"Ugh," I gagged, setting the sweating glass back down on the kitchen table. "How do you drink tea without sugar?"

Iggy raised a perfectly shaped brow before answering. "With relish. I get cavities just watching you make tea at your house."

We sat in Iggy and Tristan's dining room, the remains of our lunch decaying before us as we chatted well into late afternoon. Even with a face covered in last night's makeup and hair ratted from activities I didn't want to know about, Iggy exuded an elegance I could never hope to achieve. It was a quality for which I admired and hated her in equal parts.

"I'm surprised you managed to get up early enough to stop by before work," Iggy snickered.

"Just because you can work until two in the morning and bebop out of bed at dawn looking fresh as a daisy, doesn't mean the rest of us can. I swear it's your super power."

"Maybe it is."

"Ha. Ha," I sniped before rushing on to a new topic. I'd brought it up, but it hit it a little too close to home for comfort. "I really came over to see Tristan. I was hoping he wouldn't have to go into work since you two partied all night."

She placed her chin in her hand and peered out the picture window overlooking the white expanse of front yard. With temperatures remaining below freezing, the snow wasn't going anywhere. Heavy winds would shake the trees and fill the air with flurries. But I could tell she didn't see any of it.

"Iggy?"

"You know how his job is. He's always working. But it's for a good cause. The people he works for...they really believe in making the world better for everyone. I can't be angry with him for having a vision."

"Iggy, they manufacture diet and beauty supplements." I didn't want to be hurtful, but I wasn't sure how the fight against the bulge and wrinkles made the world a better place.

But as was her way, she didn't take offense. "I guess it looks like that from the outside. But he's the Director of Philanthropy. He makes the decisions about how to spend the company's charitable dollars."

"That's really cool. I'm sorry I never bothered to ask." A weight settled in the pit of my stomach. How could I have known Tristan for three years and never bothered to ask the specifics of his job? Guilt pulled my eyes away from my friend's sweet face. The answer to my question was obvious. I'd lived my life with a motto: The less I knew, the less they knew, the better. Because my past was going to catch up with me. Some day.

"No worries hon. It isn't exactly riveting dinner conversation."

"What's the name of his company again?" I asked, determined to lower my defenses just a little. After all, Anton hadn't managed to find me in the three years I'd lived here.

"It's- Oh hold on. That's Tristan's ringtone. I left the phone in the kitchen. Be right back."

She jumped out of the chair and hurried away, as eager to speak to him as a newlywed. Longing tugged at my heart, but I beat it away. I wanted what they had. I wanted the more. But hoping for something I couldn't have was a good way to end up wallowing in jealousy. A pair of twinkling chocolate eyes came to mind, startling me with the vivid clarity of the recollection. I hadn't realized I'd studied him that closely, and we'd only talked for a minute.

"Why are you grinning like a goofball?" Iggy asked, coming back into the room. Her own smile was painted on a little thinner than usual.

"I just love the way you two love each other," I deflected, though my words were the truth.

She sighed dramatically and flopped into the high back, dining room chair. "Well, I love it too, but sometimes it's hard. Like now. He was supposed to have a week at home without interruptions because he was gone for almost an entire month. Now they want him to go out of town. Apparently, there's been a huge mix up in one of the high-profile charity events. Only he can solve it."

"I'm sorry. I know I'm a poor substitute, but Mindy was asking for extra shifts at the bar. Want me to call her and see if she'll cover me tonight?"

My friend bounced in her chair like a child. "Girl yes. I've got wine and cookie dough."

"Done."

                                                         **********************************

When my eyes opened the next morning, it was with great effort. I'd crawled into my bed late even for my schedule and had been certain I would fall asleep within moments of touching the pillow. A sugar crash combined with half a bottle of wine should've accomplished the job, but I tossed and turned for more than an hour before I drifted off into a fitful sleep plagued by nightmares.

The first year after fleeing from Anton had been filled with terrifying dreams hovering at the edge of my consciousness, scarcely waiting for my eyelids to close before holding me hostage. But they were always the same. I relived the worst of my memories over and over again.

As I rubbed the crust from my lashes and sat up, I tried to hold onto the dreams. I recalled the sticky heat of a summer day, heard the swish of heavy skirts, smelled the fragrance of a familiar flower. What had seemed so sinister in sleep now made no sense as the dreams faded to moments and the moments to nothing but feelings of dread.

Perhaps this is what normal people dreamed like. My subconscious had cobbled together experiences and emotions from the day and turned them into a nonsensical charade. Feeling comfortable with that rationale, I dropped my feet to my floor and searched for my slippers.

A yawn stretched my lips as I stood, and I gave serious consideration to crawling back into bed. But today was a work day, and while my shift didn't start until five that evening, I preferred having a few hours to myself beforehand. My eyes snagged on the ornamental clock sitting on my dresser.

"What the hell?" I stuttered. The hands pointed out an impossible time. Rising by eleven was an unusual occurrence in my home, and I couldn't ever remember being awake before eight. Something had to have woken me.

Grabbing my phone from the bedside table, I gaped at the missed calls and texts. Before I could check them, the device buzzed in my hand and Gavin's name flashed across the screen. "What is going on?"

One thing I appreciated about Gavin was his directness, and he stayed true to form. The story was told in as few words as possible. His rich voice broke with emotion. When I began to cry in earnest, he ended the call, but not before I heard the sob that escaped his own throat. My plans for the day forgotten, work cancelled, and the world changed once again, I burrowed beneath my down comforter.

The roads were icy. There was an accident. He's dead, Camille. Tristan is dead.

The outside world began to come alive. Alive. Something Tristan would never be again. Engines from snow trucks rumbled by and the occasional voice drifted to my ears, the words garbled beyond recognition. Even now the news would be spreading, and the phone at my side would begin to chime as people asked me for details I didn't have and didn't want.

But hiding wasn't an option.

Within ten minutes, I was standing outside of my apartment, dressed in yesterday's jeans, a fresh sweater, and a thick scarf. My new wreath mocked me with its cheerfulness as I locked the door. How quickly the world ruined happiness derived from simple pleasures. The cartoon eyes of the little green witch seemed to follow me as I waited for the elevator.

Mrs. Rattery must have been waiting for me. Her door swung open as I trekked towards the exit of our building, and she threw her frail arms around me in a crushing hug. My natural inclination was to flinch at uninvited, physical contact, but I let the elderly woman finish her offerings of sympathy.

"Will you tell them I'm sorry?" she asked.

I nodded knowing I would say nothing of the sort. Sorry was something you said to strangers you spilled coffee on. Sorry was for harsh words spoken in haste or for being late to an event. Uttering the word "sorry" implied you were responsible for the event in some manner. No one was responsible for this tragedy.

The walk was cold despite the blazing morning sunshine, and I had to squint my eyes to keep from going snow-blind. Days like this usually made me wish I could afford a car, but today I appreciated the distraction. The ache in my bones kept me from dwelling on the reality that no matter how safe I thought I was, I couldn't prepare for every scenario. It reminded me that my physical safety was in less danger than my emotional safety.

I stopped in front of the house. Nothing more than a dark shadow in a world of brightness, I let my breath escape in icy puffs and contemplated what waited for me behind that red door. The little home was typically ablaze with color, but the pumpkins and mums were buried beneath the white snow. The upscale neighborhood, while just on the outskirts of the town square, was devoid of the hustle and bustle near the main streets. The temperature was steadily rising, and the silence was punctuated by branches dropping their snow burdens in the slush. Outside it was peaceful. Idyllic. Tranquil. None of which applied to the other side of that bright red door.

I moved to the porch and rapped my knuckles against the wood. Three minutes. I would wait three minutes before I'd let myself in. The house was small, and I'd not knocked gently. The seconds moved as if frozen by the winter storm, but at exactly one hundred and eighty seconds, I began to dig for the key in my jacket.

But before I could touch the knob, the door swung open. Iggy's tear-streaked face with sunken eyes filled the doorway. For a moment neither of us made a move towards the other, and then, like the snow falling from the trees, the seconds melted. Rushing forwards, I wasn't sure who reached whom first, but we clung to one another.

"Why?"

The question was an echo of my own. Why her? Why him? Why me? Why... Why... Why... A satisfactory answer had never been provided, and I wouldn't begin by offering up false platitudes. So, I was honest.

"I don't know."