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              IT WAS THE FIRST DAY OF DECEMBER.

              It had been a week and a half since Rory's surgery, and she was recovering . . . remarkably well. Surprisingly well.

              She had thrown herself into physical therapy. Dedicating herself to getting better. Each day, she spent more and more time practicing her stretches and balancing on two feet.

              And Paris would never tell her, but . . . she was impressed.

             Rory had one hell of a drive. It was pure, clear determination that cut her features like glass, and even though she seemed exhausted, she was getting better.

             Passion. Paris respected that.

             Her phone began to ring.

             "Hey, Mom," she said, knowing instantly who was on the other end.

            "Baby, you're coming home this weekend, aren't you?"

            "We made the plans, remember?"

            "I know, I know. I was just making sure."

            "If that's all—"

            "And . . . are you bringing anyone?" Static crackled over the phone. "Someone special, maybe?"

            "No, Mom," Paris sighed.

            Her mother had come a long way from once saying, You're too young to know what your sexuality is. 

            As though being straight was the default.

            But when Paris graduated from Vega's Boarding Academy for Ladies, her mother had been the one to whisper in her ear, "I'm okay with it, Paris."

            And maybe it wasn't perfect. Maybe there were times when her mother saw a commercial or a movie and there was the faintest, flickering touch of the homophobia that had once made Paris cry herself to sleep. But she was trying—she was reaching out to Paris, trying to fix the damage that had been done by both her and Paris's father.

            When Paris turned twenty-one, her mother had filed the divorce papers.

            She was trying—there was no denying that. Paris's father had never been able to accept her, and those cold, cruel words he had once thrown into her were what she heard whenever he looked at her. 

           You're too pretty be a lesbian. 

           And eventually . . . eventually . . . it had become the rupture between her mother and father. 

             They were divorced because of her. 

             But when Paris's mother had heard Paris say that, she had only said, No, baby. Your father and I are divorced because he is a selfish, narrow-minded asshole who is unwilling to accept his only daughter. And it's about time I chose you.

              Paris had cried, then—at those words.

              I choose you. 

              And the forgiveness hadn't come easily, but it was there now. 

             "Really, Paris, it's about time!" said her mother. "You should be looking for a—a girlfriend by now. You should be settled down!"

              Paris rolled her eyes. Although she was bisexual, Paris had once told her mother she could never see herself marrying a man. She was willing to date them, but when it came to marriage . . . to the rest of her life . . . it had only ever been girls she had considered.

              "No problem," Paris said. "I'll just pre-order one from Amazon. Maybe it'll arrive in time for Christmas. How does that sound?"

              "What's that app you kids use nowadays? Tinder? Grindr?"

              Paris choked. "We are not having this discussion, Mom. I'll see you later, alright? This weekend. I promise."

              "And just so you know, there's a rotisserie chicken with your name on it."

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               WHEN PARIS GOT BACK TO HER OFFICE, it was covered in bubble wrap.

               "Dhonielle!" she groaned.

               She should have remembered what today was.

               December 1st. 

                "Gloria!" Paris tried, running her fingers over the bubbled coating of plastic. Pop. Her nail bit down into the air pocket.

                Everything—from her computer to her stapler to her desk drawers—had been bubble-wrapped. 

                "Dhonielle, Cat and Gloria, you better get over here right now before I ask your tutors to give you extra homework."

                Dhonielle peered her head in through the door.

                "What's wrong, Doctor Young?" she said innocently.

                Paris narrowed her eyes. "And I suppose you can't see all this bubble-wrap?"

                Dhonielle made a show of widening her eyes. 

                "Wow, Paris," she said. "I really like the new decoration."

                "Did you do this all yourself? Or did you have—"

                 "Help?" said Gloria.

                Paris crossed her arms.

                Troublemakers—they were troublemakers. 

                Gloria Liu was twelve years old. She was Dhonielle's best friend, but she wasn't a permanent resident at the hospital. Her daily check-ins were all she needed. The tumour in her lungs had been removed by an intensive surgery a year ago, but she was a regular here because they needed to make sure that it wouldn't come back—or if it did, so they could treat it at its earliest stage. 

                 Paris had been so caught up in the whirlwind of what was definitely not Rory that she had forgotten. 

                 It was the first day of December.

                 It was the first day of December, and it was the beginning of prank season.

                "I like the interior design," Gloria said.

                "You have good taste," said Dhonielle.

                And from behind the door, a voice piped, "I like your style, Doc."

                There was Cat.

                "The three of you are just the dream team, aren't you?"

                "Dream team?" said Gloria. "I prefer the three musketeers." 

                Her and Dhonielle were both eight years old—best friends. But unlike Dhonielle, Cat wasn't a patient here. Her mother was in the permanent care section for schizophrenia, so most nights, she was here. Causing trouble.

                "Where did you even find all this bubble-wrap?" Paris demanded.

               "It's a secret," said Cat.

               "A magician never reveals her tricks," said Gloria.

               "I'll tell you for two million dollars," said Dhonielle.

✺✺✺

               "THE STORM ON ITS WAY HERE MIGHT BE THE WORST BLIZZARD VANCOUVER HAS SEEN IN . . ."

               Paris looked up just as Anna said, "Turn that shit off. The weather reporter has been saying the same thing for two weeks."

               "The snowstorm, nicknamed Anastasia, is moving along the East Coast at a destructive rate and should arrive here in B.C, Vancouver, by—"

                Anna shut off the TV.

               "I was listening to that," Paris objected.

               Alec, dressed in his nurse's scrubs, glided towards her. "Well, you're going to be listening to me now."

               "How was your date last night?" 

               It had been almost two weeks since Alec and Simon had first baked together. From the way Alec had described it—and he had described it, with vivid and enthusiastic detail—they had hit it off.

              "Oh, divine," Alec said, rolling his eyes back. "Divine, Paris."

              "It was movie night, right?"

              "We watched Legally Blonde," Alec said. "And you know the part in the courthouse, where Elle is interrogating the poolside guy? And she tricks him into saying he doesn't have a boyfriend, but his boyfriend is right there in the courtroom, and he stands up and says, You bitch! You remember that, don't you?"

              "I'm completely lost, actually."

              "That was the part where he kissed me," Alec said dreamily. He ran his fingers through his strawberry-blond curls, adding, "That man is exquisite. Exquisite, I tell you."

              Paris rolled her eyes. "Exquisite. Divine. Is he some kind of god?"

              Alec made a low noise in his throat. "If I had to guess, I'd say he was a Roman god. He's strong, disciplined, loyal . . ."

             "I'm happy it's going well, Alec."

             "And in the bedroom . . . one word, Paris. One word. Heavenly."

             Paris winced. "I'm going to pretend you didn't say that, Alec."

             "Rogers!" said an on-call doctor. "Get back to your post."

             Alec was still grinning as he slipped back off to his work. 

             Paris leaned over the reception counter, thinking of all the bubble-wrap she would have to peel off, when Anna suddenly turned in her direction.

            In a low voice, she said, "So I was talking to Princess Rory."

           Paris made a thoughtful humming sound.

           Couldn't care less, couldn't—

           "And she is just as much of a whore as the media claims," Anna said proudly. "She'd probably fuck anything with two legs. And I bet she has."

          Paris narrowed her eyes. "Don't disrespect one of my patients in front of me, Anna. You know I would never say anything about bad about someone I'm caring for."

          "Come on," Anna said, leaning closer. "I once heard say to that royal doctor that all the rumours about her are true. You know what that means?"

          "No, and I don't care. Did you hear what I just said?"

          "It means she's probably fucked every celebrity ever," Anna insisted. "And she even volunteered to fuck me. I'm telling you, she's a wh—"

          Paris's jaw turned to steel.

          "Finish that sentence," she said quietly. 

         "But don't you think—"

         "Finish the sentence," Paris repeated calmly. "I dare you."

           Anna pulled away slightly, as though realizing she had made a mistake. Paris's thoughts were racing, swirling with what Anna had said: She even volunteered to fuck me. But she couldn't focus on that now. It was true, what Paris had said earlier. She would never talk behind the back of one of her patients, and even if Rory wasn't . . . even if Rory wasn't . . . 

           She was conceited. Cocky. Insufferable. 

           But those words had never left Paris's mouth in front of anyone but Alec, her best friend. 

          Besides him, she had only ever said them to Rory. But when Rory wasn't there—and no, her best friend didn't count, it was backstabbing. It was cruel.

           And Paris would never sink that low.

           Not even for someone she hated.

           Anna was about to reply—and Paris was about ready to reach over and slap someone for the first time time in her life—when the lights flickered.

           And went out.

           A power outage. 

           Shouts and frustrated cries rippled through the corridors of the hospital.

           Through the speakers, a synthetic female voice said, "Due to adverse weather, the hospital board has decided to cut the power for seventy-two hours in order to preserve energy for the backup generators. If you do not leave within the next twenty-four hours, you will be prohibited from exiting the premises. Please drive with caution."

            Anna barked out, "We have a day to leave?"

           Within an instant, Paris had decided she wouldn't be going home this weekend.

           "Hey, uh, Doctor?"

           Paris turned. She was off-duty right now, but if one of her kids needed her, she would always be available for them.

           "It's the princess," said an intern apologetically. 

           "What's wrong?" 

           "Oh, uh . . . nothing. She just wants to see you."

           Well, Rory could shove it up her ass. Paris had heard enough of the princess for one day. And it had absolutely nothing to do with what Anna had said. She even volunteered to fuck me. 

           No, it definitely wasn't that. Paris was certain of it.

           "Well, I hope someone informs the princess that I am certainly not at her beck-and-call. Miss Preston may have a father as a king, but I do have daily check-ups to attend before I see her—and not to mention, I am currently off-duty."

             "Hey, Doc," said Rory from behind her.

             Paris jumped. She might have blushed if she hadn't been saying anything that wasn't completely true.

             And she had been professional. 

             This time, at least.

             "I figured you probably wouldn't listen," Rory said. "So I decided to come and find you. There's something I wanted to show you."

             "I'm not going anywhere with you. I'm off-duty."

             Rory rolled her wheelchair closer to Paris. Somehow, even in the shadow of a snowy afternoon, her eyes managed to gleam with wicked challenge.

             Against her will, a thrill of heat sparked inside of Paris. 

             "You're staying the next three days," Rory stated, as though she knew Paris better than she knew herself.

             Despite the fact that it was true, Paris opened her mouth to say, How could you possibly know that? 

             But Rory continued, "We're in the middle of a power outage. Quite frankly, you probably have nothing better to do."

            The audacity. "And you do?"

            "I could," Rory said, and Paris thought of Anna saying, She even volunteered to fuck me.

            It wasn't bothering her. It definitely wasn't bothering her.

            "Do whatever you like," Paris said coldly. "I don't care how you spend your time."

            "But don't you want to see?" 

            "See what?" 

            A sparkle of real excitement danced on Rory's ridiculously attractive face. "The treasure chest."

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Okay, I am having so much fun writing about them.

How are you guys spending the holidays?

From the moon and back,
Sarai