high up near the ceiling. On one wall, someone’s hung up a giant paper tree covered in people’s names

and circular decorations. One of them has my name on it (“Nick K”), written in that familiar spiky

handwriting that I’ve had since I learned to write.

I don’t remember making it, but I can’t ignore the proof that’s hanging on the wall right there in

front of me.

The way everything is arranged sparks something in my mind, and I try to add up the days through

the fog that’s starting to clear but still clinging to me. After a fight with my own brain, I finally

remember something that Doc just told me. When everything comes together, it’s the one thing that

stays clear.

I’m in rehab for Christmas.

Chapter 2

London Boys

DANNY: It’s December, and I’m really not feeling up to ivy and mistletoe and all this shit. Lilah’s idea

of a perfect Christmas involves Aspen, après-ski, and excessive amounts of alcohol. It’s always the

same talk, the same people, the same routine, and I get bored off my head just thinking of it.

“Come to Europe then,” Andrea says one afternoon after rehearsal when we’re all settled at Cafe

Plato. One of the many good things about Andie is that she seems to have an older brother or cousin in

every city and country you could ever possibly want to visit.

“I might,” I answer vaguely, but she shakes her pretty head.

“I’m not suggesting. It’s set, you’re coming with me.”

“I am?” I smile a little, but I’m feeling exhausted and my heart isn’t in the friendly banter. I know

that she can tell.

“Yup. You might as well accept it, Danny. You have no choice.”

Her deep green eyes focus on my face, and I look away. Andrea’s family has been doing business

with Lilah’s for generations, or so it seems. Her mom and Lilah have always enjoyed pretending to be

the best of friends. In truth, they never gave a shit, but that’s high society reality for you.

I remember us kids sneaking around the house one day, and we peeked through a half-open door and

found Walter, Andie’s dad, making out with Lilah. Not long after the divorce, but Andrea’s folks were

still married then. We never threw a huge tantrum or anything. I think we just left and continued with

whatever we were playing.

Later this evening, standing outside Andrea’s dorm after she’d decided that I was to walk her home,

she drops her cigarette and neatly puts it out with the tip of her shoe while looking at me.

“It’s that boy, isn’t it?” she asks calmly, in that voice that tells me there’s no getting around this

conversation. “That Foley, that school paper guy?”

Damn. “Who?” I manage to sound bored, and she arches a fine, perfect eyebrow.

“That means yes, then.”

“Andie, I really don’t wanna…”

“…talk about it. I know. You never do.” She studies my face for a long moment. “I just thought

you’d like to know that there’s some stupid talk going ‘round. It’s been noticed that you haven’t exactly

been… dating for a while.”

That’s a polite way of saying that I haven’t been shagging my brains out. I half-smile to myself. “So

what? Let them talk. It’s not like I care.”

“Yes, but maybe I do. Maybe I don’t like it when people are talking behind my friend’s back.” She

pauses. “Behind my oldest and probably best friend’s back,” she corrects herself solemnly. I can’t help

but smile.

“Andie…”

“Shush. You don’t have to explain anything. But you’re coming with me for the holidays. We’re

gonna spend Christmas with Aden in London, and New Year’s in Paris with Nate. How does that

sound?”

“Not bad at all.”

“See? I know what’s good for you. You’re gonna be fine.”

The way she says it, I’m willing to believe it. I’d really like to. I’m fed up with feeling like this. I

don’t even recognize myself anymore.

* * *

First stop: London, England.

It’s snowing. Soft, gentle, massive snowflakes dancing through the air like in one of those

completely overdone Christmas movies that I know would make James gag. I’d love to see that. Tie him

to the bedposts and force him to watch “It’s a Wonderful Life”. Now that would be something. I’d have

a good laugh.

James Foley. I’m trying to think of him in an objective way, as I would of someone I don’t really

know. I don’t think it’s working all that well, because after all, this is has turned out to be a three person

trip. Andie, and I, and him. He’s here, not physically, but in my head, on my mind, all the time. He’s in

things that remind me of him, and he’s in everything that doesn’t. Fuck if I know how to handle this

shit.

There are still odd moments when I could kill for a smoke, even though it’s been weeks since I quit.

And every so often I catch myself staring off into space, not thinking anything, just blank. I’m not doing

anything else, so I let Andie drag me through one crowded store after another. There are no pantomimes

on Leicester Square this time of year, and somehow I miss them as I stare out the window while we

have our lunch at Pizza Hut.

Back outside, the streets are buzzing with Christmas shoppers and tourists. All the windows are

decorated in red, white, silver, and green, and there’s that special excitement of the holiday season in the

frosty air.

Andie disappears in the changing room section of Selfridges, and I sit down beside a tired dad

waiting for his wife and kid with at least five huge shopping bags huddled around his feet. A little girl is

leaning against the wall opposite of me, chewing on her little fingers, and staring at me like I’m the

most fascinating creature on earth. I crack a smile, and she giggles bashfully. Good to know that I

haven’t lost my touch with the ladies just yet.

Then we’re on the move again, making our way down another one of the big shopping streets,

snowflakes landing softly on our eyelashes, melting and leaving fake tears. Andie spontaneously

decides to buy me a suede jacket that I really like, and I’m starting to feel a bit more with it as we stroll

along.

She turns to stare after a hot young thing with an ass to die for that passes us somewhere on Regent

Street. Noticing that I’m looking after him as well, she chuckles softly. “I swear, London has the highest

percentage of pretty boys in the world!”

I grin. “You know I’m practically a Londoner, right?” If you believe Grazzo, thanks to a little sex

accident, baby Rizzo was conceived in this city.

“Oh, you would have to be!” She laughs, shifts some shopping bags to the other side, and takes my

hand in hers. It’s just one of those moments when nothing big happens, but everything’s perfect, and

somehow you’re feeling warm inside and whole.

We continue towards Piccadilly Circus, and suddenly stop at the same time. For a long moment, we

just stare, because it doesn’t feel real. There’s a poster showing a guy with a sax who looks like my

clone, only older by about twenty-five years. And my stomach just drops into my knees. “Shit.”

“That’s so totally not a coincidence. It’s tonight.” Andrea squeezes my hand as she takes a closer

look at the ad. “Hey, do you wanna go?”

Apparently Grazzo’s in London, for a concert in a legendary Blues club where I’ve seen him play

before. Many years ago. Maybe too many.

Looks like we have it all: Christmas, snow, and a son the prodigal dad could return to. If only he

wanted. If these things mattered to him.

* * *

“Dan, my man! Now that’s a surprise!” Backstage after the show, Grazzo pulls me into a tight, warm

bear hug, and doesn’t let go for a while. His stubble’s still so familiar against my cheek; he smells of