The verge of an opportunity, a new chance to become the most authentic form. A new year. Eight thousand seven hundred sixty hours to demonstrate to your idols that you are in fact worthy of their gaze, how many hours will be wasted on frivolous worries and extraordinary fears?

Only three more hours until the dawn of a new year arrives, the sun perches just below the horizon of a calendar waiting patiently for the moon to fall from its heavenly position. The light grasping at the edges of the earth to paw its way over.

Only fifteen days and three hours more until a contest of which a scrap of paper with my name on it will be perceived by a panel of knowledgeable minds to determine its worth. My words flowing from their station through the optic nerve to be deciphered in the judge's image. Deep rooted stressors articulated through similes and metaphors.

I walk into the town's park with interlaced mitten clad fingers and snow drifting onto my lashes. I'm pulling Sam around to each booth, filled with rigged carnival games and penny-priced prizes. Our annual new year's festival, completely cheesy decorations with the year smacked onto everything along with delicious grease covered garbage. Ringtosses ending in rejects, formication the result of face painting, bangs from the popping of balloons with the prick of a dart.

"Pheebs," he snickers as his arms wrap around my waist, "You're going down," punctuating his statement with a soft peck into the side of my hair.

We dash between each booth, competing to win prizes of no value, laughing until our ribs are tough and our cheeks burn. Our hands held tightly together as we run, our lips brushing as we take in the exuberance around us.

"Samuel," I bark at him humorously, "I just handed your ass to you."

The tension from Christmas has weaned, our conversations light and full of flattery. The shift in Sam hasn't gone unnoticed, he's more tentative with his words but no less the kinder. A wandering hand to distract me while I attempt to best him at each match, a kiss planted on my cheek to soften the blow of a devastating defeat.

"I did not let you win," he poorly hides his dishonesty.

Teddy sits at home in the company of Edward, smothered in saliva and incoherent chatter. Her one request was that I bring her home cotton candy, artificially flavored tufts of woven sugar that whisper of strawberry.

Her knotted hair pulled back into a greased ponytail with her dependent child bouncing on her hip as she begged persistently that her simple request not be forgotten amongst my own excitement.

"Divide and conquer," Sam's skied irises squint as his lips upturn into a grin.

I give a salute, "I'll get the cotton candy, you get the Joe."

He brings two fingers to flick outwards from his forehead to return the gesture, "Aye, aye captain."

We turn in opposite directions as I march onward to the sugar-floss stall, the sound of his boots clashing against the snow below dissipating as our distance increases.

I take in the spectrum of lights adorning the trees and the overstated decorations distributed amongst the crowded celebration. Laughter reverberates in my ears as children race towards stands of succulent treats and parents fall steadily behind.

My eyes are forced to double take the sight within my peripheral vision as I take in the ill-suited fondling and necking against a snowcoated tree. Handfuls of flesh, hot breath on necks, heavy lips crashing. I'm left feeling a nagging nausea rising into my throat and rounding out into a lump that sits unwelcomed.

My gaze tugged away reluctantly as the logistical gears amongst my loose screws pushed my feet to take me away from the unsavory sensation and back to my expedition for clouded cane sugar.

The actions of my eyes separate from the more intelligent muscles as they dart back to the tree behind my shoulder. The saccharine scent of stilted sucrose wrapping my scenes at the sight of the vividly colored sign that reads, 'FRESH COTTON CANDY.'

I stand impatiently at the end of the line--parents holding children's hands in an attempt to teach them the uneasily learned lesson of patience, coming of age moments occuring in front of my eyes as lips feather against ears to spill secrets, revived memories reminisce upon by crinkled skinned lovers.

Every stage of life is represented in my eyesight--the impatient ascendence to adulthood, the realer than life statements from which companionship blossoms, the desperate hope to be taken back to a more lively time. Each person so ready for their next moment, so ready that they forget to enjoy the moment they're in.

A nudge of a foot against the back of my knee causing my body to lurch forward into the back of the elderly couple standing in front of me forces me to twist around to find the thick forest of deep green beneath a raised canopy of darkened wood in the shape of a brow. A smirk sneaks across the supple lips to carve cavernous dimples into the cheeks of artistic structure.

Silent sympathetic apologies rush from lips to the couple before I turn my focus back to the vulgar culprit. His devious grin unwavering as my expression scolds him harshly. "What the hell?"

"What the hell is up, Sunshine?" His voice undeniably and cynically crass.

I lift my hands from my sides and hold them up in confusion, "Why are you doing this?"

"You've got twiggy legs." He taunts as his eyes scan my swaddled skin, his shameless sight drifting down my features before pulling back up to meet my enraged eyes.

I shake my head and turn back to the stand. My mind swiftly reminding me of the musical masterpiece he graciously abandoned on my porch, his childish sketches matching the hurried handwriting. I can't help but hum my favorite chorus, My Funny Valentine. The line, 'You make me smile with my heart,' spinning around to the forefront of my memory like a carousel.

I never did thank him for that gift. A twinge of guilt sits unresolved as pride pushes it down to no avail. The battle between grace and gratitude fiercely swirling my stomach and tensing my temples. Grace shoots down Gratitude's proposal for a traditional thank you, Gratitude marches through Grace's station to argue for any acknowledgement of the pleasant present.

Pride and Grace ultimately slaughtered by the sword and valor of Gratitude, my gaze reluctantly returning to meet his eyes. "I- uh," my attention taken to our feet to avoid the intimidation of his limelight, "The vinyl, it was nice."

I look through my lashes to find his cocky expression to have flattened to discomfort--his smirk since disappeared and replaced by teeth tugging at the pinked skin, brows furrowed, eyes frantic to look anywhere but mine. "Sure."

I pick at my skin around my nails as I rock back and forth on my feet, the iced over tension between us unthawing. His eyes burring holes into my skin, making it crawl.

"Am I that repulsive, Sunshine, really?" His accent thick as he asks lowly.

My gaze lifts for a moment and I shake my head before lowering my vision again, Pride rears its ugly head. Simple conversation seems impossibly unattainable at the moment, I can't glance into that green without feeling overcome with inconsolable discomfort.

"N-no, you're kind of a Baldwin," I mutter out before I can stop it, "I just really could use some cotton candy or actually just a huge cup of coffee."

The dimples carved into his face deepen and a slight chuckle expels from his cherry red lips. "A Baldwin, really?"

I roll my eyes, "Mmmm," I huff out a breath, "You know you're gorgeous, don't act clueless."

He holds his hand up over his heart and gasps, "I'm flattered, truly."

He points back behind me to show the line has moved and I take a step backwards. Did I really just say that to him? I just told him he was gorgeous?

I clear my throat, "Any new vinyls in the store? Anything I'd like to steal?"

I see this glint in his eye, "My grandmother found this amazing Fleetwood Mac vinyl at a flea market a couple weeks ago, it's in mint condition and the sound is perfect. I snagged a Joel CD but I ended up keeping it. The whole store has been filled with my favorites, they've been letting me play anything."

His gushing warms my chest, his cheered tone and exaggerated gestures drone out the rest of the world, his joy becomes my full focus. The laughter and carnival games drowned out by his deep rasp, the spectrum of lights and tacky decorations become the background of his painting.

"And then this guy brought in a whole box of Bowie stuff that his ex-husband had. I thought it was comically diabolical to sell your former lover's treasures to a measly little store, especially when all that stuff was worth at least three times as much as he sold it to us for. One of the CDs was signed, you better believe I hid that one upstairs, no one's taking that bad boy."

I go to chime in but decide against it, I just want to hear him talk about something he's passionate about. Music seems to be the topic that allows his furrowed brow to release the deep crease on his forehead to soften, his jaw no longer taught with frustration, his entire demeanor softer when he speaks of beloved musicians.

"And this old woman down the road finally croaked, her estate sale was full of gems. She had your favorites, Sinatra and Anka. Oh, and Billie Holiday. Her husband must've been a rocker, there was the Beatles and Jefferson Airplane. Their son said he had some of his old CDs upstairs in his room and he let me take all of them. I got all the classics--ACDC, Def Leppard, Zeppelin, the Stones, Sabbath, Pink Floyd--it was a trove."

He pauses to let out a breath and when he inhales like he's about to keep on rambling I can't help but giggle. He gives a confused look before his befuddled frown curls into a gigantic grin, "I should probably stop talking now, shouldn't I?"

"No, no, keep going. I'll have to come by the store, you can show me."

His eyebrows raise as his grin only widens, "Your turn, what's Sunshine been doing?"

"Well, I've been thrown up on about three times today."

His face scrunches up in disgust, "That's horrific."

"Yeah, plus I only got to listen to Sinatra for like twenty minutes today." I bite down on my bottom lip to hold back a smile at the end of my statement.

"That is criminal. You should be arrested, sit you right next to Frankie Boy himself in a cell."

I snicker, "For someone who sang so much about love, he wasn't much of a gentleman himself."

"Certainly not," His tone switches from playful to bitter as he speaks. His eyes narrow and his brows crease deeply.

I turn to see Sam headed in our direction, a large cup of coffee in each hand. I wiggle my fingers and lean past the line to see him better. His bright smile shines as he stumbles through the crowd.

"Oh, Loverboy's here," Harry's voice is full of distaste.

I'm shooting a glare over my shoulder to him which is met with a reciprocal look. His scowl only deepens as Sam's arm wraps around my shoulder and places the coffee cup into my hand.

"Hey," Sam's companionable voice rings out, "You work at Dorthea's right? You're Harry?"

Harry glances at me and I give him a warning expression, "That's me."

I take a sip of the coffee to find that it's yet another latte, no good. It's filled with sugar and cream that mutes the robust flavor of the roasted beans. I haven't got the heart to tell him that I despise anything other than black, he is always so eager to get things for me.

The scowl on my face catches Harry's eye for a second before his attention is pulled away by Sam.

"I don't think we've formally met," Sam holds out his free hand for Harry to shake, "I'm Sam."

Harry nods to reject Sam's offer, "Harry."

I look over to Sam's profile and rest my head against his arm. I sink into him in an attempt to shield myself from the uneasiness that has arised. I spot a tall, curvy woman strutting towards us, her chocolate locks swaying as her figure catches eyes. She waves off a former classmate as her eyes remain on Harry, her current flavor.

She throws her arms around his shoulders and whispers something that causes Harry eyes to widen ever so slightly. She comes to stand next to him and he wraps his arm and engulfs her hip in his hand.

"Oh," Rebecca's eyes squint at me as if she's trying to put a name to my face, "Phoebe Carter?"

A twitch of my coffee occupied my hand and a meek voice, "Hi Rebecca."

"Haven't seen you since graduation," she exclaims, "You haven't changed a bit."

Well it was only like a year ago, dunce.

"And neither have you." I attempt to keep my utterance lighthearted but I can't control the drop of sourness that leaks out.

Harry's vision darts to me before going back to Rebecca. Her fingers toying with his belt loops as she speaks, making my cheeks burn with vexation, "Who's this piece of eye candy?"

My cheeks only fire more, "Rebecca, Sam. Sam, Rebecca."

Sam waves his hand politely, "Nice to meet you."

"You too, stunner," her cadence sweetly flirtatious. Her fingers continue to swipe across Harry's waist before tugging lightly at one of the belt loops to pull him into her. She presses an open mouthed kiss to his temple before whispering something to him and punctuating her secret with a nibble on his earlobe.

I pull my lips into a tight line and lean farther into Sam. I flash my eyes to Harry, his gaze meeting mine before I crash my lips into Sam's.

When I pull away from Sam and turn back to Harry, his expression tells me everything. His softened features that I exploited through his maundering have been left in the dust, his jaw set sharp again and the crease between his brows deep again.

Harry grabs Rebecca's hand in his and tugs her away, "See ya later, Sunshine." Rebecca goes to decline their exit but he tugs at her arm and snaps, "I've lost my appetite, come on."

I look up to Sam to see him peering down at me, confused. "They seem real nice."

"Perfect for each other really." The sarcasm seeping through my pores.

He nudges me as we continue through the line. "Hey, he's the guy on the ladder right?"

I lower my brows and let out a short snort through my nose, "Uh, yeah."

"Is he always so grumpy?"

I contemplate telling him the truth, that he is. That Harry is an absolute grump of a human that I don't mind having around. That his crotchety disposition is frustratingly charming and although every encounter I've had with him has ended with bluntly disheartening statements and the stomping of feet, I want to be with him all the time. I want to listen to his favorite music and read the literature he reads, I want to show him that there is more to life than being permanently prickly.

"Seems so."

He nods off my hesitant response, "And Rebecca?"

"Can I be perfectly blunt?"

"Uh," Sam pauses, "Of course."

"She's the biggest bitch I've ever met."

Sam's mouth fell agape and his eyes widened under raised eyebrows, "Wow. That was definitely blunt."

I smile as my cheeks pull pink, "Yeah, sorry."

"You know her better than I do."

He grips my hand in his and leads me up to the front of the stand. I purchase Teddy's cloud of strawberry sweetness and step back to Sam's warm smile. It brushes the shivering from my skin and the numbness from my nose. I interlace our fingers and pull him towards the center of the festival where the projected televised ball, only a few minutes until the drop.

I nuzzle myself into his chest and he wraps his coated arms around me. He whispers kind words to me as his warm breath fans against my ear, I feel my heart swell in my chest at his caring nature.

The crowd grows around the projected television program, couples wrapped up in layers upon layers of outerwear and wrapped up in one another. Their eyes drift around eachother's faces and sprinkle sweet pecks against their pinkened skin, hands holding each other close to celebrate the bringing of the new year.

The numbers count down the remainder of our time and each passing moment more people join the crowd and the excitement around us grows. Through the crowd I spot Harry, his arm draped over Rebecca's shoulder, his face rigid and disinterested.

Fifteen.

Her fingers drag against the waist of his pants.

Ten.

She leans in and mumbles classified cajoleries into his ear

Five.

He tugs on her shoulder and nimbles nothings into her neck.

Four.

She rests her palm against this lower stomach.

Three.

His hand drops to palm the curve of her waist.

Two.

His jaw is tight, his eyes meet mine.

One.

I lower my brow and my lip juts out into a disappointed pout.

Happy New Year!

Harry grasps the sides of her face harshly and crashes their lips together. The force behind the action twists knots into my gut and burns my cheeks. His hands travel to every inch of her body while she's tangled in his hair.

I feel Sam lift my chin with his gloved hand and press soft kisses to my lips, muttering declarations of, 'You're beautiful,' and, 'Happy new year, Pheebs.'

The urge to deepen the kiss and rid myself of that envious ligature that's strangling my lungs. Fire courses through my veins and burns my throat as shallow breaths disperse between gentle brushes of lips. Sam's arms wrap around my waist and my fingers lace around his neck.

I lean back in Sam's hold, "We should get going, Teddy's probably dying for this," I say as I hold up the candy in my fingertips.

"You're right," he presses a soft smooch to the corner of my mouth, "Do you think Eddie is sleeping?"

"Maybe, but probably not."

His lip pouts slightly, "Damn."

He presses on the last kiss to my cheek and we walk away, Harry and Rebecca still indulging in one another. The sting that holds my heart hostage remaining as their silhouettes shrink into obscurity as the distance becomes greater.

Sam's glow illuminates the road ahead, he asks about my upcoming writing contest and tells me of his family's holiday events from the previous week. Henry rested under the tree, his weakened body holding out for the holidays. Buddy barking at on-screen animations and snagging leftover turkey from the counter.

"He just pulled a whole turkey leg straight off the counter," his sweet snicker rings out as we walk below the streetlights.

His candied chuckle muddles his question, "Edward really spit up three times today?"

His soft lips wander around my face as he mutters farewells, "Goodnight Phoebe. See you on Monday for class."

"Mhmm," I pin a kiss to his chin, "Night Sam."

He climbs into his truck and waves as he backs out. His red car flashes down the street and leaves exhaust in its trail. I lean against the pole of the porch, pouring out distressed puffs of air before stepping through the door.

Teddy greets me with a rough hug, "My savior, thank you. You're the best pal a girl could ask for."

"Your candy, my humble friend." I quip.

She tugs the bag from my hand and tugs it open, her hand grasping at the sucre at a rapid rate and tossing it into her mouth.

"Nighty night, Phoebe." She mutters out through her mouth full of candyfloss.