The idea of posting the photo online immediately made me wary. This felt personal. Freddy and Cap Guy deserved some semblance of privacy, no matter how long ago they may have parted ways with each other or with Christmas Falls.

Plus, a photograph of Frederick Van Ruyven circulating online after all these years? That was the last thing the family needed. You didn’t put out fires by flinging gasoline around in all directions. If Freddy was still alive, then I wanted to find him before he knew I was looking. Forewarned was forearmed, and you didn’t walk into any negotiations without some ammunition on you somewhere.

God.

I still didn’t know who I was in all this. The guy who looked at that photograph and saw a teenager he hoped was living a full and happy life thirty years later, or the guy who wanted to find him and cut him a final deal before he realized exactly how much power he’d hold in the company if he came back now? Becauseif he was alive, Freddy was an unknown quality, and there was nothing more dangerous than an unknown quality with fucking voting rights on the board.

Did being here mean more than that? I wanted it to, and I hated that I couldn’t parse my own motivations, or my emotions, in all this. Yes, I wanted to protect the company, and finding Freddy and offering him a deal to stay gone would do that. But I also couldn’t forget the sick feeling in my stomach when I’d first discovered the card that Freddy had sent long after he went missing. The sick feeling that had told me, from just a glance at the photograph, exactly why my grandfather had ignored him.

Funny. It had never been said aloud. One didn’t admit aloud to something as crass as homophobia. One supported all the right charities and foundations, naturally. But being a Van Ruyven came with expectations. How you behaved, how you dressed, how you voted, how you married. I’d known from the moment I saw the photograph that Freddy hadn’t fit those expectations in exactly the same way I didn’t.

“No,” I said. “It’s, um, a private family matter.”

Harvey’s brow creased, but he nodded at the guy. “Yeah, we don’t want to do that. He doesn’t look familiar at all?”

The guy shook his head.

“Sorry,” Juan said. He shrugged. “I don’t think I know the blond guy, and the guy in the cap? Hell, he could be sitting at the bar right now and I wouldn’t be able to tell.” He slid the photograph back to us. “Good luck, though.”

“Thanks,” Harvey said, but I could hear the disappointment in his tone. I think he knew, as well as I did, that we were done.

“Can I get you a beer?” Juan asked.

Harvey darted a glance at me.

“No, thanks,” I said, looking away from Harvey. Everything I’d said about wanting to solve this mystery today? Stupid. Whether I left here today or tomorrow, it wouldn’t make adifference. Freddy had been in this town once, thirty-some years ago, and there was no way sticking around overnight would miraculously flush out someone who remembered him. We’d had one Hail Mary attempt at the dock, and another one here at Frosty’s. It was stupid to try to draw this out any longer. Stupid to think it would be any easier to say goodbye to Harvey tomorrow than it would be this afternoon. “I’ve got a plane to catch.”

Driving out of Christmas Falls was a strange experience. I didn’t want to go, and it had nothing to do with the way I was genuinely starting to love the town, and everything to do with the man in the driver’s seat of Martha’s car. Stupid, wasn’t it, how we could tell ourselves we loved a place without admitting out loud that the reason we loved it was for the people we met there. Or, in my case, one person in particular. I wasn’t a fool. I wasn’t madly in love with Harvey Novak. I wasn’t going to turn up at his house with my heart on my sleeve and a boombox held over my head. But there was something between us that was impossible to ignore. And if leaving already felt like a regret when we were barely on the outskirts of town, what would it feel like in a year, or in five, or in a lifetime? Would it fade, like all the other regrets I’d ever had? I didn’t want it to.

There were a hundred things I wanted to say to Harvey. A million. Most of them were apologies of some sort. For pretending this didn’t mean as much as it did. For the way it was ending. For choosing to go back to New York when it felt as though my real unfinished business was here. For telling him I’d take a rain check when we both knew I wouldn’t be back fordinner at his grandmother’s house, or whatever else we might have shared.

But I kept my head turned toward the window, watching the snowy fields slide past.

Harvey had driven me back to the Pear Tree, and waited while I grabbed my suitcase and checked out. The next flight to Chicago was in an hour and a half, and it seemed like fate that I’d been able to book a seat. It probably wasn’t fate at all, though; everyone was coming to Christmas Falls at the time of year, not leaving it. Everyone except me.

“It’s fine,” Harvey said for the millionth time today when we pulled up at the small regional airport. “Don’t look so miserable. It’s fine.”

“Do I look miserable?”

His smile wobbled. “You look the same as always, kind of haughty, but?—”

“Haughty?”

“You wear it very well, though. Like, incredibly well.” His smile faded. “The last few days have been so great. We both know you’re not really coming back. So, um, thank you, I guess.”

“Thank you?”

He blinked rapidly. “For liking me for me. Even the weird bits.”

“I like the weird bits the most.”

“Not everyone does.” He laughed, and we both pretended the sound wasn’t wet. “I like your weird bits too, even if you keep them better hidden than mine.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, my throat aching.

Harvey gave a lopsided shrug and an even more lopsided smile. “It’s fine.”

It wasn’t fine.