❆ ❆ ❆

There's a storm coming. My phone keeps pinging with alerts of crazy winds and snow and ice, as though I can't see the trees bending outside my window, obscured by the swirling flurry of snowflakes raining down like confetti. Apparently the temperature's going to drop to twenty degrees. It already feels way colder in this crappy studio apartment with the window that doesn't quite fit its frame.

The moment I think about it, the catch loosens and the window bangs when the wind catches it, and I curse as I launch myself across the room to shut it before the glass breaks. I've told the landlord about this window. Several times. I sent photos, even a video last week. He promised to get it fixed but nothing has happened and with Christmas only two weeks away, I don't think anything's going to get done.

So I wedge it shut with a piece of folded paper, tugging the handle as hard as I can, and I tape down the draughty edges before pulling the curtains. When I moved in, there were blinds here. I didn't realize how much of a luxury curtains are until my mom sent me a thermal pair, and now I take back my laugh and eye-roll. I swear they do more than the heating in this place, which has hardly worked since the weather turned. This apartment was stiflingly hot in September, when it was ninety degrees out, but now I'm shivering despite wearing three layers inside.

A new alert pops up on my screen, yelling at me not to travel unless it's absolutely necessary. I swipe it away and pull on my coat over two sweaters, pocketing my keys and my phone. I need to go, and it is absolutely necessary. I lost my job last week and if I don't want to be out on my ass in the middle of winter then I'm going to need to find some extra work.

My lease is up in three weeks and to renew it, I have to prove that I either earn fifteen hundred a month, or that I have a job and six grand in my bank. Which I don't. So, yeah, things are going great.

When I was a kid, my mom told me I could do anything I wanted to do and I could be anyone I wanted to be. My dad would glance at her and shake his head and tell me to work hard. He said there was nothing sweeter than the taste of well-earned success, and though he never said anything, I knew he'd be disappointed if I didn't set myself up to follow in his footsteps: self-made millionaire; loving wife; seven kids.

Ok, maybe not exactly like him. But I knew not to expect any handouts once I was done with college, and I didn't plan to need any help once I graduated. I also didn't plan for my plan not to pan out, which I guess is why I am where I am right now: struggling to pay rent for a crappy studio apartment because five hundred bucks a month feels impossible on a part-time supermarket salary.

I graduated two years ago with a business degree and not much else. Two and a half years in a fraternity was wasted when I left the house halfway through my junior year, throwing away my network of brothers and the promise of opportunities – and brazen nepotism – in exchange for a slightly alleviated conscience.

The fraternity would have guaranteed me a job after I graduated. Everyone knows everyone in the circle and every month I see one of my old frat brothers starting a new job that he's no doubt grossly incapable of doing – the kinds of jobs I wish I was doing at the kinds of companies that give me an interview and no more – and it sucks, sure, but I couldn't stay.

Beneath its promises, there was a toxic environment, one I only understood after I left and I saw it for what it was and for what it had turned me into. A cult of brothers using a few Greek words to excuse the kind of behavior that deserves punishment; the kind of behavior that cost me the only girl I've ever loved. I can't blame the frat for what I did. That's on me. But I couldn't stay, and I can't forgive myself for what I did.

So I left – too late – and I didn't have a back-up plan. Until then, I'd had it made, but I turned my back on it. I thought I'd find a job I loved and I thought I'd have Storie by my side, but I broke her heart. Now, I'm still trying to find my feet, and the will to brave the storm so I can throw my resume at anyone who will read it.

As I'm trying to persuade myself to step outside, my phone buzzes. I drop onto the end of my bed when I see a text from my mom, an excuse to stay here a little longer, but the message makes me frown.

you are a very bad brother liam.

My fingers are pretty numb but I manage to type back: what???

A stone forms in the pit of my stomach as I try to explain my mom's text to myself before she does, but I can't think of any promises I've broken. Three gray dots pop up on the screen and another message fills half the page.

you havnt been home in FOR EVER!!! even matt came home and he is MARRIED. mommy said youll be back soon and daddy said your working. COME HOME. I miss you. anna is gonna forget you butt face. im her favorit now

Well. That explains it. My little sister, Daria, is a dramatic seven-year-old who has apparently learned how to send a text from Mom's phone. When I was her age, I didn't even know what a text was and the only cellphone I'd ever seen was my dad's unbreakable Nokia 2600 with the alphabet squashed onto eight keys.

Daria isn't wrong. I haven't been home in a while. I guess this place is my technically home now, but I can't think of it as anything other than a temporary living situation until I can find – and afford – something better. I just can't face going home to my parents and them finding out that I'm struggling. Dad will tell me to buck up and power on and regale me with a story of how he made it; Mom will shower me with sympathies and try to get me to move home for a while.

When I graduated, I was determined not to move back in with my parents. So far, I've been successful, but I don't know if my stubbornness will hold up if I don't find a new job before Christmas hits.

Before I can reply, my phone rings. My mom's smiling face appears on the screen but I know it'll be my stroppy little sister calling me. It's sweet that she misses me, but it only makes me feel further from home. I didn't miss my family nearly so much when I was at college, living with friends, surrounded by people. But here, I'm alone. Sometimes it hurts like hell.

"Hello?" I say when I answer the call, the same greeting regardless of whether or not I know who's calling.

"Liam? You sound sad," Daria says. I can picture her trademark Daria pout.

Well, I'm a jobless graduate living alone across the river from Cleveland, on the cusp of getting kicked out of my apartment, and I haven't so much as been on a date for six months. Double that for the last good date I went on. It's not all sunshine and roses. But it's fine. I'm not sad. It's just the winter blues.

"Hey, Dar," I say. "I'm not sad. Just cold."

"Come home. It's warm here."

"Tomorrow, maybe," I say without thinking. The moment the words are out, I know I've sealed my fate. The maybe will mean nothing to Daria; she won't have even heard it. Judging by her squeal of delight, I'll be in for a lot more than a harsh text if I don't show up tomorrow morning.

Home is a four-hour drive away, nestled in the countrified outskirts that sprawl away from Cincinnati. With thirty rooms and ten acres spread out in the middle of nowhere, it's a far cry from my place here in Cleveland, a cramped unit on the top floor of an Ohio City townhouse that never should have been turned into apartments.

"Mommy!" Daria yells, so loud and close to the phone that it's a wonder my ear drum doesn't burst. "Mommy! Liam's coming home."

"Maybe, Dar," I say, but there's no point. She's like a dog with a bone when it comes to getting what she wants. When she was even smaller, she'd use the youngest child advantage and go on the charm offensive, but she's not the youngest anymore. That title belongs to our sister Anna, who will turn four in a few weeks.

I'm pretty sure she'll be the last, but I wouldn't be too surprised if I got home to find out there's another Alexander sibling on the way. I didn't know about Anna until a couple of months before she was born. My mom just forgot to tell me.

In the background, I hear the distinctive jangle of Mom's bracelets growing closer.

"There's my phone, you naughty little monkey," she says. "I've been looking for that. Who have you been talking to, missy? Oh! Liam, honey!"

"Hey, Mom."

"How are you, sweetie? We miss you around here. Did I hear Daria say you're coming home?" Her voice is an aching comfort. No-one around here speaks like her. I've grown used to the Cleveland vowel shift, but I miss Mom's soft Alabama accent.

"I said maybe. Dar chose not to hear that." I stand when I get cold sitting down, but there's not much space to pace. A thin dividing wall separates a toilet and shower from the rest of the room, far too small a space for all the stuff in it.

"You know your sister," Mom says. "Give her an inch and she'll take a mile. It would be nice to see you, honey. We miss you round here. It's been too long."

Two months, a week and four days. That was the last time I made the trip home, when I had a couple days off work and enough cash for gas. Now the free time isn't a problem, but I know my tank is nearly empty and gas prices are way up at the moment.

"I miss you guys too." I'm not about to lie to my mom – I've learnt my lesson when it comes to lying – but I can't bring myself to tell her that I lost my job. It'll upset her, and it won't help the constant sense of unease in my gut that tells me I'm clinging on by a thread. Going home will make it even harder to come back here. "I need to go, though. There's some stuff I need to get done."

"Ok, sweetie. If you get your stuff done and you have some free time, it'd be wonderful to see you this weekend. We could go for lunch or something. I know the girls would love to see you. Just let me know what you decide."

"Will do, Mom. Love you."

"Love you too, honey."

Mom's ever patient, ever understanding. Until she found out why Storie and I weren't together anymore. She was devastated and so disappointed that she couldn't bring herself to speak to me for days. There's no way to tell the story without me sounding like the worst person, because I was the worst. I don't know how Storie forgave me, but it only made me love her more.

The frat held a contest. I got caught up in it. I wasn't thinking. When they challenged us to sleep with the biggest girl, it never crossed my mind how she would feel if she found out, whoever she was. I didn't think she ever would find out. I didn't think that I would meet Storie and fall in love with her. I just didn't think.

When I realized I loved her, I really loved her so much it hurt, I quit the contest. It was as though being with her gave me a new set of eyes and I was repulsed by what I had done. I did everything I could for her to never know, but she found out. She was destroyed. I destroyed her. And she forgave me. I don't know how.

I still love her. It's been four years since she told me that she couldn't be with me, but my mind always wanders back to her. I've tried to date, but it feels like I'm trying to stuff a jigsaw piece into the wrong puzzle. Nothing clicks. In four years, I've been on thirty dates, but none of them felt right. Nobody compared to Storie. I've tried. I really have. But I ruined the only relationship I ever cherished, and I don't seem to be able to get over it.

I need to get out of this place. Sitting alone in this shitty room for too long is never a good idea, especially on a dark December Friday. With a stack of resumes in my backpack – I owe Muhammad from the unit next door a few beers for letting me use his printer – I jog down two flights of stairs and brave the cold.

❆ ❆ ❆

The cold has sunk into my bones after trudging up and down street after street handing out my resume, quadrupling my mile-long walk to the red line. I can't feel my fingers through my gloves. Snowflakes freeze my skin, melting on my nose. When I get on the RTA, I only mean to go one stop to Tower City, to head into the city center and try my luck there. But I'm tired and frozen, and I barely register the dark subway hub until we've left it.

Six stops go by until I focus on the passing minutes and realize I've been sitting here shivering for a half hour. The train comes to a stop in Little Italy and I trip over myself to get off before I end up at the end of the line, slinging my almost-empty backpack over one shoulder and follow the crowd.

I've lived in Cleveland for a year but I've hardly explored. I only know I'm in University Circle when I see a sign telling me so, and I don't belong. I'm surrounded by college kids who look like they know what they're doing and where they're going, their constant footfall stopping the snow from settling. I wish I could go back and start again.

I duck into the first Starbucks I see. The smell of coffee hits me, dragging me in. The windows are decorated with paper snowflakes and adverts for their holiday drinks, Christmas spirit surrounding me. I should decorate my apartment. Even just a little fake tree in the corner. Something to liven the place up.

I'm at the back of the line when I see the flyer pinned to the noticeboard. The obvious WordArt is painful, and there are too many clipart images, but there are two words beneath an illustrated Christmas tree that stand out to me: NOW HIRING!!

"Are you in the line?" Someone taps my shoulder. I shake my head and step closer to the board that proudly advertises Cleveland's Second Best Winter Wonderland. I don't know which is the best. I didn't even know there was a winter wonderland, but the address is only a mile away and they're hiring for the holiday season.

It's perfect.

I don't get a drink. I don't even like coffee. With the address loaded into my phone, I head outside with renewed energy. I never thought I'd get so excited about the thought of working at a tacky pop-up Christmas festival, but I'll take what I can get right now. I don't care if I have to wear a Santa suit eight hours a day if I'll get paid.

There's a bus that takes me straight there. The 'Winter Wonderland' turns out to be a huge garden center that has turned itself into a kid's Christmas dream for the season. There don't appear to be any actual plants: the entire place has been taken over by heavily-decorated fir trees and fake snow. Outside, there's a ferris wheel and a helter skelter. I have to admit, it does feel kind of magical.

Less magical is the girl in an elf costume who glances over my resume with a bored expression and tells me to go and see the equally-bored manager, a skinny guy who barely fills out half of his Santa suit. Chewing on a pen, he skims the paper and asks me a few questions while we both stand outside a door marked Staff Only Beyond This Point.

"What size are you?" he asks after a moment, folding my resume over his thumb. He looks me up and down. "Medium?"

"Um, yeah. Why?"

He nods at the door. "Follow me."

He pushes open the staff-only door and beckons for me to follow him. After a moment's falter, I do. He shoves through a rack of what looks like body bags on hangers and pulls one off.

"We've only got small left." He glances over me again. "You can probably make it fit."

"Make what fit? Did I get the job?" I ask, not even a hundred percent sure I know what the job is. Actually, I'm not at all sure of what the job is, except that I'm going to have to wear a costume that won't fit.

"Ten bucks an hour, cash in hand. We're strapped so work all the hours you can and you'll be paid at the end of each day," he says. I'm not sure how legal this is, but I can't complain. "This is your uniform. You come to work wearing this, you leave wearing it. Don't wanna ruin the magic for the kiddies."

He thrusts the hanger at me. "Congrats...-" he checks my resume "- Liam. You got the job. Elf number 13, reporting for duty at eight o'clock on Monday for your induction. One of the other elves will show you the ropes." He digs about in a desk drawer and throws a pamphlet at me. "Rules and whatnot. Read it. Remember it. Don't be late."

"Ok. Thank you," I say, backing out with the hanger in one hand and the limp leaflet in the other, trying to figure out what just happened. I think I got hired on the spot, though I don't know what as. What does a winter wonderland elf do?

The girl who greeted me is there when I leave the costume closet. She leans against the wall, arms folded. Her nametag reads Kaylani, followed by a green scribble that I think is supposed to be a Christmas tree.

"What's your name?"

"Liam," I say, and she scrawls it in jagged capital letters on another tag that she produces from a pocket I can't see. Uncapping a silver sharpie with her teeth, she adds a star after my name and hands it to me.

"Welcome to the Winter Wonderland family, Liam," she says, a hint of a smile behind her boredom, though I think she's just amused by my confusion. "I'm Kaylani. If you have any questions, ask me Monday. Don't lose your costume."

God knows what just happened. I don't know what I've got myself into. But it's a job. It's money. And I don't have to work this weekend, so I pull out my phone as I leave in a cloud of bemusement, and I text my mom.

i'm coming home :)

❆ ❆ ❆

welcome back! It's been a while!

first chapters are incredibly hard to write. i'm never sure quite where to start, but i hope this is a good enough introduction to liam's story! let me know what you're thinking & hoping!