**
It's freezing out. Plenty cold enough that you could've worn that cute knitted hat with the ear flaps - the one that makes you look like a really adorable Eskimo. But, the again, you don't want to randomly show up at the Howard's doorstep the night after Christmas with hat hair, so your ears will just have to suffer.

When Ryan's mom answers the door she fawns all over you - your pretty fucking great with Moms, naturally - and tells you that Ryan's in the basement. She has to show you where the door is though, because you've only been to his parent's house maybe twice, and both of those times you had more or less tricked him into bringing you there, so they weren't really extensive visits.

The steps to the basement creak under your shoes (thank God you didn't wear the heels you had picked out - talk about a death trap) and Ryan yells up something about how - not to worry, Mom - he already moved the laundry over to the dryer.

"Kelly. Hey." He's looking at you from the couch in his ratty old sweatpants and at least three (no, four) days of beard on his face. "Want to sit down?"

You sit at the opposite end of the only couch and hold out a gift bag that has about a foot of sparkly curled ribbon tied onto the handle. "Merry Christmas."

He takes it gently and with both hands, looking down into the top of the bag. "What is it?"

"Um, that's kind of the whole point of a present, stupid," you roll your eyes, still smiling though, despite yourself. He's the worst at getting presents.

He starts pulling at the ribbon, piece by piece, taking the most excruciating amount of time imaginable. If it was like before, and if you'd been sitting closer, you might have pinched his side to tell him to hurry up, because this is your favorite part too, so get on with it already, Ryan.

When he finally gets past the curls his mouth twists into a smile, one of those small ones that only you would notice because you just know his face that well. He pulls out one of the plastic tubes of candy-cane caramel popcorn (the kind he loves) and twists off the top.

"Thanks, Kel," he says and shoves a chunk that's practically the size of his own head into his mouth. "You remembered."

"Well, I felt bad," you say just like you had rehearsed. "You got me that CD and I didn't think to get you anything."

"It's perfect," he says, like perfect is his new go-to manipulation word. Too bad for him you're tougher than you were two years ago, back when you were young and stupid. That and you listened to Beyonce the entire ride over here. "Want a beer?"

You should say no, because drinking plus Ryan usually equals Kelly making bad decisions, but you nod instead because you can't make it look like you're afraid to drink with him just because of what might happen. It's just this endless, annoying little game, but it's one you're planning on winning this time.

"Sorry that I don't have anything else," he apologizes, handing you a bottle from the mini-fridge at his feet. "I wasn't exactly expecting company."

"Yeah, I can tell," you sneer a little, looking around the crummy basement. There's an unmade bed against one of the other walls and a pile of Ryan's New York apartment stuff just piled and forgotten in a dark corner.

"At least I tried to make it a little festive, so, points for effort?" He motions to a lonely string of white Christmas lights that's tacked onto the wall behind the couch, providing most of the light in the room except for what's coming from the muted television. It's maybe the most depressing of all the depressing things in here.

You should leave, but then Ryan's handing over the remote like he always used to and so you flip over to MTV automatically and settle into the couch, nursing a beer that's not even a light.

"Does Paris Hilton really need a television show to make friends?" he scoffs, but doesn't ask to change it.

You can see his bare toes poking out from the bottoms of his sweatpants and it's weird - you haven't seen him without some shiny tie on in a while. Well, not since you tried to give him those dance lessons he won at the auction. The time when he'd tried to kiss you, leaving you with no choice but to slap him and storm out, like a true professional.

Whatever, even with all of your expertise it isn't like Ryan ever would have been able to Soulja Boy his way out of a paper bag.

"Finding a BFF is tough. She probably just doesn't want another Nicole Richie fiasco."

"Oh yeah? Who's your BFF then?" Ryan asks, his eyebrows raised in your general direction. He says it like B. F. F., the way he would have before he went from being a sarcastic asshole to being an insincere bastard. Actually, it's weirding you out a little that he hasn't used his corporate voice tonight. Like maybe you caught him off-guard, or that he's just too sad, or something.

"Darryl," you say automatically. His face surrenders, his eyes acknowledging your obvious win on that one. Even though you and Darryl broke up, which you haven't actually told him yet. But you'll probably be getting back together anyway, so what's the point in that?

You watch about half of the show without much talking, but then at some point you accidentally look over at him and he's looking back at you and then you get that tug in your stomach, the one that happens right below the belly button and is strong enough that you can't really ignore it without feeling like you might accidentally throw up.

He stretches out his arm and puts his hand on top of yours, tugging you gently towards him. It's almost like you don't have a choice in the matter, the way your whole body practically floats over to his side of the couch, fitting all of yourself into that old spot you used to love, the one right between his chest and his shoulder. He smells like the deodorant you like and the cotton of his white shirt is soft and warm on your cheek.

You keep your eyes trained on the television, even though you've seen this one already and even though Ryan's hand is stroking your hair real slow. Somehow that combined with the loud hum of the dryer makes you feel like this is it, like you're hitting rock bottom with him all over again. Like all these past few months have been for nothing all because it's sort-of Christmas and you just plain miss him. Nothing with him is ever fair.

It's just that loving him was exhausting, but, as it turns out, not loving him is just as exhausting. And since you're not sure which one tends to make you less miserable, you end up just bouncing back and forth between the two options with no end in sight. If he hadn't dumped you in five words and on film (which, if we're being honest, is basically akin to leaving you alone on a helipad en route to Tuscany) you might be able to forgive yourself for winding up here again.

You lift your head to look at him, to tell him off the way that you should be telling him off from now until eternity. Your one cheek is flushed with the warmth from his body and when you do look up he smiles and kisses your forehead real lightly. The hair on his chin is scratchy and rough on your skin and you wonder if he'd shave if you asked him to.

At this point, he'd probably even let you do it for him, the way you always used to ask to do because of that one scene in Dawson's Creek. He'd always said no because he was afraid you'd accidentally cut his jugular or something, but he'd probably let you now if you asked. You really shouldn't do that though, because if you start thinking of Ryan Howard as your Pacey Witter then you'll end up just going ahead and kissing him anyway, and that isn't good for anybody. Especially not for you.

"What's wrong?" he asks, and you realize that you've basically been staring at him for minutes now, trying to convince yourself that you don't love him and never did. Because you can't love someone who so obviously never loved you back.

"Nothing," you answer, but it comes out kind of weird and chirpy. "I should just probably get going."

"If I kiss you are you going to slap me again?" he smirks, and your faces are so close that you're practically kissing already.

"Why do you want to kiss me, Ryan? You don't even like me."

He looks down then so that all you can see are his dark eyelashes and starts with In New York..., so you know some stupid overblown bullshit story is probably going to follow.

"In New York I got in way over my head," he says, his voice all quiet and low. "But when I thought about you, it always helped."

"And I'm supposed to believe that?" you ask, but it sounds kind of bitchy when it comes out. Even though none of this is your fault to begin with and these are the kinds of things you should be saying to him.

"I go to these... addiction meetings. Uh, we're supposed to bring someone along that we hurt, but I didn't really hurt anyone while I was using except for myself because I... didn't really have anyone in New York to begin with."

He looks up at you, still close enough that you can practically feel the blue in his eyes when he does. "I thought maybe you could come though," he says. "Since I've basically been hurting you a lot longer than that."

You tell him you'll go because he just looks so sad, and because you'd rather do just about anything than think of him as a depressed, lonely, drug addict living in his Mom's basement - because then what does that make you? The even more pathetic girl that's maybe still in love with the depressed lonely drug addict who lives in his Mom's gross basement?

When you kiss him on his stupid stubbly cheek he tightens his arms and just holds you like that for a while.

At work on Monday Michael throws a preemptive New Year's celebration and when the countdown ends you drink sparkling cider and let him kiss you in front of everybody. And even though you're smiling like crazy afterwards, it still feels kind of like giving up, like you're handing over the white flag yet again. You'll just try not to worry about that until the next time he breaks your heart.

**