Chapter 4

Meg

I smelllike a sour Christmas elf. My elbow is probably bruised. My shoes are beyond hope. And I don't know what kind of eggnog was in the dumpster and that I don't think I've fully washed from my hair, but my Christmas tree is up in Trevor's living room, and it is beautiful.

"You turned the lights on!" I throw myself at Trevor and wrap him in a hug before I process the look on his face. But even his I let a weirdo talk me into desecrating my safe space with a mutant alien tree that might try to kill me in my sleep expression can't stop me from blabbering away my gratitude. "Thank you, thank you, thank you! I love it!"

"It has seven limbs." He doesn't hug me back, but he doesn't push me away either. "It has only seven limbs."

"And those seven limbs will have the very best rest of their life ever."

"It has seven limbs and still looks like a full tree from this angle."

He's not wrong.

Those are some bushy green limbs. And when the tree's trunk is pushed up into the corner, you can't tell it only has limbs on like one and a half sides.

"We should hang your bobbleheads on it so it doesn't look so much like a Christmas tree," I say.

He pulls out of my hug, his face doing some weird acrobatics while his arms hang like he suddenly doesn't know what to do with them. "The heads would pop off."

"That's rude of them. They don't make bobbleheads like they used to, do they?"

"You should go to bed."

"Psh. Who can sleep when the world is magic?" Or when you're worried that you're about to get a phone call from your parents or brother who will somehow subliminally know that you were convinced you were going to get arrested for swimming in you don't even want to know what inside that dumpster while on a mission to save a Christmas tree. "Utensils. We should hang utensils on the tree. Or—wait! I have a box of pasta shaped like lobsters that Zeus and Joey gave me. We can hang lobster pasta on it!"

"Why did they—never mind."

I beam at him.

That's basically the answer to anything that my employers do. Why do they—never mind. It's them.

I've been to a lot of places where I don't fit in over the years.

Here?

I've found my people.

I have a job where I can be me and not worry that someone's going to tell me I'm not grown up enough because I love to laugh too loudly and I still squeal with excitement when I see squirrels doing crazy things in the yard and when I just stop and stare at the sunrise or the sunset because it takes my breath away.

If I could find a man who loved that about me…well, my life would basically be the best life ever.

And I wouldn't take it for granted.

"They gave me this funny card game called Exploding Kittens too," I say. "Let me put the pasta on the tree, and then we can pour some whiskey shots and check that out. Unless you want to go to bed. I can totally explode kittens on my own. Wait. That sounded wrong. I wouldn't do it for real. Ever. I love kittens. This is like, a satire game. At least, I think it is. Zeus doesn't strike me as the kitten-hating type."

Trevor stares at me, and I can't even begin to guess what he's thinking.

But he blinks once, turns, and disappears into the kitchen.

His bedroom's off the kitchen.

I sigh.

He's probably done with me and is heading to bed, and all of these little subliminal messages I've been reading into the past few weeks that say that he likes me are nothing more than my fanciful imagination.

My mom says I'm a lot sometimes.

She also says I should never apologize for that, and that it's a superpower, especially when it comes to relationships. She says it means when people stick with me, they are seriously with me, and I can count on them.

I've always thought that was a compliment, like way to go, Meg! You have magic people-weeding skills, but really, it's meant I've had times when I've been super lonely.

Like now.

When I wonder if my family is intentionally skipping Christmas so they don't have to do it the Meg-magnified way.

Trevor strolls back into the living room with a bag of—oh my god.

"Is that Baby Ash pasta?" I squeal, and then I hear myself, and then I remember that he probably doesn't want the reminder of the adorable new mascot of the team he just left behind.

But that pasta bag has the Copper Valley Fireballs mascots on it.

He nods. "It's all the mascots pasta."

I stifle another squeal of excitement, but I can't make my mouth shut up. "Don't tell Jude, but I was totally cheering for you and the Fireballs the last two years. The way you guys turned the team around and went from the worst to the best? It's like a fairy tale. I know it sucks that you can't play anymore, but oh my god, Trevor, you're a legend. You know that, right?"

His blue eyes waver as he studies me.

"I mean that in a good way," I whisper. "Not in a you're done way. There's still so much you can do. I saw Cooper Rock on The Late Show the other night and he was talking about how you were always such a great leader on the team, and how much he hopes you come back and work for the team with player development."

"Cooper never says a bad word about anyone."

"That doesn't mean he's wrong. If anything, it means he's extra right, because he takes the time to pay attention to everyone's superpowers. Also, Jude says the same thing. That you'd be the best coach to ever?—"

I cut myself off as he stares at me, his lids lowering, his mouth setting in a grim line. "I don't want to coach, Meg. Stop trying to solve my problems."

He shoves the mascot pasta at me, and this time, when he leaves the room, I get the feeling he's not coming back.

And sure enough, there's the sound of his bedroom door clicking shut.

Nice, Meg.

Also, he doesn't like you.

And if he did—well.

I know how to kill a mood, don't I?