For my money, the best part of the end-of-year holidays isn’t the food, the family, or the friends. Don’t get me wrong, the food’s great; whether it’s fried food, turkey, roast beef, or pie, I can’t get enough. And I get along with my family pretty well, too, so even at their worst, spending time with them isn’t exactly a chore. Unfortunately, my friends tend to scatter to various destinations all across November and December, so while I’d like to say I get to see more of them during the holidays, in practice that’s not really the case.

Until New Year’s Eve rolls around.

New Year’s is the perfect representation of the holiday spirit, for me. My friends like to get dressed up and throw a fancy formal-dress affair, complete with music and dancing, plenty of champagne, the Times Square festivities on the television – muted, of course – and the opportunity to make out with whoever happens to be nearby when midnight rolls around. It’s a little something for everyone, and it is hands-down my favorite time of year.

Laura and I had dutifully gotten dressed up in our holiday best, me in my tuxedo and her in a slinky black dress that clung in all the right places. We’d been passing the time between conversations by people watching, sharing gossip, and pointing out hot people that we claimed we were going to take home instead of each other. That sort of teasing was a favorite game of ours, even if it never amounted to anything but talk.

She suddenly nudged me in the shoulder, almost making me spill my drink. “Who is that,” she said.

“Who, in the blue dress? That’s Amy. Have you not met her? She does computer stuff, although she’s between jobs at the minute. Just like everybody else, it seems like.”

“‘Computer stuff’. You say that like you don’t have a degree in the same field.”

“It’s completely different!”

“Uh huh. So you say. Where’d you meet her?”

“Believe it or not, an open mic night at the coffee house a few years back. She plays a killer version of Landslide. And she’s got the voice for it, too.”

“Stevie Nicks, huh? Interesting.”

“‘Interesting’? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, nothing. You know how much I like Fleetwood Mac, that’s all.” She rattled the ice cubes in her glass and disappeared into the crowd, ostensibly to get another drink. I was very aware of how much Laura liked Fleetwood Mac: they hadn’t invented a scale yet that went far enough into the negative to account for it. She hated Fleetwood Mac. But I also knew that when she said it was ‘nothing’, it was never actually ‘nothing’.

Unfortunately, I’d have to figure out what she meant later, because instead of chasing after Laura I got stuck talking to a friend of mine about the latest superhero movie, always a favorite topic of his (and never one of mine). After a few minutes of barely holding up my end of the conversation, I used the same trick on him that Laura used on me, made my excuses, and headed to the bar. Laura was nowhere to be found, though.

I scanned the room. Nice enough party this year, better than last year’s disaster for sure. It was good to get out and mingle again, since I hadn’t seen most of these folks in a long time, and having Laura along made things all the sweeter. But where had she gotten off to...?

The patio was deserted, so I took a moment to enjoy the night air. We were too far south to get any snow, and it was cool but not too cold, so it was fairly pleasant to be outside. As I took a drink and looked up to appreciate the stars, I noticed that a few of the rooms on the second floor were lit up. Our hosts hadn’t said anything about not going upstairs, so I figured it wouldn’t hurt to check it out. Heading back inside and climbing the stairs, I found the bathroom light was on, but so was the light in one of the bedrooms down the hall.

Now, put yourself in my shoes. You’re at a party. There’s a bedroom door cracked open, the light is on, there are a few people noticeably absent from the party downstairs, and one of them is your girlfriend. Go ahead and tell me you don’t take a peek – I’ll be waiting for you in the next paragraph.