17
After several more hours of prep, including finishing and taste-testing the ensaymada, and a quick shower and change into a cute elf-inspired red-and-green dress, I’ve had zero time for a breather or even to post our picture before the first ring of the doorbell.
Voices shout from the front door as I hurry down to open it.
“Kegmas, bitches!” someone yells, sounding like they’ve already broken out the eggnog.
Anthony hops down the stairs behind me, looking good in a Santa-inspired blazer. “Party time, MG.”
As Anthony greets his friends, I take a quick pic of myself and send it to Juliet.
My cousin hearts it immediately. Yuletide Court vibes, she texts back. She sends me a photo of Kristy in an adorable sugar plum fairy dress and I melt.
More people filter in, but I’m distracted texting Juliet how adorable Kristy is.
We’ll miss you tonight, she says, and sends me a photo of Mom’s plate settings. My chest goes tight, wishing badly I was home. I wipe the tears forming at the corners of my eyes.
I didn’t get a chance to get out there today, but I will see them tomorrow. If I’m in the same timeline, that is.
I will be.
I just need to figure out how to make that happen.
I hear the doorbell ring again.
Anthony opens it and shouts, “Marc, my man!”
They bro-hug for a minute until the guy pulls back and says, “I hope you don’t mind, but I brought a friend along.”
Anthony guffaws. “Of course, just keep hooking me up with your restaurant investors—and munchies.”
The guy steps inside, all loud energy and a wild grin. He’s basically a festive version of Frank the Tank in an ugly Christmas sweater stretched heroically across his chest. And he’s carrying probably the biggest bag of Funyuns I’ve ever seen. I can’t help but crack up.
Anthony turns to me with glee. “Check it out, Mary!” He holds up the bag to me like it’s a grand prize.
“This guy pretends he only eats gourmet food,” Marc says to me as he steps inside, “but give him a bag of Funyuns and you’ll see, he’s not as classy as he pretends to be.”
“I’m classy!” Anthony insists, following Marc into the house. “Just wait till you see how I leveled up Kegmas this year!”
His other friends follow him into the kitchen.
“Hey, so I didn’t bring any snack items, but I can grab a box of Twinkies if it’s a requirement,” Marc’s friend says from where he’s still standing on the doorstep.
I stiffen. I recognize that voice.
I step into the threshold.
“Robbie!” I gasp. “Come in!”
“So no to the Twinkies?” he asks.
“No!” I grab him by the lapel and drag him inside, grabbing him in a tight hug. “I’m so happy to see you!”
But his arms don’t wrap back around me.
Heat floods my cheeks as I step away. Robbie is just… staring at me, stunned.
Then he deliberately takes a step back.
“Marygrace,” he says cautiously, “it’s been a while.”
No, it hasn’t, I’m about to blurt, when I remember he isn’t in my phone. Does that mean we aren’t friends in this timeline? I’m surprised by the hurt I feel seeing the distance in his face.
“Mary! Come on, I want you to—” Anthony comes bounding out of the kitchen, stopping in his tracks when he sees Robbie and me standing awkwardly together. “Do you know each other?”
I try to catch Robbie’s eyes, but he won’t meet mine. My stomach twists.
Anthony’s expression is suddenly stormy. He can’t be jealous, right?
“We were best friends,” I say.
“We went to high school together,” Robbie says, like he’s correcting me.
I feel a twist in my chest. We were so much more than that.
“Well, come on, MG,” Anthony says, shutting the door. “I need you in the kitchen. We have to show off all the great food we made.”
Robbie turns and walks ahead of us deeper into the house and Anthony’s hand settles at the small of my back as he steers me into the kitchen, where the rest of the Kegmas entourage is waiting.
I take in the crowd for the first time, local chefs in cuffed beanies, old Kappa Sig guys who haven’t outgrown their red Solo cups, and Robbie—hovering near the doorway, like he’s not sure he’s allowed to take up space.
The kitchen stops me cold.
It’s ridiculous and stunning in the best way.
Platters of food everywhere—roasted vegetables glistening under the lights, carved meat resting like it’s on display, little bowls of sauces with actual serving spoons.
The amuse-bouches on pretty trays arranged like jewels: chestnut soup shooters, deviled quail eggs, crispy polenta cubes with whipped ricotta, tuna tartare, fried lumpia egg rolls, Thai chili spice wings, and pillowy brie bites with cranberry compote.
I beam at the desserts, where my ensaymada is proudly displayed.
“Okay,” one of Anthony’s chef friends says. He’s pulled out his phone and is snapping pictures. I guess all of Anthony’s friends know the camera eats first.
“Who made this?”
Anthony doesn’t miss a beat. “We did.” His arm tightens around my waist.
“Mostly him.” I giggle. “I just supervised.”
My boyfriend looks at me with pride in his eyes. “That she did.”
My face heats. I laugh it off, but when someone breaks off a piece of ensaymada and actually groans, something soft and pleased unfurls in my chest. Anthony nudges me like he’s proud. “Told you,” he says. “She’s got skills.”
I hurry to take pictures before too many people eat too much—wide shots, close-ups, Anthony leaning casually against the counter like this level of abundance just happens around him. He poses easily. I already know his followers will eat these pictures up.
When I’ve finally captured everything, Anthony gives the signal and everyone digs in. Plates stack up. Compliments fly from every direction.
I continue to snap pictures while people are eating, thrilling at the way they are clearly enjoying the food. Even Robbie nods his approval.
Anthony keeps referring to us as “we.” We tested the dough. We perfected the bake. We pulled the last batch together.
And I let myself enjoy it. The praise. The belonging. The feeling that I helped make something people genuinely love.
This is nice. This could be my life. I pause in my photography to tell the universe, this is it. This is what I want.
Eventually someone yells from the living room about beer pong. Everyone groans theatrically, like they’re above it, but then they all immediately start migrating toward the noise. Cups clatter. Rules are argued loudly. Someone shouts that pizza is on the way.
Anthony lingers just long enough to kiss my cheek. “Hey,” he says, dropping his voice. “You are amazing. We made something great for my friends.”
I tuck my phone away. I can’t wait to try some of the food now that I’ve taken all the shots.
“Um.” Anthony hesitates. “I know it’s a huge imposition, but would you mind posting those pics now? Momentum’s everything, y’know.”
“What?” I blink at him, my hand hesitating over a plate.
“It’s just… it’s Christmas Eve. The later we get, people might be with their families and not checking socials. We want to make sure they catch the post. We don’t want it to get buried by the algorithm.”
“Of course,” I say automatically. I know that the algorithm is always hungry. It shouldn’t take too long to pick out and post the best shots. I can edit quickly while I nibble on some food.
“You’re the best,” Anthony says and retreats to the living room.
The kitchen empty, I lean against the counter, tearing off a piece of ensaymada without really tasting it as I open Instagram.
The app loads—and I see Anthony’s account loading like it did earlier.
I scroll through Anthony’s profile, seeing his pictures: Anthony in a chef’s outfit. Anthony volunteering at a soup kitchen. Anthony again. His restaurant. His food. His face.
The style of these photos is familiar.
I flip back to my camera roll and scroll through, finding exactly the same pictures.
Then it hits me. He wants me to post on his account. Not mine.
I go back to Instagram and try to find my own account. It’s not in my app. My profile doesn’t even come up when I search my handle.
I click around, my pulse ticking up, confusion hardening into something colder.
This isn’t a shared account. This isn’t me posting on my account to give him a publicity boost. I’m just his social media person, taking pictures of him to put on his account to promote his restaurant. An invisible partner.
Again. How did this happen again? Just then, the back door swings open and Robbie walks in carrying a stack of pizza boxes.
It’s from Blaze Baby. The smell hits instantly—charred dough, chili oil, something sweet and smoky.
But even gorgeous pizza can’t stop me from feeling like the ground has been pulled out from under me.
He places the stack on a counter and pauses when he sees my face.
“Hey,” he says hesitantly. “You okay?”
I shake my head no before I can stop myself.
He leans against the counter and looks at me. He doesn’t rush me. Just waits. Which I’m grateful for, because the shock of finding out once again I’m breaking my back working for someone else rather than following my own passion is feeling really shitty.
Finally, I find my voice. “Apparently I’m an excellent brand content creator.” I show Robbie Anthony’s account on my phone.
His amber eyes widen. “Wow, that follower count is bigger than Hopewell Crossing,” he says, attempting a joke, like he used to do when trying to cheer me up.
But when I don’t laugh, he lowers his voice.
“I saw you had deactivated your account. Now I get it. You were working your boyfriend’s instead. ”
I set the phone down and cover my face with my hands and whimper. “I feel so… erased.”
His breath is shaky. “I’m so sorry. I meant to reach out,” he says quietly. “After Christmas Eve last year.” He hesitates. “I didn’t like how we ended things. But I got busy and I guess things just slipped.”
In the other timelines, it was so comforting to have him around. Even though we’d gone eight years without talking, I can’t imagine being without him now.