Chapter 1
For three years of marriage, Michael Landon never celebrated New Year's Eve with me.
He was always busy, either working overtime at the office or attending business dinners.
He thought holidays like this were a formality, and it didn't matter whether we celebrated or not.
In previous years, I'd sometimes go back to my parents' place, but most of the time, I spent New Year's Eve alone.
I'd throw together a few dishes and get by with whatever I cooked.
Sometimes, when I was too lazy to order takeout, I had make myself a bowl of instant mac and cheese and watch the New Year's Eve show as I ate.
I never complained.
Until this year, when I came across a post on social media.
One of his childhood friends, drunk, posted a photo.
In the photo, Michael was standing in the snow, holding a sparkler, and next to him was a woman in a red coat.
They stood shoulder to shoulder, both looking up as golden fireworks lit up the sky above them.
The caption read: [Mike and Claire Baker, their annual New Year's Eve tradition, thirteen years, rain or shine.]
Thirteen years.
I stared at that photo for a long time.
A red string peeked out from Michael's coat pocket.
It was the red good-luck charm I'd tied on him before I left the house that morning.
He said he had an important business dinner and told me not to wait up for him.
I zoomed in on the photo.
The sparkler in Claire's hand was almost blinding.
And there was Michael, wearing my red good-luck charm, smiling happily as he celebrated New Year's Eve with Claire.
I set my phone down on the dining table.
Next to it was a cup of instant beef mac and cheese, gone cold.
So it wasn't that he didn't celebrate New Year's Eve, he just didn't celebrate it with me.
Fireworks started going off outside.
I tossed the whole cup of mac and cheese, soup and all, into the trash.
*****
Michael didn't get home until almost two in the morning.
He pushed open the door, a chill following him in, his coat dusted with snow.
His phone was still lit up, showing a call that had ended.
The contact name was [Claire.]
He saw me sitting at the dining table and frowned a little.
Michael asked, "Still up?"
My eyes went to his coat pocket.
I asked, "Where's the red good-luck charm?"
He paused for a moment while changing his shoes.
He said, "It must've fallen off, there were a lot of people."
I nodded and asked, "Was it really that crowded tonight?"
"Yeah," he replied.
He hung up his coat, turning his back to me.
"Just a few investors. We had a lot to drink," he said.
He didn't smell like alcohol at all.
All I could smell was a faint whiff of fireworks smoke, mixed with the crisp, wintry scent of pine needles.
That scent wasn't from my laundry detergent, and it wasn't from anything in our house.
I got up and went to the kitchen to get some water. "Did you eat enough? Want me to make you something else?" I asked.
"No, I already ate," he replied.
He headed toward the bedroom.
"I've got stuff to do tomorrow, so I'm turning in early," he said.
"Michael," I called out.
He stopped in his tracks.
I leaned against the kitchen doorframe and held up my phone.
On the screen was that photo of the fireworks, I'd drawn a red circle around him.
I was the one who took the screenshot and added the circle.
The living room went quiet for a few seconds.
He turned, his eyes moving from the photo to me.
"Who sent you that?" he asked.
"Does it matter?" I replied.
"Anna Goodwin, don't talk to me like that."
I set my phone down on the coffee table.
"Then tell me, where did you go tonight?" I asked.
"I..." He paused for a moment. "I went to a get-together with some old friends. Claire happened to be there, she got back from overseas, so everyone was throwing her a welcome party."
"Oh, so Claire happens to show up every single New Year's Eve?"
Michael's eyes flashed with impatience. "Why do you always have to twist things between friends into something else? I knew her long before you were even around."
"Thirteen years, rain or shine." I threw his own tradition back at him. "Even after you met me, you still never missed spending New Year's Eve with her."
"Anna." His voice deepened. "I don't want to argue with you tonight."
"Me neither."
I kicked the trash can with my foot and said, my voice steady, "I want you to know, this is the last time I'll ever have 'New Year's Eve dinner' here."
He froze, glancing at the messy remains of pasta and soup in the trash.
"What do you mean?" he asked.
"Literally," I replied.