There’s a large tree decorated with white lights and silver balls in one corner of the room and Christmas songs playing on the sound system. Orlando is also in one corner of the room, talking to a girl named Shannon who is someone’s cousin from out of town. Shannon is smart, interesting and attractive. And she makes it clear that she thinks he’s all those things, too; he’s made no joke that isn’t hilarious, said nothing that isn’t amazing. Which makes a pleasant change.

It’s two weeks before Christmas, and this is Coach Mena’s annual party for the basketball squad. Orlando is here because he had to come (there would have been two more weeks of silence from his father if he didn’t show some team spirit), and because he thought the party would cheer him up. This isn’t the unhappiest day in an unhappy year, but it is definitely in the line-up. Exactly twelve months ago, while he was driving himself crazy trying to find the perfect gift for her, Sorrel broke up with him. They’d had three amazing weeks together when, his hormones having the time of their lives, he’d never felt better – like he was the coolest, greatest, nicest, best-looking guy who had ever lived – and then, without so much as a ten-minute warning, it was all over. Just like that. Here today and gone tomorrow. Big winner one minute; loser the next. was all she wrote.

The party hasn’t stopped him from remembering what day this is, but it is making him feel slightly less bad about it. Shannon’s attention, although largely unwanted, is nonetheless appreciated. He’s not a complete waste of space; some girls like him.

But somewhere around the fifth time Bing Crosby sings “White Christmas”, Orlando has an overwhelming desire to be home. “You know,” he says, as Bing wishes once again that they have snow on the twenty-fifth, “I think I’m going to get going. I feel like I’m getting a headache. There’s so much noise.”

“That’s perfect. I’m pretty done here, too. I’ll get my coat.” She has a really nice smile. “You can walk me home.”

This was so not in his plans that he misunderstands her. “I thought you live in Chester.”

Her look says he’s hopeless, but endearing. “Not tonight, I don’t.” She gives him an affectionate punch in the arm. “Tonight I live a few blocks away. Remember? I’m Selby Rider’s cousin?”

“Oh, yeah. Of course.”

It’s a cold, star-bright night. Shannon puts her arm through his, and they walk slowly, looking at the decorations on the houses – Santa and his elves on porches and in windows, reindeer on the rooftops, a bedazzle of lights across windows and lawns – Shannon doing a good job of holding up both sides of the conversation. When they get to the Riders’ she says, “I’m here all weekend. If you want to do something.” She’s standing so close he can make a pretty good guess at what she’s been eating. “Maybe you could show me the town.”

“Yeah, I – I could do that.” She’s nice, she’s pretty, she likes him, he likes her – and she is very definitely waiting to be kissed. What could make him feel better than that? He leans towards her.

And there, standing in the driveway smiling at them, is Sorrel, all dressed up for a winter night in a plaid jacket and matching hat. He jumps back so fast he hits the giant illuminated candy cane behind him.

“What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. It’s nothing I—” It’s just that I can’t kiss you with my dead girlfriend watching. “My head.” And now it really is starting to throb. “I really have to go.”

“But—”

“I have your number, Shannon. I’ll ring you. I’ll show you the town.”

And he is off the stoop and on the front path as fast as possible without running. He turns when he reaches the pavement. Shannon is standing staring after him. He waves. “I’ll give you a call!”

“So she seems nice.” Sorrel is right beside him as he starts down the street.

“You have to ruin everything, don’t you?” His breath makes tiny clouds in front of them. “Why can’t you just leave me alone? Why can’t you stay wherever it is you are when you aren’t hassling me?”

“Me? What’d I do?”

“You know damn well what you did. Nobody invited you to the party.”

“I wasn’t at the party. That’s not really my scene any more.”

“Oh, excuse me. You weren’t at the party. But you’re here now. So I guess your new scene is interfering in my life.”

“You didn’t really want to kiss her. It was pretty obvious. Not to her, maybe, but to a casual observer.” Sorrel skips a few steps to keep up with him. “So, really, you should be thanking me. I did you a favour.”

He refuses to look at her. “You never do me any favours. All you do is mess everything up.”

Suddenly she’s in front of him, walking backwards. “Oh, I get it. You’re still sore at me, aren’t you? Because I dumped you. That’s why you’re mad at me. Not because I interrupted your big kiss.”

“Don’t be so full of yourself. That isn’t why I’m pissed off. I’m pissed off because for some reason now that you’re dead you won’t stop bothering me.”

“I knew it. I always knew it. You never really got over me. You always thought we’d get back together, didn’t you?”

“No, of course not.” He didn’t think, he hoped. “But it would’ve been nice if you’d told me why we broke up. If you’d had the decency to let me in on the story instead of acting like I wasn’t involved.”

“I did tell you.”

“No you didn’t. You said it wasn’t me, it was you. Which is like the oldest phoney line in the book. Everybody says that so they spare your feelings and don’t have to get into a big argument.”

“Except that it wasn’t a phoney line.” She’s wearing her favourite dangling gold star earrings. They sway when she moves, flashing in the street lamps. “It was true. It was me. It was totally me.”

On the day before Sorrel sent him the break-up text they’d gone back to her house after school. Since they’d started dating the only times he’d been in her house (briefly) were when he was picking her up to go somewhere. Which hadn’t bothered him as much as it might have. They all avoided going to Sorrel’s house whenever possible because her mother was almost always there – and there was almost always a scene. How long it took for Sorrel and her mother to start fighting depended on everybody’s mood or whether Meryl had had an early cocktail or not, but it rarely took long enough to finish a soda. He went with her on that afternoon because Sorrel wanted his opinion on the project she was doing for art. And, like a gift from the gods, that day they had the place to themselves. He wouldn’t have to leave because he was embarrassed or because Sorrel was too angry to want him around. They went up to her room – the first and last time he would ever be in it. She got out her project and they talked about it for a while, and then they started making out. Which also wasn’t something that happened a lot. Thinking about it later, he reckoned that he got a little carried away, but at the time he thought she pushed him off her because she heard her mother come home. She was up first, pulling her clothes together. Saying they’d better go down. He was surprised to discover that her mother hadn’t come home, but before he could suggest going back to her room and finishing what they’d started she said he’d better leave. She kissed him goodbye, but not the way she’d been kissing him ten minutes before. Or maybe it was not the way that he’d been kissing her. And at 1.45 a.m. she sent him a text: I think we should stop dating. I’m really sorry. It’s nothing to do with you. It’s me. We’re better off friends . Merry Christmas.

Now he says, “Well that’s not what it felt like to me.” Especially when he practically begged her to give him another chance and she refused. “It felt like it was my fault.”

“Because you weren’t paying attention. You were only thinking about how you felt; you never thought about me,” says Sorrel. “I always really liked you, Orlando. You know that. I liked you a lot. I still do. I just never liked you that way. You’re a great guy. But not for me. I was into somebody else.”

Knowing that he’s a great guy for someone else doesn’t keep the bitterness out of his voice. “Then why did you go out with me if you never liked me that way? Why lead me on?”

“I didn’t mean to. But I had to go out with somebody. You can’t be the girl all the guys want to date and not go out with somebody. Everybody expected it. Especially my mom. She never got off my case. And my mom wanted me to date you.” Despite the fights, Sorrel did what her mother told her to do – just as Orlando does what Officer Gwinnet wants. “Meryl was always on at me about you. Orlando this… Orlando that… Maybe she really does like you.” Her laugh sputters. “She probably likes you more than she ever liked me. You know, because you’re good-looking and a sports star. She figured we were a perfect match. Beauty and the Jock.” They’ve both stopped walking and are stood facing each other. “And if it worked out, and you became a big basketball legend and I was this mega model, then it was win–win all the way, wasn’t it?”

That depended on how you looked at it. One person’s win–win could be another’s lose–lose.

“But what about me? What about my feelings? Did you ever consider how I felt?”

“Of course I did. That’s why I ended it. I could see you were starting to get serious. I was trying to save you from being hurt.”

And look how well that turned out.

“If you’re trying to make me feel better it isn’t working.”

But maybe it is. Because suddenly he sees very clearly that the enthusiasm was all on his side. In that short time when they dated Sorrel had treated him exactly as she’d always treated him – like a buddy, like a good and close friend. The only difference was that sometimes she’d link her arm with his when they were walking together, or even hold his hand. And she’d let him kiss her – only now he isn’t sure if she really kissed him back. Because he finally gets it, sees the pattern. All the guys Sorrel went out with – never for more than a few weeks, if that long – all big men at school; guys her mother would approve of, probably guys her mother picked the same way she picked him. Somewhere way at the back of his mind, images are stirring. Sorrel really happy. Sorrel really excited. Sorrel really involved. Sorrel smiling like she knew the best secret there ever was.

“So who was it you really wanted to go out with?” asks Orlando. “Who was it you liked that way?”

She tilts her head to one side. “Can’t you guess?”

On either side of them the coloured lights glow and the bare, iced branches of the trees shine. In front of him, Sorrel gazes back at him calmly, the gold stars glinting against the darkness. Of course. The earrings. A gift from Celeste. And he sees the two of them at the birthday party, heads together; hears Sorrel say she’s eighteen and can do what she wants. How could he have missed it? Celeste and Sorrel; Sorrel and Celeste. Inseparable; close as the bricks in a wall. A match guaranteed to displease both their mothers.

“Celeste,” says Orlando. It was always Celeste. It really wasn’t about him.

“I knew you’d be able to guess,” says Sorrel.

A door shuts on Orlando’s right, and he turns to see two French bull terriers and a man in a green parka on the porch decorated with glowing snowmen. The dogs hurl themselves down the steps, pulling the man behind them. As they pass, the man gives Orlando the wary sort of smile you’d give someone who’s been standing for some time on an empty street talking earnestly to himself as they pass.