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And the way he’d countered her presumed pity about his job. I could look for something different. I don’t want to. God, he’d come off like a petulant child. Every morning or afternoon that he went into work, his stomach dropped lower and lower the closer he got to those big warehouse doors. Walking through them made him feel like he’d been swallowed into the belly of some enormous beast, and spending his days speeding around the floor, plucking and sorting the things people ordered, made him feel as if he were slowly being digested by the beast’s stomach acid.

It wasn’t that he was embarrassed to be working a blue-collar job at a warehouse. It was honest work and nothing to be ashamed of. He had colleagues who seemed to be perfectly happy clocking in and doing the work and clocking out and going home. And there were plenty of others who had plans for what they were going to do next, and they’d taken this job to save money or work opposite schedules from their spouse’s, and it was a good option for them for now.

But he resented the tedium of it, and the way the company micromanaged every single step he took, and the way he rarely exchanged words with anyone else over the course of the day, and the way that currently he was on track to be there forever. What else was he supposed to do, though, without a degree or any real knowledge of what he wanted to do? When he pictured choosing something to do for the rest of his life—the rest of his life—his heart got all fluttery with panic. The rest of his life was such a long time (hopefully, at least). He wasn’t sure he liked anything enough to do it for the rest of his life.

He pushed those thoughts to the back of his mind. He was only feeling this pit in his stomach because Shira was here now, on top of the world, with everything figured out. She’d leave soon, and everything would go back to normal.

He tried to ignore how the pit in his stomach deepened at the thought, so deep now he might fall in and never be able to climb out.

Leo spent the rest of the day and the next waiting to see if Shira would text him for help, but of course she didn’t. She had everything down, the same way she always had. The night of the party began crystal clear and calm, not that it mattered, since Leo didn’t have to drive. His breath puffed in the air as he walked the two doors down to Shira’s house, rubbing his arms to stay warm (why bother bringing a coat when he’d only be outside for two minutes?). He walked quickly, partially due to the chill in the air and partially so that he wouldn’t have to make conversation with Joe, who lagged a few steps behind.

No string lights sparkled on Shira’s house. In Michigan, one thing Leo had loved about living in a home that celebrated Christmas was the decorations—he smiled, thinking about how excited his mom would get every year when they got to put up their Christmas lights. Most of the setup fell upon him; he’d get up on the ladder and string them wherever she directed.

At Shira’s, though, at least five menorahs sat proudly in the front windows, ready to be lit, and bright, cheerful classical music spilled out the cracked-open door. Not Hanukkah music—was Hanukkah music even a thing besides that dreidel song? Leo made a note to ask Shira.

Inside, the house was toasty warm; Leo sped through the foyer, since he didn’t have a coat to hang, and went straight for the living room, where several of his neighbors were bunched around the food table. He caught snatches of conversation as he grabbed a pig in a blanket (ironically named, considering the franks were likely made of beef in this household): Mr. Colatrella was annoyed that his property taxes were going up even though the pothole in front of his house hadn’t gone anywhere; Ms. Brown was expounding very enthusiastically about a potential conspiracy involving the school board, a local mattress company, and the Peruvian government, which Leo wasn’t able to parse despite a solid thirty seconds of eavesdropping. He shoved another pig in a blanket into his mouth just as somebody slapped him on the shoulder.

“Leo! I heard around Thanksgiving that you were back home again.” Mr. Colatrella had evidently cooled off about the taxes and the pothole situation, maybe because of the nearly empty glass of what looked like a whiskey soda in his hand (or so his already red cheeks testified). “College didn’t work out for you, huh? It’s all right, not everybody’s meant to go to college.”

Leo couldn’t help but bristle a little bit. “No, college worked out great for me,” he said. “I just felt like leaving a few credits short of a degree.”

Mr. Colatrella blinked a few times, clearly unsure what to make of that. “Ah,” he said finally. “But you’re here working at the warehouse.”

“Yeah, that’s always been my dream job,” Leo said. “Warehousing is my passion.”

“Are you…Is it?”

Leo bared his teeth in a smile. “It was great seeing you, Mr. Colatrella. Fred.” He could use first names now that he was an adult, right? “I’m going to get a drink.”

Where the living room had been crowded and dim, the kitchen was bright and cheery and smelled like fried potatoes, which might be the best smell there was. He said that much to Shira’s sister, Talia, who was sipping something ruby red with a sour expression. She replied, “There are better smells.”

“Like what?” he said, genuinely curious.

She paused, tilting her head back, as if thinking very seriously. “Maybe the first rain of spring, when the ground wakes up and realizes, hey, right, we can grow things,” she said. “Or the smell of your childhood home when you come back to it after a long time away.”

Hard to argue against those. “Okay, let me amend that,” he said. “The best food smell there is. Talia, have you gone from karate to poetry?”

She stared at him blankly. “Why can’t I be both a martial artist and a poet?” Then she shrugged. “Though, lo, I am currently neither. I’m double majoring in economics and Russian literature.”

“I haven’t read any of the Russian masters,” Leo said. “Any I should pick up?”

She tilted her head back again for a moment, then tipped it forward and said, as surely as if she’d read the answer on the ceiling, “No.”

With that, she wandered off. “Good talk,” Leo said, though quietly enough that she wouldn’t be able to hear it, because she was a black belt.

Someone else had heard, however. Leo smelled her before he saw her, and in the moment it took to register her presence, he thought, No, fried potatoes aren’t the best smell in the world, that’s the best smell in the world.

“I still can’t believe that the child who wouldn’t read anything but my old Baby-Sitter’s Club books now exclusively reads books in Russian,” Shira said. Leo stepped back, dazzled by the display, and he didn’t mean her looks: She was wearing the ugliest sweater he’d ever seen, a blue-and-white monstrosity covered all over with dreidels and sparkly golden gelt and, in its center, a menorah whose candles were real blinking lights. She shrugged, clearly seeing his widened eyes. “It’s horrible, I know. I lost a bet with Talia. I only have to wear it for another fifteen minutes.”

He had so many questions he didn’t even know where to start. She cracked a smile. “Yes, she actually reads the books in Russian. She’s really good with languages, apparently? I guess she started learning Russian after she quit martial arts. The sweater is from T.J.Maxx. I know, I couldn’t believe they carried it, either, but I guess they needed their one token Hanukkah sweater in the ugly-Christmas-sweater section. And the bet was over how many latkes I’d end up making. I had more faith in myself than Talia did.” She leaned in, and Leo got another whiff of her, cinnamon and book pages and paint and some tang that was uniquely Shira. She whispered, “So I’d appreciate if you’d stick to, like, one.”

He was going to get dizzy. He stepped back. Cleared his throat. “I can do that.”

“Thanks, old friend.” She held up a glass. “You can have a latke cocktail, if you want.”

“A potato drink?” When he’d said fried potato was the best smell ever, he did not mean when combined with alcohol. He gave her glass, which was filled with a murky brownish liquid, a suspicious look. Then sighed. Because this was Shira asking, and of course he’d say yes. “Okay, fine.”

Her eyes sparkled. “Yes! For some reason, nobody else wants one.”