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I squeal and clap excitedly, then lift the box. It’s light in my hands, wrapped haphazardly in newspaper with a generic red bow stuck to the top. Since Vincent’s wrapping is borderline Pinterest-worthy, I know this disaster is Leo’s doing.

“You really missed your calling as a backup Santa Claus.”

He chuckles. “Hey, it’s not the wrapping that counts. And I did put some thought into it—I used the Sunday Funnies. Come on, quit staring at it and open it. The suspense is killing me.”

I tear the paper, exposing cardboard, and pull off the top of the box. Under a small piece of tissue paper is a delicate gold chain. My breath stalling, I lift the necklace to see the circular pendant.

It’s a wave.

“Read the inscription.”

I turn the pendant over. Etched on the back of the delicate central icon are words that bring instant tears to my eyes.

My perfect wave.

I look up at Leo. At his soft smile and eyes that dance with hope and hesitance.

“Do you like it?”

I launch myself into his waiting arms.

43

A PERFECT WAVE

The afternoon before Christmas Eve, Kinsey, Nix, and I head to the Santa Monica’s Third Street Promenade for shopping and to sit on Santa’s lap—because we’re only pretending to be well-adjusted adults. After twenty minutes in line, however, I’m as miserable as the screaming kids who don’t want to sit on a strange, bearded man’s lap.

“Whose idea was this?” I grumble, wincing at a particularly shrill scream.

“Come on,” Nix cajoles, “don’t give up! We’re starting new traditions.”

Kinsey looks between us, weighing Nix’s excitement with my angst. She gives Nix a kiss and takes my arm. “Mia and I are going to grab some hot chocolate. We’ll be right back. Text me if you get near the front of the line.”

“Okay, babe.” He points a finger at me. “No bailing.”

I laugh. “Fine, fine.”

Escaping the press of stressed parents and traumatized toddlers, we beeline for the nearby Starbucks. I can already taste a peppermint hot chocolate, and from Kinsey’s eager steps, her sweet tooth rivals mine. The atmosphere is festive, the air cool and sun mellow, and despite an undercurrent of holiday anxiety, the mood of the crowd is celebratory. It reminds me powerfully of my childhood, of holding my mom’s hand as we munched on candy canes and shopped for last-minute gifts for Dad and Jameson.

Thinking about her, I feel something I haven’t in decades—the insulation and safety of her presence, the cocoon of her unconditional love. Hot, heavy emotion fills my chest and prickles behind my eyes.

Hi, Mom. I miss you.

Lost in my private communion with the memory of my mother, I don’t immediately notice when Kinsey stops. Only when her grip on my arm yanks me back does my awareness snap into the present.

“What the hell, Kins?” I glance swiftly around, then at her face. Her expression is pinched, the color gone from her cheeks. “What’s wrong?”

“Ten o’clock,” she says stiffly.

I follow the path of her gaze to the small patio outside Starbucks. People pass across my line of vision, giving me brief, startlingly clear glimpses of three men occupying a corner table. One man laughs, the other two grimace. All three gesture, conversing in a light, familiar way. Like they’ve known each other for years.

It doesn’t make sense.

None of it makes sense.

Everything slows and dims—the crowds, the noise, the music from a nearby busker. Even the twinkling of Christmas lights on stores and lamp poles fade away.

Kinsey’s face floats before mine, her eyes wide and concerned. “Mia? What do you want me to do?”