After such a reckless decision, I head back to my apartment to overthink it.

I flop onto my couch and stare at the ceiling. "Edgar," I groan, "what did I do?"

My dog looks at me unsympathetically.

"Come on, don't look at me like that. My best friend is dating a douchebag and Void thinks I'm an evil mastermind." Speak of the devil: a familiar tremor runs through my apartment.

I roll my eyes up to the ceiling. "For God's sake, Void!" I yell, because only one person has the indecency to knock hard enough to make my mismatched thrift store dishes rattle in the cupboards. I don't leave him waiting though—I learned my lesson last time when he blew my door off the hinges.

I jerk the door open and glare at my nemesis. "This better be good," I grumble, folding my arms over my chest and purposely planting myself in the doorway.

For once, Void has lost some of the arrogance that's usually painted across his face. He actually looks... mildly concerned.

"Let me in, Gray," he says, omitting that word most people use when they ask for something.

"Why should I, asshole?" I retort, even though I'm curious as to why he's showing his face here on Christmas after his little interrogation session yesterday. I'm mostly just annoyed that he always has to knock so loudly.

He swallows, his adam's apple bobbing in his tan throat. "Because," he says, choking the words out like he might be reciting an eulogy, "I think I need your help."

———————————————————————————————-

Once Void is manspreading on my couch with a bottle of Coke in his hand, his arrogance returns.

I perch on the arm of my armchair, nursing my coffee, and wait for him to explain. He sips the Coke at 11:17 in the morning because he "doesn't drink coffee" and takes his sweet little time. The heathen.

"So," he finally starts, "I was on my way to the market down the street—you know, that one off 75th?" He waits for my answer expectantly.

I just look at him.

"You've never been to that one? The one with the gray tabby that hangs around outside and the sign that has the "M" out?"

I groan. "Get to the point, Ryan."

His eyes narrow at me. "As I was saying I was on my way to the market, and then she shows up."

I wait.

"That—that she-devil Clairvoyant comes up to me, and acts like we're drinking buddies or something! She ordered a sandwich with three pickles on it and she—" he shudders, and I can't decide if it's because of the pickles or something else, "she didn't try anything. No persuading, no backstabbing, no seduction, and she even paid for her sandwich. I just..." he trails off, gripping the coke bottle so hard I'm afraid it might shatter. "I think she's up to something," he finally admits. "She's too quiet, Gray."

I shrug, giving my coffee a swirl. "She's a villain. Of course she's up to something."

Void leans forward earnestly. "No, think about it. When's the last time she's been on the news? It's been months, and you know that's not like her. She's up to something big, and we both know what she's capable of."

I chew over this theory along with my bottom lip. Perhaps he's right—Mckella Reed, AKA the Clairvoyant, is a very active and rather evil villain. I stick to robbing banks, but this chick... she's bad news. If she has been as quiet as Void claims, we may be in for some big trouble, heroes and villains alike.

But I'm still suspicious. For all Void knows, I'm in league with the Clairvoyant. "Why the change of heart?" I ask him, raising an eyebrow. "Yesterday you would've accused me of being in league with her."

He won't meet my eyes. "I'm sorry, Gray. I don't know why I went off on you the other day like that, I really do trust you. I guess I just was having an off day."

Off day, my ass. I glance out the window. It's snowing again, covering the streets of Philadelphia in a flawless white blanket. Void too, is hiding something underneath that blanket. But I can't find a reason to say no to him, except that this is a really, really bad day for me.

I exhale with a puff. "Okay. You might be right. I'll..." I tug a hand through my hair reluctantly, "I'll check up on her tomorrow."

He beams a 1000 kilowatt smile at me and claps me on the back hard enough that I almost dump my coffee on him. "Knew you'd come around, Gray." He hands me his half finished coke and strides for the door, calling over his shoulder, "Report back to me by noon tomorrow!"

"I'm not your minion," I yell as he slams my door and causes my thrift-store dishes to rattle a response again.

I look at Edgar. "Why is he such a douche?" I ask my dog, but he only pants in response.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

I spend the rest of Christmas on Jane's couch, ignoring her concerned glances and pretending to participate in the conversation. I haven't had a drop of liquor, despite the fact that every tick of the second hand is loud, so loud, and I keep replaying that scene in my head, over and over again, no matter how hard I try to block it out.

I clench my jaw and firmly keep my gaze away from the clock. It doesn't matter what time it is. You don't want to know.

It's been five years, but every Christmas the pain seems to grow fresher. Maybe it's because each year, I feel further and further away from them. Their faces are beginning to fade. Before I left my apartment today I stared at their photo until my eyes burned and tears slipped to splash on their smiling faces. I already can't picture how my Mom's nose wrinkled when she smiled and pulled away from our hug, or how my Dad's voice sounded when he said he'd see me in the morning, bright and early, to meet me at my shop.

"You look like you could use a drink, my friend." Jane's boyfriend, Carson, stands above me and wiggles a glass of champagne in my face, a half empty bottle in his other hand.

"No thanks, man," I tell him. Before I can stop myself, my eyes travel up, to the left, and land on the clock. 11:21.

"Ah, c'mon," he persists, cheeks flushed and swaying on his feet. "Jane said you're not a big fan of Christmas. Maybe it's because you're afraid of a little merriment, eh?"

I consider punching him; giving in just for a second to whatever it is in me that's screaming and letting my knuckles sink into his jaw, watching his head snap to the side, his eyes widen, the bottle of champagne drop to the floor as he flails backward. Then Jane would fly across the room before I could even blink, her furious eyes flashing and I'd be pinned in a heartbeat. The rest of the room would gasp, and I'd feel guilty—but that guilt is nothing, nothing compared to what rages in me right now.

Instead I stand, shouldering my way past him. "Keep your alcohol. Merriment looks good on you, pal." As hard as I try to keep the snarl out of my voice, the look on his face tells me I haven't quite succeeded.

I duck out onto Jane's fire escape, pulling my hood up and leaning my elbows against the cold railing. In six minutes, my mom would be announced dead. Twenty three minutes later, my dad would follow.

I force myself to swallow and tilt my head back, blinking into the snowflakes that fall thick and slow. The ache of sorrow is still sharp, but this year it's heavy—like a dead weight that I'm weary of carrying. It makes me feel guilty to even think of my parents as a weight, but I'm exhausted. Maybe I can't stand Carson because I'm jealous of him and his stupid red cheeks and merriment.

I feel rather than hear Jane slip next to me. She too cranes her neck and breathes up into the sky, and for awhile we just stand in silence, blinking into the snow.

"You wouldn't happen to have a cigarette on you, would you?" I mutter, even though I know Jane doesn't smoke.

"You're trying to quit, remember?"

I grunt in reply. I don't know why I thought quitting before Christmas was a good idea. I should've waited until New Years. "I miss them," I murmur, and she links her arm through mine.

She's quiet for a moment before replying softly, "You remember when you told me about how you used to only eat pancakes if your mom served them upside down to you?"

I smile. "After she burned them once, I never believed that she hadn't burnt them again."

"Would you trust her not to burn them again now?"

I look down at her face, still upturned, eyelashes dotted with ice. "Yes."

"Then trust her now," Jane whispers, "let them go. Both of them. You don't need to see the other side to find peace."

It takes me a moment to process this Hallmark analogy. I don't need to see the other side to find peace. I don't need to worry about them anymore. They're on the other side now, and I have to trust that they'd want me to move on from this weight. I close my eyes. Leave it to Jane to use a story about pancakes to help me come to a life-changing revelation.

"Jane," I say softly.

"Yes?"

"Thank you." I let her fold me into a hug and I soak in her warmth and wonder how I ever made it through the first two years without her.