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“Nothing’swrong,” she sounded annoyed, “I just needed you to call me back.”

“I’m sorry. I’ve got this thing going, and—”

“Yeah, yeah, your mystery commercial. I get it. Whatever. But listen—I need you to be here tonight.”

It was Christmas Eve. We’d spent Christmas Eve together at her parents’ house for as many years as I could remember.

The Annual Hallwell Gathering.

When I was a kid, my parents would go. So it would be the three of us Kingsburys—Darlene Hallwell’s charity case—and the rest of Silicon Valley’s Tech Elite.

“I can’t.” I’d told her this a week ago. I’d made it very clear.

I was working.

And no, so I’d lied, and wasn’t working—but I sure as shit wasn’t going to tell her about Dillon.

And for the record, I did actually feel bad. We’d never broken tradition. But I’d hoped, as a newlywed, she’d have her mind on other things. Maybe even begin her own tradition in her miniature mansion three miles down from her parents. Anything to let me off easy this year.

Apparently, it had been wishful thinking.

“Youhaveto, Kam. Your parents are coming. I promised them you’d be here.”

What. The. Fuck.

I was silent. The words racing to the tip of my tongue weren’t things I could say. Not if I still wanted a best friend.

“Look, I know I’m kind of springing this on you last minute, but, honestly, Kam—it’s less than a six-hour drive. It’s not the end of the world. You can’t tell me whatever project you’re working on can’t do without you for a few hours on Christmas Eve. Besides, your mom—”

“I’m not coming.” I didn’t give a shit what she had to say.My mom. My mom hadn’t talked to me in over two years.

There was never a blowout, a specific event that ended our communication, but after my decision to quit UCLA in order to pursue my acting career, we’d just—fallen off. More and more, until eventually, we’d both stopped calling altogether. She nor my dad were ever happy with what I had to say. Every conversation turned back toward school, to their disappointment—how I’d let them down. Even when it wasn’t said, it was always implied.

The morning I’d first heard aboutSand Seekersholding open auditions, I’d wanted to call my mom. They were books we’d read together, a passion that we’d shared. She loved everything Margaret Gilles had ever written, often entertaining me at bedtime by quoting long passages from my favorite chapters by heart.

But I hadn’t called. Nor would I call her when the news was released I’d actually landed the role. Somehow I doubted she’d care. Margaret Gilles held a master’s degree, after all.

“You’re seriously selfish, Kam.” There was an edge to Dani’s tone, a weapon I’d heard her reserve for others, but one she’d never used toward me. It pricked, slipping beneath my skin. “Youclosed them out. You can blame it on whatever you want, but it takes two to tango. Dinner’s at eight. You know how to get here.” And she hung up on me. For the first time in nineteen years.

Two hours later, I sat at my dining room table while Dillon heated water in my dented stainless steel kettle on the three-burner stovetop. It wasn’t the morning I’d anticipated, but at least it had convinced me to give up on my cleaning spree.

I’d picked her up, just as we had planned, but apparently Waylon MacArthur had validity in questioning my acting abilities because it took her less than thirty seconds to discern something was wrong. Despite promising myself not to dwell on Dani’s phone call—she could take her unbalanced accusations and pound sand—I’d been unable to hide the hurt she’d stirred up revolving around the last five years of discord with my mom and dad. I don’t know if it was because Dillon had respected my stated desire not to talk about it, or if it was the comforting hand she’d laid over the top of mine, or the weight of all of it combined, but we hadn’t made it past Sepulveda before I burst into tears.

By the time we’d reached my apartment—thanks to the crawling drive through holiday traffic—I’d told Dillon about my parents, about UCLA, about Dani and her phone call, and Christmas Eve tradition at the Hallwells. Basically unloading the entirety of my pent-up frustrations in one long, run-on, red-eyed, blubbering mess.

Hot.

Not.

I’m sure a sobbing, emotional train wreck had been exactly what she’d had on her agenda for Christmas Eve morning.

But when I’d finished my lamenting—parked in front of my apartment—and offered to drive her back to her hotel, she’d laughed, pivoting in the passenger seat to stare at me.

“Don’t be a clot, Kam-Kameryn,” she said, reaching over to use the cuff of her sweatshirt to dry my dwindling tears. “I’ll make us some tea.” And then she’d let us into my apartment, complimented the hand-carved crown molding and black and white checkerboard tile, ignored the peeling paint, and sat me down at my own table, before making herself at home in my matchbox kitchen.

“You’re not going to like what I have to say.” She pushed a mug of tea in front of me and straddled the adjacent chair. “But I think you should go tonight—”

“No—”