the shower with her while she was busy rinsing out her Awapuhi.

“Like I said yesterday,” Haley answered. “I was supposed to book my own ticket home. But I procrastinated. So Justin’s back in Portland right now, hanging out at home, when we were supposed to be heading to a B&B in Seaside. Our parents are friends, and they said as long as we were back by Christmas day. . . . Anyway, instead of getting mad at me, which is what I would’ve done, all Justin wants to talk about is my frozen pipes. He actually feels bad for me, can you believe it? That’s some serious patience.”

“Wow,” I said, playing along. “He sounds . . . patient.”

“Okay, now you.”

I sat there for an uncomfortable amount of time, trying to think of something interesting to say. I couldn’t talk about a distant girlfriend the way I wanted to—which would definitely make Haley feel more comfortable about the shower situation.

“It doesn’t have to be some big profound thing,” she told me. “It can be simple.”

“Got it,” I said, still brainstorming. Then it came to me. “My little sister, who’s probably my best friend in the world, turns seventeen on Christmas day. This is the first birthday of hers I’ll have ever missed.” Sofe wasn’t technically my best friend, and she didn’t technically turn seventeen until the week after Christmas, but the point was to show Haley I was a solid brother, which would hopefully increase her trust in me.

“Ah, that’s sad. Why didn’t you go home?”

No money! “Because I promised Mike I’d cat sit.”

Haley frowned. “I’m sure he’d have understood. It’s Christmas. And your sister’s birthday.”

“I have a lot of homework and stuff, too,” I lied.

“Ah, I figured you were a student,” Haley said. “What school?”

“NYU.”

She nodded. “Isn’t your semester over?”

I pulled my beanie tighter over my forehead and shifted positions on the couch. “Actually, it’s for next semester.” I pointed at the novel I’d been reading. “This one lit class I’m taking has a grip of reading. I’m trying to, like, get ahead, you know?” It was true that a class I’d signed up for had a large reading list, but the book on the couch had nothing to do with school. And I was a fast reader.

“What year are you?” Haley asked.

“Freshman. You?”

“I’m a sophomore at Columbia.”

“Nice, a college veteran,” I said.

Haley forced a laugh. “Please. I have no idea what I’m even going to major in.”

I glanced at my book again.

There was another awkward silence at that point, and after a few seconds Haley stood up and said, “See?”

I stood up, too. “See what?”

“Now we know a little about each other. Which means it’s less weird for me to take a shower at your place.”

“Well, technically,” I pointed out, “it’s not my place.”

“It’s yours through the holidays, right?”

“I guess so.” I watched Haley disappear into the hall, and a few seconds later I heard the bathroom door in the master bedroom close. I looked around the apartment, trying to imagine it as my place. The designer couch. The expensive-looking leather chair. The massive flat-screen mounted on the wall. The fancy-looking paintings.

What would my old man say if he saw me standing here right now?

He’d think I was cat sitting in a museum.

I read the entire time Haley was in Mike’s bathroom—which was a shockingly long time. When she finally walked back into the living room, her hair was wet and I could tell she was wearing fresh makeup. She looked beautiful.

I sat down my book and got up, saying, “Everything go okay in there?”

“It was quite lovely. Thanks.” She waited for me to open the front door. When I did, she looked me dead in the eye and said, “Thank you, Shy.”

I got a weird, unbalanced feeling hearing her say my name, and I told her, “My shower’s your shower, Haley.” But that sounded kind of sexual so I quickly added: “I mean, you can bathe in my place anytime.” But that was creepy, too. “I mean—”

“I know what you mean,” she said, saving me from myself. “I appreciate it.”

She gave me a nice smile and left Mike’s apartment.

When I closed the door, I found Olive looking up at me, accusatorily.

“What?” I asked.

She meowed.

“Look,” I told her, “you’re gonna have to start speaking English around here.”

She stuck out her front paws, stretched her multicolored back, and crept away.

Angels in the Snow

Haley was back early the next morning with her bathroom bag, a change of clothes, and a fresh towel. “I don’t mean to keep interrupting . . . whatever it is you do down here,” she said, “but I kind of had an accident in the kitchen.” She held out the front of her gray Columbia sweatshirt. There was a large catsup stain between the m and the b.

I motioned for her to come inside. “You can just leave your stuff in there if you want.”

She forced a laugh. “Yeah, I don’t think so. That would be taking it way too far. Besides, how do I know you’re not the kind of person who snoops through people’s things?”

“I don’t even shower in there. I use the one in the spare bedroom.”

“That’s what they all say.” She looked down at her catsup stain again. “I know technically this is more of a laundry issue, but I feel dirty.”

“Like I said, you can shower down here whenever you want.”

She set her stuff on the dining room table and reached down to pet the cat. “You’re a friendly one, aren’t you girl? Oh, yes, you are.”

“Her name’s Olive,” I said.

Haley looked up at me. “We’re on a first-name basis now, I see.”

I shrugged. For some reason I wasn’t feeling like my usual laid-back self. I think the hunger was making me irritable. But at the same time, I was happy to be talking to Haley again. Being hungry is bad news. Being hungry and alone? That’s when people start Googling info about suicide hotlines.

She stood up and put her hands on her hips, like she was waiting for something. That unbalanced feeling I got whenever we made eye contact was no longer confined to my stomach. It had moved up into my chest.

“What?” I said.

“You go first this time,” she said.

“We’re doing that getting-to-know-you thing again?”

“Yep,” Haley said. “Every time I come down here, we have to share one new thing. Those are the rules. And ideally it should be something highly personal. The last thing you shared was kind of boring—no offense to your sister.” She glanced over my shoulder, into Mike and Janice’s kitchen. “What are you doing for meals? It never smells like you’ve cooked anything, and I usually hear the takeout guys when they’re coming up the steps.”

“Oh, Mike left a stocked fridge for me,” I lied. “The cupboards are all full, too. They made this big grocery-store run to the new Whole Foods before they left and said I should eat as much as I can.”

“Nice,” Haley said. “But I’m guessing you don’t actually cook.”

I shook my head. “I mostly make sandwiches. And cereal. Easy stuff like that.” My stomach cramped so aggressively at the thought of these mythical meals I winced in pain.

“You’re welcome to eat with me. It’s just as easy to cook for two as it is for one.”

For reasons I didn’t fully understand, Haley’s offer made me want to cry.

I broke eye contact and kneeled down to pet Olive. I was so hungry now I constantly felt lightheaded. My arms and legs felt like Styrofoam. I’d finished off the hot dog bun and baby carrots and the yogurts the night before. When I awoke in the morning, I had half of the chocolate bar. I still felt hungry, though, and drank glass after glass of tap water thinking it would fill me up. It didn’t work.

“Well?” Haley said. “Do you want to come up and have dinner tonight? I was thinking of making vegetable lasagna, my mom’s special holiday recipe.”

My mouth started watering.

Real food.

“I can’t,” I told her.

“What do you mean you can’t?”

I didn’t know how to answer this truthfully. Maybe it was stupid pride—the one thing I had picked up from the rest of the Espinoza men. Or maybe it was a fear of being found out. I constantly felt like an imposter among the other students at NYU. When were they going to figure out I didn’t belong here, that some lady in admissions had made a mistake, had offered a scholarship to the wrong guy? I probably spent as much time trying to hide my ghetto as I did on homework.

“I’m supposed to talk to my family back home,” I said.

“Then come up after.”

“No, like my whole family,” I told her. “Since I won’t be there on Christmas. But I totally appreciate the offer.”

She just stared at me for a few long seconds. “You’re weird.”

I guess she had that part right.

“Anyway.” Haley grabbed her stuff off the table. “You go first this time.”

I still felt oddly emotional, which wasn’t like me. In fact, I hadn’t cried for over a year, since my mom’s funeral.

Maybe that’s what I could tell her, I thought. How when I saw my mom lying in the casket, my dumb ass broke down . . . in front of everyone. How I started shouting about the world being a fucked-up piece-of-shit place that I was done with, too. How a few relatives tried to get me to calm down, but all I did was turn my wrath on them. “Who you talking to?” I shouted in my uncle Guillermo’s face. “You don’t know shit about me!” When he reached for my arm I smacked his hand away. I could tell Haley about that. How tears were streaming down my face, even though my expression never changed, not even a little. And I kept shouting, “I don’t give a fuck about anything! You hear me?”

I didn’t stop crying until my dad came over and slapped me across the face. Right there, in front of everyone. At the foot of my mom’s casket. Slapped me like I was some punk five-year-old.

And as I walked out of the funeral home that day I made myself a promise.

I would never cry again.

For as long as I lived.

No matter what happened or who got sick and died.

“Hel-lo.” Haley waved her hands in front of my face. “Earth to Shy.”

I took a deep breath and let it out slow. Instead of telling her about my dead mom, I told her about the first time I saw snow.

Two years ago, our family drove to the mountains outside of San Diego and stayed at a campsite, in a family-sized tent my uncle loaned us. My parents promised me and my little sis we’d see snow, but the first three days there was nothing. It was just cold. And windy. We spent the majority of our time inside the tent, playing stupid games like Uno and Loteria and Mexican dominos. But when we woke up on the morning on the fourth day, it happened. Thick beautiful snowflakes were falling from the sky. And it had accumulated on the ground all around us. I told Haley how while my dad and sis took turns going down this little hill near our campsite on a cheap plastic sled, me and my mom lay on our backs and did snow angels just outside our tent. Like a couple of giggling kindergartners. And when we got up to check them out, it looked like our angels were holding hands.

Haley smiled. “You’re getting better at this.”

I shrugged, still picturing the life I used to have.

“Isn’t it funny how one day you’ll be hoping for something, like snow, and the next day you’ll be hoping it goes away?” Haley motioned toward Mike’s big windows, where the snow was still coming down.

We watched it for a while, then Haley told me about the time she first became aware of race. She didn’t know why, but last night, the memory came to her out of nowhere. Maybe because of something she was watching on TV. Anyway, she was a little girl living in a wealthy suburb outside of Portland. And for her sixth birthday, her parents took her into the city to see a musical. They made a big thing of it, got dressed up and everything, hopped in her dad’s Mercedes and made the drive. Haley said she remembered driving by this one McDonald’s, in a sketchy part of the city, where she saw a group of black women dressed strangely, wearing tons of makeup—they were prostitutes, though she was too young to understand that. Haley was in the backseat, in her fancy white dress, staring at these women, because she’d never seen anything like it. Her dad stopped at a light right in front of them, and while he waited for it to change, Haley stared and stared, until one of the women turned and met eyes with her. But Haley still couldn’t look away. She was transfixed. After a few seconds, the woman wobbled right up to Haley’s window, in her sparkly high heels, and pointed a finger in Haley’s face. “Wha’chu staring at, white girl? You trying to steal my story?”

“I don’t know why I just told you that,” Haley said. “I don’t think I’ve shared that with anyone before. Not even my closest girlfriends.”

We both stood there awkwardly for a few seconds. It was like we’d ripped open our chests and revealed our beating hearts. And how do you transition back to small talk after that?

Finally Haley cleared her throat and said she was going to clean up. She seemed embarrassed. I went over to the couch and tried to read my book, but all I could think about was Haley’s story. Did she tell me that because I was part Mexican? Because she thought I was from a bad neighborhood? Or maybe it had nothing to do with me. We were just two people alone in a building, during a blizzard. As soon as the skies cleared, maybe this strange little dream we seemed to be sharing would slip away from us forever.

I read the same paragraph about sixty straight times, but I still had no idea what I was reading. And then Haley walked back into the living room, her hair wet, makeup freshly applied. She looked more beautiful than ever. “God, I love being clean,” she said.

“Me, too.” I pulled my weak body off the couch.

“When you get in there today,” she said, “maybe try and do something with that hair?”

I pulled off my beanie. “You mean this?”

She took a few steps toward me and rustled my hair a little, which caught me off guard. “At least you don’t have to worry about going bald,” she said.

I pulled my beanie back on.

“Anyway, if you change your mind about dinner just come up. Doesn’t matter what time.”

“Cool.” I opened the door for her.

Haley did the “eye contact” thing, which led to the “unbalanced” thing. “Because I don’t see how a call home can take all night. But whatever.” She gave a little wave and left.

It wasn’t until a few hours later that I discovered Haley had left her towel and bathroom bag in Mike’s master bathroom.

Breaking Point

I didn’t go up to Haley’s for dinner that night.

Didn’t call home, either.

I ate the rest of Mike’s chocolate bar and drank a plastic cup full of vodka and played music in the bathroom, and then I did something kind of weird, I guess. I fell asleep in the bathtub. I don’t even know why. It’s not like I passed out or anything. I just didn’t feel like going to the living room. Or the spare bedroom. So I lay Mike’s guitar on the bathroom floor and climbed into the tub and slid down so that I could rest my head against the lip of it, and I closed my eyes and thought about my life.

Back home I had known exactly who I was, but out here, in New York, I didn’t have a clue. Everything seemed to be spinning out of control. And I was brutally hungry now. It felt like someone was wringing my insides out like a washcloth.

All I wanted to do was have one of those deep talks me and my mom used to have.

But I couldn’t.

When I woke up, I had a slight hangover and Olive was sitting on the toilet, staring at me, and I had this intense feeling of shame. Because of the cat. Seriously. I didn’t want her to see me this way. Sleeping in a bathtub. You know how they say animals can sense emotional shit way beyond what humans are capable of? I wondered what Olive was sensing about me as she sat there staring.

Or maybe I didn’t want to know.

Just as I was climbing out of the tub, I heard Haley knocking again. I pulled on my beanie and rushed to the front door. Before I opened it, though, I had a moment of panic. My clothes. I was wearing the same jeans and shirt she’d seen me in the day before. But it’s not like I could pretend I wasn’t home.

I swung open the door, saying: “I’m the one who got catsup all over myself today. I had to change back into my clothes from yesterday.”

Haley was standing there with more than a change of clothes this time. She had a plate of muffins, too. “I baked these this morning,” she said, ignoring my catsup lie, “and I need them out of my house so I don’t, like, eat every single one in the next fifteen minutes.”

“Thanks,” I said, feeling another strange surge of emotion.

Instead of handing me the plate, she pushed past me and went into the kitchen. “They’re banana nut, by the way. I’ll stick them in the fridge so Olive doesn’t—”

“No, wait!” I shouted.

But it was too late.

Haley froze, staring into Mike’s empty fridge. It took a while before she turned around, wearing a confused expression. “There’s nothing in here.”

My heart sank.

She stuck the plate of muffins on the shelf and closed the fridge and turned her attention toward the empty cupboards. I didn’t even try to stop her this time, just watched her open and close all the doors. “Why’d you lie to me?” she asked in a hurt voice.

I tried to laugh it off. “Lie to you? I didn’t lie.”

“You said Mike and Janice left you groceries.”

“They did,” I said, trying to maintain my smile. “I just . . . went through them already. Pretty stupid, right? It’s not even Christmas until tomorrow. Guess I’ll go pick a few things up at the corner bodega.”

Haley went to the trash can by the sink and lifted the lid. “There’s nothing in the trash, Shy.”

I leaned against the wall and didn’t say anything.

“I’m gonna take a shower.” She pointed toward the fridge. “And then we’re gonna talk.”

“About what?”

“Everything,” Haley answered. “In the meantime, eat the muffins.” Then she turned and headed off toward the master bathroom.

Soon as I heard the door click shut behind her, I went to the fridge and stared at the plate of muffins. I peeled back the cellophane she’d used to cover them and took one out and smelled it. They were still warm. Saliva pooled around my tongue. My nutrient-starved brain felt swollen and slow.

I needed to eat.

Badly.

But I couldn’t.

Not with Haley still in the apartment. She couldn’t know how hungry I was. Because if she did, she’d know how different our lives were. And she’d probably stop coming down here to use the shower.

I put the muffin back and closed the fridge and went to the couch and pretended to read. When Haley came out of the bathroom this time—hair damp, face freshly made up—she went directly into the kitchen and opened the fridge.

“What’s wrong with you?” she said on her way back into Mike’s living room. “Seriously, Shy.”

“Nothing’s wrong with me,” I answered in an even tone.

She stared at me for several long seconds. Then she threw her hands in the air and let herself out the front door.

Once I was sure she wasn’t going to come barging back in, I flung open the fridge door and took out the plate of muffins and sat on the floor and shoved the entire first one into my mouth, and I chewed and chewed and chewed, while at the same time grabbing the next one, getting ready to shove that one into my mouth, too.

And I began to sob.

I don’t even know why.

But it was the first time I’d felt tears on my cheeks since the day of my mom’s funeral. And they felt surprisingly good. They felt alive. Mostly because they reminded me of my mom, I think. And because it felt so amazing to fill my stomach.

I stayed there on the floor like that for a long, long time.

Eating and crying.

Crying and eating.

Trying not to think about anything but Haley’s muffins.

What Would It Be Like?

Maybe I’m more like my old man than I realize.

Remember how I said my sis has to sometimes drag him to the dinner table? That’s pretty much what Haley had to do for me tonight.

She came down at around seven, but she wasn’t looking to use the shower. She grabbed me by the wrist, without saying a word, and led me out of Mike’s place, onto the elevator, then into her amazing-smelling apartment where she sat me at her dining room table. “Stay,” she said, like I was some kind of German shepherd. Then she marched into her kitchen and pulled open her oven door.

I sat there, looking at my hands and thinking about back home.

Christmas Eve is always better than Christmas for us Espinozas. All the cousins and aunties and uncles show up at my grandma’s, and the whole place smells like tortillas and chile colorado, and Auntie Cecilia brings in heaping plates of sweet tamales, and my uncle Guillermo sneaks us hits off the Patrón bottle he always dresses up in Christmas wrapping paper (“A little present for my own self, esé!”). In the living room, all the men tell stories about work, while the women in the kitchen tell stories about the men. And the whole apartment is filled with nonstop laughter, even when one of the little ones knocks something over, a glass frame or crystal figurine, we all just laugh and laugh and laugh, even Grandma as she sweeps the glass shards into her ancient metal dust pan.

Home, man.

I missed that shit so much.

I missed them.

“There’s no way I’m going to let you starve down there on Christmas Eve,” Haley said, walking back into the dining room with a plate full of food. She set it down in front of me.

“I wasn’t starving,” I said, staring at her beautiful dinner.

She lowered her eyes at me. “Yes, you were, Shy.”

“Okay, maybe a little.”

Why was she doing all of this for me? I wondered. Because I’d loaned her Mike’s shower? If that was it, she was definitely getting the raw end of the deal. All I’d had to do is let her in the front door. Judging by what was on my plate, she’d busted her ass in the kitchen. She’d grilled some sort of white fish and made roasted potatoes and sourdough bread and these broccoli pieces with long stems I always forget the name of.

“You want a Pinot Gris or a Chardonnay?” she shouted from the kitchen.

“Are you talking about wine?” I called back.

She came out with a second plate of food and set it down across from me. “Of course I’m talking about wine. What else would I be talking about?”

“When it comes to that stuff,” I told her, squirming in my chair, “you’re gonna have to dumb it down a little. All I know is red or white.”

She stood there, staring at me. “Well, they’re both white. White goes with fish.”

“So, that settles it then,” I said. “We’ll go with the white.”

“I know, but—oh, forget it.” She went back into the kitchen and came back with a bottle of wine and poured our glasses full. “Cheers,” she said, holding up her glass.

“Salud,” I said, the way my old man always does.

We clinked glasses.

After the half dozen muffins I’d wolfed down for breakfast—that’s right, I ate every last one of those bastards—I was no longer desperate. But my entire body came alive when I started putting down Haley’s perfectly grilled fish. This was real food. With real nutritional value. I felt like I was turning from a floppy, stuffed bear into an actual human being.

The wine wasn’t hurting, either, and Haley was quick to refill our glasses.

“Oh, and don’t think you’re getting off the hook,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“The truth game,” she said. “Just because I didn’t take a shower tonight doesn’t mean we’re not sharing.”

“This dinner’s amazing,” I said, pointing at my half-empty plate.

“It’s just baked cod.” Haley paused for a few seconds before adding: “But thank you. I need to be better at taking compliments.”

“You go first this time.” I stabbed another piece of long-stemmed broccoli. I don’t know why, but I was excited to hear what Haley had to share. Maybe I was kind of getting into her corny game.

“Okay.” Haley took a sip of wine and then just sat there, holding her glass, like she was thinking. “Sometimes I worry. About myself, I mean. I don’t have a . . . ‘thing.’ I got good grades all through high school, right? Strike that. I got very good grades. I was valedictorian. And I scored high on the SATs. And I had all the extracurriculars my counselor said I should have for my college applications. I volunteered at a mental health clinic during sophomore year, but I only did it because I knew it would look good. Messed up, right?”

It was at that moment that I realized how truly beautiful Haley was. She had a perfect complexion and high cheekbones and there were these cute little freckles surrounding her nose. But I don’t just mean physically. A lot of girls look good to me—I have what you might call a flexible aesthetic. But there was something about Haley that went beyond looks. Like how she had these dimples whenever she grinned. And when she said something self-effacing, she’d shrug her shoulders a little and tilt her head and glance at her feet. And sometimes when her light brown eyes locked on to my dark brown ones, it was like she was reaching a hand all the way into my chest, like she was digging around in there for the most honest thing she could find. It made me want to quit hiding, even though I’d be taking the chance of her not liking what she discovered.

“The problem is,” Haley went on, “I never understood why I was doing anything—other than I knew it was expected.” She refilled both our glasses again. “And I’m not even saying my parents pushed me. Or my counselors at school. It was me. I wanted to excel. But every decision I made through high school was based on how I thought it might make me look on paper. I never once stopped to think about what I actually liked to do. That’s kind of sad, don’t you think?”

“More like honest.” Usually, I liked to keep quiet. I liked to listen. But the wine was just reaching my head, and I felt oddly comfortable, so I let myself talk. “Here’s a question,” I told her. “Would you rather be great at something you like, or just okay at something you love?”

“Jesus, I don’t know,” Haley said. “That’s hard. What about you? Sounds like this is coming from a personal place.”

I stuck my silverware on my empty plate and leaned back with my wineglass. I felt like I was in a movie or something. One about rich British people, like the show Haley had mentioned before. Talking all deep in a beautiful New York apartment. Swirling damn wine in an actual wineglass. The only other time I’d had wine, me and Jessica drank it out of shot glasses, because that’s all we could find at her stepdad’s place. “The one thing I know I love,” I said, “besides my family, is music. Guitar. But I also know I’m not that good at it.”

“You play down there sometimes, don’t you?”

“Me? No way, not at Mike’s. I’m talking about at my own place.” Stop lying! “Okay, maybe I mess around a little. Not for real, though.”

“I knew it,” Haley said. “At first I thought it was the radio, which must mean you’re pretty good.”

I shook my head, embarrassed. “Anyways, let’s just move on.”

Haley laughed. “Looks like I’m not the only one who could be better at taking compliments.”

After a short stretch of silence, one that didn’t even feel that awkward, I said, “I guess I don’t really know what I want to do, either. Sometimes I feel like a shook-up bottle of soda. Like, I have all this passion that wants to explode, but I don’t know where to aim it yet. Is that kind of what you mean?”

“Exactly. And sometimes I get worried I’ll never know where to aim it.” Haley emptied the rest of the wine bottle into our glasses, but there were only a few drops left so she got up and opened the second one.

We talked for hours after dinner. When the second bottle of wine was gone, I raced downstairs to grab Mike’s bottle of vodka. When I came back, Haley fixed us vodka cranberries and we sat on the couch in the living room and we talked and talked and talked. Haley told me what it was like growing up in Oregon. I told her about life near the Mexican border. Haley described what she’d be doing back home right now—dinner at a fancy restaurant with her mom, dad, and little sister, followed by each of them opening one gift by the fire—and I told her about Christmas Eve at my grandma’s.

By midnight I was officially drunk, and as much as I liked talking to Haley, I also wondered what it would be like to kiss Haley, so I started down a very different road. “Hey, Haley,” I said.

“Hey, Shy.”

“Maybe it’s my turn to make up the rules.”

“Uh-oh.” Haley looked away from me, sensing where I was going. “This isn’t my game anymore, though. This is just two people talking. Please tell me you know the difference.”

“I know,” I said. “But I just maybe . . . sort of . . .”

“What?”

“I wonder how it would feel to, like, you know, hold your hand. That’s all.” I set down my wineglass and faced her. “Like if we were on an actual date.”

Haley forced a laugh. “We wouldn’t be on an actual date, though. Because I have a boyfriend back home, remember?”

“Oh, shit,” I said. “The patient guy. I almost forgot about him.”

It was true. I’d gotten so caught up in the moment I completely forgot about the world outside of the apartment complex. I picked up my wineglass again, sipped a little more vodka cranberry.

That’s when Haley did something that surprised me. She set down her glass, then took my glass out of my hand and set it down, too. “But it’s not like you’re talking about getting married, right? You’re talking about holding hands. Hypothetically.”

I swallowed hard. “To test the feel.”

“Which I suppose is pretty harmless in the grand scheme of things.”

“Though, I’ll be honest.” I touched Haley’s bare ankle. “A small part of me might also be talking about marrying you.”

She slapped my hand away. “See, this is why I never should’ve taken a shower down there. Showers can lead to hand-holding, which can lead to. . . . People are better off growing Christmas dreads.”

Haley smoothed her pretty hair behind her ears and reached for my hand.

I could barely breathe.

It was everything I wanted, but at the same time, it was scary as shit, too. Because I knew myself. I felt the “unbalanced thing” to the point that I couldn’t even think straight. Haley’s eyes locked inside mine. Her hand in my hand, which was making my whole arm tingle, my whole body.

“It’s a pretty good fit,” I managed to say.

She made it so our fingers were linked and, for a few long seconds, we just looked at each other. I glanced at her lips before forcing myself back to her eyes. Her face grew more serious, and she cleared her throat softly. “I have to admit something. It’s kind of bad.”

“Uh-oh,” I said, nervous she was going to pull the plug.

“I didn’t really procrastinate. I bought my plane ticket home weeks ago.”

In my drunken state it took me a few seconds to realize what she was saying. She’d chosen not to go home. Which meant she was avoiding something. Possibly someone. My heart pounded against the inside of my chest.

“I just never went to the airport,” she said.

“Why?”

“Because I’m a coward.” She scooted a little closer to me on the couch. “Do you think less of me now?”

“Why would I?” I said.

She shrugged. “What are you thinking, then?”

I swallowed and stared at my drink for a couple seconds. When I looked back up at her I said, “I’m thinking about what it would be like to kiss your cheek.”

Haley breathed deeply and squeezed my hand. “Maybe you should find out.”

But when I leaned in, aiming for just inside her left ear, she turned suddenly and I ended up kissing her on the lips instead.

It was just a peck and then I pulled back and looked at her. Both our eyes locking on each other’s and our chests going in and out and in and out. Without thinking, I took her face in my hands, gently as I could, and I kissed her again. Longer this time. Not a peck, but the real kind. And she kissed me back.

She shoved me onto my back, still kissing me, her hands gripping wildly at my hair, mine slowly moving down her warm body. “What are we doing?” she breathed into my ear.

“I don’t even know,” I said, and then we were kissing again.

I got lost in it. Her lips. Her touch. Me and Haley. She’d made me dinner, and now we were together on her couch. It didn’t seem possible. And for a few seconds, my amazement pulled me out of my body. I found myself hovering up near the ceiling, watching everything unfold in awe. But then I forced myself to focus on her lips again, and the feel of my hands on her stomach, and I rematerialized.

It was all so . . . alive.

I felt like I was breathing the world into my lungs.

In a few minutes, I flipped her onto her back and pinned her arms. And I pulled away and just stared at her, both of us breathing, wanting more.

“What is it?” she said.

“I wonder more things,” I told her.

She closed her eyes and slowly opened them. “I know you do, but . . .”

“Like how it would feel to be with you.”

When she didn’t answer, I lowered my face toward hers and we kissed some more, but this time I felt this surge of energy so powerful my mind slipped away completely, and I reached up and undid her blouse, one button at a time, and then I reached around her back and undid her bra clasp.

That’s when she stopped me.

She turned her head and spun out of my grip and immediately started re-clasping her bra and buttoning her blouse.

“Oh, shit.” I watched her, my stomach flooding with nervous butterflies. “Shit, I went too far, didn’t I?” When she didn’t answer right away, I said, “Haley?”

She stood up and covered her face with her hands for a few seconds. When she removed them, her expression was worried. “What am I doing?”

“It was totally my fault,” I said.

She started to pick up our still half-full wineglasses, then she put them back down and went to the door and pulled it open. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave, Shy. I’m sorry.”

“I apologize, Haley. I got carried away—”

“Just, please,” she said, cutting me off.

And she wouldn’t look at me. That was maybe the worst part of all. If she’d have just looked at me, then she’d know how sincerely apologetic I was, and everything would be okay. But she never did.

“Okay.” I moved through the door, into the hall. I hit the elevator button and stared at my shoes, listening to her door click closed behind me.

Christmas Day

Haley didn’t come down for a shower on Christmas morning.

I waited around in the living room on the couch next to Olive, listening for her knock, but it never came.

I stared at the text of my novel, but really I was analyzing the night before, from every possible angle. It always came down to the same thing: me. I knew she had a boyfriend. Yeah, maybe the fact that she didn’t fly home meant they were on the rocks or whatever, but still. I’d taken it too far.

Why’d I have to be that guy?

The one who always wanted more?

I didn’t call home until noon because of the three-hour time difference. I talked to my dad a little, but mostly I talked to my sis. Merry Christmas, we both told each other. She described all the food she was making, and how Pops was driving to Chula Vista to pick up Grandma, who had promised to bring a big stack of tortillas. Then they were going to drive up to the cemetery with flowers. “It won’t be the same without you,” my sis told me.

“Yeah.”

“No, I’m serious, it’ll be the first time I’ve ever gone there without you.” She paused. “You better not be spending today alone, Shy. Because that would just be sad.”

“Oh, hell no. A few friends are coming over and we’re baking a ham and shit. It’s gonna be legit.” I switched the phone from one ear to the other. “I still wish I was with you guys, though.”

“By the way, Peanut’s tooth is better. We can tell ’cause he’s constantly hounding us for food again. Which you started.”

I smiled, remembering how I used to sneak Peanut my dinner scraps on the sly.

We talked a little more, about my old man, who she claimed was doing better, too, and then I told her I had to go get ready for my friends. We said our good-byes, but before she could hang up I said, “Oh, and Sofe?”

“Yeah?”

“Stay away from dudes.”

I showered with the door open and put on the best shirt I’d packed for cat sitting, and I even put some of Mike’s gel in my hair, trying to tame my crop. Then I sat with the cat and read my book, though secretly I was still listening for a knock.

Snow-Covered Stoop

I woke up from a nap to the sound of Olive scratching at the front door.

“Where you trying to go?” I said, climbing off the couch.

Then I saw it.

A small card on the ground, just inside the door. My name written in neat, girl handwriting. I picked it up and looked through the peephole. Nobody there.

I tore open the envelope. A skinny Santa was on the front of the card, waving from behind the wheel of a hybrid convertible. The handwritten note inside said: “Leftover lasagna from the night you stood me up. Heat in microwave for two or three minutes. Also, Merry Christmas.”

I opened the door and found a large plate covered in tinfoil. She didn’t hate me! The second I reached down for it, though, Olive squirted out into the hall.

“Hey, man!” I set down the plate and lunged for her, but she took off up the stairs. The door slammed behind me as I took the stairs, two at a time, to Haley’s floor. Olive was nowhere to be found.

Great, I thought. My one damn job.

I hurried to the highest floor and searched the landing and looked out the window at the snow-covered fire escape, then I ran all the way back down to the ground floor and checked the front vestibule, where the mailboxes were. There was no sign of Olive anywhere.

After another fifteen minutes of unsuccessful searching, I found myself standing on Haley’s welcome mat, knuckles hovering in front of her door. She’d obviously left me a plate of food, as opposed to inviting me over, because she didn’t want to see me. And asking for help had never been my strong suit.

Still.

I knocked.

She opened the door right away, wearing a look of concern. “What’s wrong? I heard you go up and down the stairs like fifteen times.”

“Olive made a run for it. I can’t find her anywhere. Mike and Janice are gonna kill me.”

Haley grabbed her keys. “I’m sure she’s here somewhere. Come on.”

We went back to the top floor and looked in every corner. Haley even opened the window to the fire escape and stuck out her head. Nothing. Olive wasn’t in the elevator, either. Or the trash chute. Or the bike room. We scoured every floor, all the way down to the ground, but on the way back up Haley grabbed me by the wrist and pointed.

“You gotta be shittin’ me,” I said.

There was Olive, sitting right beside the tinfoil-covered plate, licking her right paw. She didn’t even protest when Haley scooped her up into her arms. I keyed open Mike’s door, and Haley set down Olive, and we both watched her saunter over to her bowl of dry food, not a care in the world.

“Scared me to death,” I said.

“You tried to cat sit and watch TV at the same time, didn’t you?”

I gave her a sarcastic laugh. “Seriously, though. Thanks. I don’t know what I would’ve done.”

“No worries.” Haley’s hair was wet, which confused me. And her eyes looked puffy. She reached down for the plate of lasagna. “Even if it was just a big ploy to get me back down here.” She handed me the plate.

“And thanks for this.” I stood there holding it, staring at the floor. “About last night, Haley. I’m really, really sorry—”

“I know you’re probably starving,” she said, cutting me off. “But is it absolutely crucial for you to eat right this second?”

“Now?” I said. “Not really. Why?”

“Put on your heaviest coat and rain boots and meet me downstairs in five.”

The clouds had finally cleared, and the sun was low in the sky. The outside air was crisp. I could see my breath as I followed Haley up the buried sidewalk. We were moving slowly because a thick layer of snow blanketed everything. “I seriously love being the first one to walk in it,” she said, crunching into a sea of untouched white.

“Same with me.” All I had on was a pair of shell-top Adidas, and my socks were already soaked. My Padres sweatshirt was way too thin. I had to bury my hands deep inside my pockets to keep them warm. But trekking through fresh snow in Brooklyn was pretty cool. Usually it turned into a nasty brown slush within minutes of falling.

When we got up to 7th Avenue, we looked up and down the empty street. “Tonight we have it all to ourselves,” Haley said.

“Where we going anyway?”

“Prospect Park. I have a feeling it’s gorgeous up there right now.”

All the shops and restaurants were closed, their graffitied storefront gates lowered and bolted shut. Trash bags were still piled high, buried under mountains of snow. The plowers had yet to come through so you couldn’t tell where the sidewalks ended and the street began. Not that there were any cars on the move. Or pedestrians, for that matter. Haley was right, we were the only two people out braving the post-blizzard conditions.

Halfway up the next block, we heard music coming from the open window of somebody’s brownstone. A corny Christmas song that didn’t even seem that corny. “Wanna stop and listen for a minute?” Haley asked. “It’ll feel more like Christmas.”

“Sure.” I brushed off two spots at the bottom of the stoop, and we sat down. It felt strange being so close to her. I thought about bringing up last night again, to try and clear the air, but the timing didn’t seem quite right. So I kept quiet, both of us listening to the music and thinking our own thoughts. The sun had ducked behind a row of brownstones to the west of us, and the wind had picked up slightly, but for some reason I no longer felt as cold.

Haley bumped her knee against mine. “I have to admit something to you.”

“One last round of the getting-to-know-you game?”

She grinned a little and shook her head. “No, we’re done with that.” She picked at a loose string near the pocket of her coat. “So, you remember when you came up to check out my shower?”

I nodded.

“Well, a funny thing happened that night after you left. It miraculously started running again.”

“Wait,” I said, slow on the uptake. “But you still came down to use Mike’s—”

“Oops.”

It dawned on me what she was saying. She’d used the shower as an excuse to . . . keep coming down to see me. “So, your pipes aren’t frozen anymore?”

“I don’t know if they ever were.” She reached into her hood and pulled out a few strands of her damp blond hair. “I had just finished showering when you knocked on my door. My mom would kill me if she knew I was sitting out here with wet hair.”

We heard little-kid laughter in the apartment with the music, and we both looked up. But you couldn’t see anything. It sounded like a boy.

“Oh, and one other thing,” Haley said. “I called home earlier today. And I officially stopped being a coward.”

“What do you mean?”

“I told Justin what I told you last night. That I had a ticket to come home, but I couldn’t bring myself to get on the plane.”

I decided it wasn’t my place to say anything. So I just listened. And nodded.

“And I’ll tell you something,” she said. “That wasn’t fun at all. We spent half the day crying to each other on the phone.” She stopped picking at the loose thread and stuck her hands in her coat pockets. “But breaking it off was the right thing to do.”

“It’s hard,” I said.

“Tell me about it.”

It felt wrong to be excited in the wake of some other dude’s misfortune. But excitement was exactly what I felt. Because if Haley was no longer taken . . .

Maybe . . .

We were getting up to leave when a new song started playing. “Here Comes Santa Claus.” Me and Haley looked at each other and cracked up, and we both sat back down. And through my laughter, I imagined the boy in the apartment above us, sitting near the radio with his little sis and his mom and dad. I wished I could tell him to remember every single thing about today. Not just whatever presents he got but his family, too. His mom. Because one day he’d be far away from home, sitting on a snow-covered stoop with a girl he might like, laughing, and he’d want to picture how they all used to be.