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The tree is fake, and relatively new. In fact, everything in these boxes was purchased by Elena for our first Christmas here, before she met Julian in the new year and left us. For the past two years, Vince and I have put them up without mentioning her. I wonder if he associates all this stuff with my mother, or if, like me, he’s indifferent.

He’s already pulling the parts of the tree out of the box, and lifting the base onto the stand.

“Lights are in that small box by the fireplace,” he says, motioning to the fireplace with his chin. “They’re probably tangled.”

They are, of course. I dump the contents onto the coffee table and start unravelling them, while Vince gets the other two parts of the tree up and steps back to assess his work, arms crossed. The tree is slightly lopsided. He does his best to straighten it, then we loop the lights around it and start digging through the ornaments.

There are quite literally hundreds. I can only imagine how much of Vince’s money Elena spent on them all. We put up what we like, pick and choose a few things to put around the house, and leave all the rest in the boxes—just like we do every year.

I’m home for a couple of weeks, but I guess Vince is determined to make this the Most Christmasy Christmas Ever, because he tells me he thought we could make some sugar cookies, and I discover that he’s bought all the ingredients and found a recipe. I laugh, rolling my eyes, but concede.

We move to the kitchen, where Vince has all the ingredients out on the counter, and we divvy up the tasks. Vince creams the butter while I measure out the flour and add it to the bowl—too fast, because the recipe said “gradually” and I went for more of an “all at once with enthusiasm.” There’s a small volcanic eruption of white powder that coats the counter, my right sleeve, and Vince’s forearm.

He looks down at the perfect white stripe across his skin, then up at me, and I burst into laughter. The corner of his mouth twitches, and then he’s shaking his head, and I can see he’s trying not to smile. He elbows me and says, “Idiot,” in that warm, affectionate voice that I love, and starts mixing the flour in.

When I recover myself, and clean up some of the flour, I reach across him for the vanilla extract on the far side of the counter, and my arm brushes his—the bare skin of my wrist against the bare skin of his forearm—and something happens. A small jolt, like static electricity or the split-second disorientation of missing a step on stairs. I freeze, my arm still touching him, and I become acutely aware of the contact in a way that makes no sense. This is Vince. This is the man who’s seen me with the flu, who knew (and hated) my first boyfriend, who’s bought feminine hygiene products for me at CVS.

He steps away, very naturally, as if he hasn’t noticed the way I completely malfunctioned at all, and says, “Careful measuring that out,” in a perfectly level voice.

I pick up the vanilla bottle with fingers that feel slightly unsteady, and measure a teaspoon into the flour-dusted dough while he adjusts the oven temperature.

By the time the cookies come out of the oven, it’s almost nine o’clock. We take a plate of them into the living room, where the tree is lit up and a fire is going in the fireplace. I’ve traded my flour-covered sweater for an old hoodie, and Vince has poured himself a whiskey.

I settle onto the couch and pull a blanket over my legs. Vince takes the other end and picks up the remote.

“What are we watching?” he asks.

“Something Christmassy.”

“Die Hard.”

I roll my eyes. “Please don’t do that thing you do every year where you try to shock me by telling me Die Hard is a Christmas movie.”

“It is a Christmas movie.”

“I know, Vince. Everyone knows. This argument is older than I am.”

He gives me a look. “So that’s a no?”

“Actually, I love Die Hard. Put it on.”

He chuckles and turns to the TV just as his phone rings. It’s lying on the coffee table between us, and I catch the name before he turns it facedown. It’s my mom.

“You’re not answering?”

“Nope.”

I reach for another cookie. “Okay. Good talk.”

He takes a sip of whiskey. “She called me three times yesterday,” he says. “We had a settlement conference last week, and anyway . . . it wasn’t enough.”

“Maybe she misses you.”

“Ha.”

I grin at him.

We’ve barely made it through the opening credits when my phone starts ringing. I don’t even have to look.