CHAPTER 5 NORA
My condo smells like Finn’s candles and the mulled wine I simmered on the stove all day. There’s a whole pot of it, but I’ve been nursing my first glass for about an hour, periodically refilling it with warmer wine.
Bea convinced me to put up a Christmas tree this year, if only because it looks so nice in the windows at night, so now my one thousand square feet are lit by the light above the stove, the tree’s twinkle lights, and the glow of the television.
“Are you sure you don’t want to come?” Bea asks through the phone. “I’m not trying to pressure you,” she says quickly. “I just want to make sure you’re not…” She lets her words fade.
She wants to make sure I’m not alone, or sad, or both. But I am and I’ll be that way regardless of whether I’m here or at her party. Part of me is still tempted to go, of course. Finn will be there. He said he’d be there.
But I can’t see him again for the first time in front of all our friends and pretend to be normal about him. I’d probably climb him like a tree. I’d probably wear his hair like a hat.
I’d definitely cry.
The credits of one rom-com end and another one starts on my TV screen. I should probably stop watching these; they’re not helping. It’s just one of those channels that does movie marathons and it’s easier to watch that than have to search for something I might like.
I should go to bed. That’s what I always said I’d do if I got to do New Year’s Eve my way. I should just do it.
I’m doing it.
I blow out the candles and turn off the stovetop.
The internet says to let mulled wine cool before you store it so I guess I’ll just deal with it in the morning.
I keep the Christmas tree lights on as I turn off the light above the stove.
When I leave my bedroom door open, I can see their glow from down my hallway.
I do my entire skin care routine, because that feels like something you should do before the start of a new year.
I set my journal out. I put on my fox Robin Hood T-shirt, the one with the stretched-out shoulders, and slip beneath the fluffy duvet.
The city is glaringly bright outside my window, but I don’t close the curtains. I want to see it all.
There’s a party in an apartment nearby, maybe the floor above or below. The bass thumps a steady heartbeat, one that would normally annoy me enough to keep me awake. I kind of like it now; it’s like being part of the party without being at the party.
Party-adjacent.
I check the time on my phone. 11:28 p.m.
I helped Bea set up earlier today, setting out New Year’s Eve headbands with the year as the eyeholes and hanging silver streamers off her staircase. She invited folks from her work and a bunch of Meriah’s friends. It’s probably so loud there right now.
I open our text thread, fingers hovering over the keys, to ask her for a pic. But I think she’d know what I’m really asking for. And she’d tell me to just text him for the pic instead. So, I do.
Well, I don’t text him. I text our thread.
FINN COLLINS, DECEMBER 31, 2025
11:31 p.m.: Nora: Happy New Year’s, Finn
11:32 p.m.: Nora: I hope you’re having the best night
11:35 p.m.: Nora: I want you to know that the first time I kissed you, it was better than fireworks
11:37 p.m.: Nora: I know that doesn’t make any sense
11:38 p.m.: Nora: it was amazing ok? I think ever since then I knew you were always going to be my New Year’s Eve kiss, like I knew it before I knew it. And now you’re not and I just wish I got to have one more. One more kiss, one more New Year’s
11:40 p.m.: Nora: kissing you is a great way to start the new year, Finn
11:41 p.m.: Finn: Nora
11:42 p.m.: Nora: omg
11:42 p.m.: Nora: Finn?
11:43 p.m.: Finn: where are you?
11:43 p.m.: Finn: you better not be in fucking Germany right now
11:44 p.m.: Nora: I’m at home! I’m in bed!
11:44 p.m.: Nora: I’m not in Germany
11:45 p.m.: Finn: STAY THERE
11:46 p.m.: Finn: I’m coming STAY THERE
11:47 p.m.: Nora: You’re coming here???
11:49 p.m.: Nora: FINN???
11:52 p.m.: Nora: I’m staying here
11:53 p.m.: Nora: Roy Orbison
I welcome the New Year in bed, alone, listening to my neighbors cheer. I keep my phone clutched in my hand, sometimes I open the text thread, but he hasn’t sent any new messages.
12:01 a.m.
12:05 a.m.
12:13 a.m.
Maybe I’m dreaming. Maybe this is a lesser-known stage of grief: digital hallucinations. Maybe—someone pounds on my front door. I sit frozen in the middle of the bed, until he knocks again. He knocks like he’s trying to be heard on the next floor. “Nora.”
“Finn,” I say, as if he can hear me.
Then I’m running across the room. I’m not wearing pants. I stub my toe on bar stool. He knocks again as I try to open the door, forgetting about the deadbolt. “I’m coming,” I shout. “If I can just—”
Finally, the bolt clicks, the handle turns, the door opens, and he’s here. Finn is here.
“Hi,” I say.
His cheeks are red from cold or exertion. He’s wearing a T-shirt with a hole in the collar and jeans and Converse. He doesn’t have a jacket or even a sweater.
“Were you at Bea’s?” I ask.
He shakes his head, gasps for breath. “My sister’s.
I turned my phone on and I was reading your texts and I read that you lo—” He stops himself.
Reaches for me, his thumb tracing the shell of my ear.
“I had some beers and I couldn’t drive so I took the train into the city and I ran the rest of the way. ”
“I thought you got rid of your phone?”
He sighs, adoring, affectionate. “I just got a new one for Germany.”
“Oh,” I say, because what else is there to say when you’ve poured your heart out to a man via a year of unanswered text messages.
“I’m sorry, Nora. I’m so sorry.”
“For what?” I ask, the words wet. I fist his T-shirt, just to hold him, just to keep him close. To prove that he’s here and he’s really real. “I’m sorry. I—”
He presses his index and middle fingers to my collarbone, steps closer, his shoes on either side of my feet.
He tips my chin up, and this close, it’s just the two of us hidden behind the fall of his hair.
“I’m so sorry I’m late, Nor,” he says. And he smells like him.
I hold him to me now, T-shirt in my fist, hips under my palms. He’s cold but also so, so warm.
His eyes are bluer than I remember, or maybe that’s just the sheen of tears. “I love you, and I am never going to miss another midnight.”
And when he kisses me, he makes up for every minute, every second of missed midnights. Not just this one, but the one last night, and the night before. And the night before that.