Prologue

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The Night After Christmas

The week after Christmas always felt strange to me. It was like the world was still half-asleep under twinkling lights that refused to come down. The air outside was sharp and cold, biting at my cheeks as I walked up the steps to Mishell’s apartment, balancing two gift bags in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other. I knocked twice before she flung the door open with so much energy it nearly hit the wall.

“Zaraaa!” she squealed, already dancing. “Girls’ night is officially in session!”

Warmth spilled from her place, along with the smell of honey-glazed chicken, cinnamon, and something buttery in the oven. Christmas lights still framed her windows, blinking in red, gold, and purple like she refused to let the holiday go. Typical Mishell. She was festive to her core.

I stepped inside right as a small pair of feet pattered across the hardwood. Javelle rounded the corner, wearing a sparkly pink onesie and mismatched socks. Her hair was in two fluffy puffs, each decorated with a red bow.

“Auntie Zawa!” she squealed, arms wide.

My heart melted instantly. “Hi, baby!” I leaned down, scooping her up. She smelled like toddler shampoo and cookie crumbs. “I missed you.”

“She’s been asking for you since we got back in town,” Mishell said proudly, hands on her hips. “I told her her favorite auntie was bringing presents.”

As if the word “presents” activated a special toddler sensor, Javelle’s head whipped toward the gift bags dangling from my hand.

“Mine?”

“Yes, ma’am.” I set her down and handed her the smaller bag.

She gasped dramatically. It was definitely another trait inherited from her mother. She dug into the tissue paper until she uncovered the plush elephant I’d picked out. The squeal that followed could have shattered glass.

Mishell laughed. “You’re spoiling her.”

“She deserves to be spoiled.” I shrugged.

“And what about me?” Mishell pointed to the other bag.

“That one is yours if you behave.”

She snatched it instantly. “Oh, so absolutely not.”

I followed her into the kitchen, where the counters were covered in half-eaten Christmas cookies, wine glasses, a charcuterie board, and a poundcake that looked like it had been blessed by the baking Gods. The icing dripped from the sides, and I couldn’t wait to taste it.

“You cooked?” I asked, genuinely impressed.

“And baked!” she said, flipping her braids behind her shoulder. “This is a whole vibe tonight. We celebrating the end of a rough year.”

I let out a dry laugh. “Rough is one word.”

She gave me a quick side-eye. “We can unpack all that trauma after we eat.”

We sat around her small dining table. Javelle sat in her highchair, smashing mac and cheese with pure enthusiasm. The two of us talked, laughed, ate, and let the hours stretch comfortably. It was the kind of night I didn’t realize I’d needed until I was living it. After dinner, we migrated to the couch. Christmas movies played quietly in the background while we sipped wine. I felt my shoulders finally relax for the first time in weeks. That should’ve been the first sign Mishell was about to ruin my peace.

“So…” she began, twirling her wine glass. “There’s this thing I wanted to tell you about.”

“No.” I didn’t even look up.

“You don’t know what I’m going to say.”

“Yes, I do.”

She rolled her eyes dramatically. “Zara, at least let me get the sentence out!”

I groaned. “Fine.”

She sat up straighter, excitement bubbling under her skin. “There’s this New Year’s Eve event right? Called ‘New Year, New Flame.’ It’s a singles mixer—”

“Nope.”

“Zara!”

“I said nope.”

She slapped my thigh with the back of her hand. “Listen! You get paired up for games and dares and cute little activities. Like adult field-day meets romance. Tell me that doesn’t sound fun.”

“I would rather swallow thumbtacks.”

Mishell gasped. “You are so dramatic.”

“I am protecting my peace.”

“Girl, your peace has you sitting in this house with fuzzy socks and a blanket like somebody’s sixty-year-old church auntie.”

I pretended to be offended, but I really wasn’t.

“And anyway,” she continued, “you might meet someone.”

“There it is.” I took another sip of wine. “The true agenda.”

She scooted closer, nudging me. “Z, it’s been what? A year? More? Since everything with—”

I raised my hand quickly, shutting that down. “Don’t say his name in my happy space.”

Mishell softened. “Okay. I won’t. But you can’t hide forever.”

“I’m not hiding,” I muttered. “I’m healing.”

She gave me a look. One of those looks only a best friend was qualified to give.

“You can heal and have fun,” she said. “You can heal and flirt. You can heal and get kissed before midnight.”

I let out a humorless laugh. “Mishell, please.”

“I’m serious.” She touched my arm. “It’s one night. One evening. You won’t combust if a man looks in your direction.”

I stared at the twinkling lights above Mishell’s kitchen doorway. The soft golden glow reflected in my wine glass, and I felt that familiar heaviness in my chest. That ache that whispered: you tried love once and look how that ended.

Sometimes, when the winter air hit the back of my throat a certain way, I remembered exactly what those months after Jason felt like. It was like living underwater. I wasn’t drowning, exactly just suspended. It was heavy, slow, and like everything around me muffled. The days blurred into each other in shades of gray, and I floated through them on autopilot. I went to work. I came home. I showered sometimes. I ate when my stomach hurt too much not to. But mostly, I slept. Or lay awake staring at the ceiling, wishing sleep would come back.

I stopped answering texts unless they were from Mishell. Even then, half the time I’d stare at my phone until the screen dimmed, too empty to engage. My apartment stayed cold because I didn’t have the energy to get out of bed to adjust the heat. My laundry piled up. Dishes sat untouched in the sink. The plants on my windowsill wilted one by one, and I couldn’t bring myself to revive them.

I lost weight. My voice grew quiet. And my smile, my real smile, went missing.

People kept saying, “You dodged a bullet,” “At least you found out who he was now,” “You can do better.”

They meant well. But none of it mattered. Because they didn’t see the nights when I curled up on the bathroom floor, shaking so hard my teeth chattered. Or how I replayed every moment with him, looking for the exact place where I stopped being enough. Or how ashamed I felt for loving someone who threw me away so easily.

Depression didn’t hit me fast. It seeped in, quiet and cold, until one day I woke up and realized I didn’t recognize myself anymore. It took months before sunlight didn’t feel like an intrusion. Before I could walk past the coffee shop we used to visit without my chest tightening.
Before I could hear his name without my hands trembling.

Healing wasn’t linear, and it wasn’t pretty. It was work. Hard work. And even now, sometimes, I caught myself wondering if I’d ever be fearless with my heart again.

But I had survived it. Barely… but I had.

People always talked about heartbreak like it was some distant storm. But mine still lived inside me. Still curled up under my ribs. Still made me question if I was lovable at all. A mixer sounded like chaos. Like expectations. Like pressure to smile when I didn’t feel like smiling.

But a small, uninvited thought crept through: What if… what if something good could happen? Something fun. Something light. Something new.

I didn’t say yes. But I didn’t say no again, either. And somehow, Mishell saw that tiny crack in my resolve, because her grin stretched wide and victorious.

“Zara Blake,” she whispered, “this could be the start of something.”

Maybe. Or maybe it could be the start of another disappointment.

 But as I sat there on her couch, sipping wine under Christmas lights, listening to baby giggles and my best friend’s laughter, I wondered if letting myself try again really was the worst thing that could happen. And even though I would never admit it out loud…a tiny spark inside me hoped the answer was no.