New Year CH 1
To Sigyn Elena Frey, Don’t be strangers. Radiate warmth when he says, “Hello, my name is Loki." Write your name and number on his hand, hon, because you’re one helluva drug, and you want him to get addicted to you fast. This mad love was written in the dying stars, written for you—his Sunlight Girl, this Helen of Troy, this girl he would have drowned for—and that star boy was so much more than just your interlude. He was...still is...your prologue and epilogue, your intro and outro, your beginning and end. “Live fast and die right,” he said a thousand times, for the hard crash was inevitable, even in first gear. He wrote that at the end of a book too, which wasn't an end at all. It was the starting line, and he took you up to sixth in one mere 3.5 second January collision. “Am I worth it, Sig?" Why did he have to ask? How did he not know? Silently, you screamed, "Hell yes, you're worth it, Loki. It's called being present, and presently, I want you to hit the gas!" You should have said it out loud the last time. He needed to hear you to say it, and selfishly, you bailed on him. Everything around you will burn to the ground in April, but chin up, hon. You won’t burn, nor will he. He was made to jump guardrails with you. It goes against your entire worldview, but let him lead for once in your damn life. Don’t let the July hotel hells and September closing bells steal him from you forever. Running west on Prince in October, he'll chase after you, and things will fall apart—you’ll fight, and you’ll both lose. Stars above, “heartbreak” won’t begin to describe it, but don't run from the pain. Soak in it, drown in it because Loki is worth drowning for. He was always worth drowning for. Do not go gently this time, hon. Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Against the dying of another December. Fight to keep that dying star boy alive while he's still within reach—don't let this mad, written in the stars love fade from your present and become lost to your past. Don't erase him from your future. Don't let the months drag on into years that pass by without him. You put in the leg work this time. You run back to him. You'll probably burn your muscles to ashes in the race to catch up to him, but keep running until you're close enough to say these six words to his gorgeous face: ALL MY NEW YEARS ARE YOURS. Signed with extreme regrets, Your future self.
NEW YEAR SAME HABIT
WE’RE JUST STRANGERS
NEW YEAR SAME HABIT CHAPTER ONE
~11:13pm, December 31, 2019~
Sliding awkwardly between dozens of glammed up drunk twenty-somethings and slightly calmer thirty-somethings, Sigyn scowled as she made her way to the lavish bar on the other side of the room. She wanted to throttle Darcy for forcing her, on pain of relentlessly sending sex gifs to her phone during every waking hour of January, to come to this over-crowded, loud New Year’s Eve party at a friend of a…uh…friend’s…swanky new restaurant on West Broadway, just off the corner of Grand Street. Said restaurant— Strange (a little on the nose since it was the guy’s name, come on)—had opened only three days ago, yet already had a six-month waiting list.
Honestly, she did not understand the obsessive need these types had to be members of the social elite in the lower west side (or at least appear to be). The portion sizes here were miniscule and cost as much as a new iPhone, leaving you hungrier (and poorer, obviously) than before you arrived. So, then you end up paying for Thai take out or something on the way home to actually fill your stomach. She needed a salary three times what she made now to “justify” partaking in Manhattan’s foodie culture.
Locking eyes with her supposed best friend, she flashed a fake smile as she approached.
“Hey lady!” Darcy shouted, clearly unsteady on her feet as she pushed up on her toes to hug her neck. Even without the four-inch heels, Sigyn was a couple inches taller than Darcy.
“Wasted already, I see,” Sigyn said, her distinct, lilting God-save-the-Queen! accent a perfect match with the lift of her chin.
“Dude, it’s like 11:30,” Darcy rolled her eyes, “or close to it, I think, so why the hell wouldn’t I be drunk? Been here for hours. Anyway,” she waved a hand absently, then looked her friend up and down, “you are wearing the hell out of that little black mini-dress, Siggy. Ugh, why oh why don’t I have your legs? Is that new?” her eyes shot wide open then, her jaw dropping. “Hold the phone, is that a fucking Saint Laurent?!”
Putting a hand over her eyes, genuinely ashamed, Sigyn nodded slowly. “Cost me more than my goddamn rent. I hate myself. My Visa does too, for the record,” she added, pulling her credit card out of her sleek black wristlet, and tapping the corner of it on the counter.
At least she was getting a ton of air miles out of the overzealous spending, right? And she could at least wear it again, so it wasn’t a complete waste of hard-earned money, like a meal at this place would be. Right? She scoffed under her breath, annoyed that she was trying to defend such an absurd purchase.
Darcy gave her a look, arms crossing. “Listen, if you go depression shopping on Greene Street without me again, I will stab you with those spiked Louis V’s on your feet. Yes, I noticed those too, sweetie. Also, I want to borrow them. Bucky would do the most gloriously vile things to me if he came home and saw me wearing those… only those,” she quipped, biting her lip, and wiggling her eyebrows.
Sigyn sucked in her cheeks, her eyes narrowing to slits. “You just accused your best friend of depression shopping—” she made air quotes with her fingers “—but you think I’d let you borrow them to use as sex heels with your fit boyfriend who would give you the moon if he could?”
Eyes wide, Darcy blinked. “Siggy, that’s not what I—”
“Oh, I’m sure it’s not what you meant,” she snapped, checking that the plunging neckline of her dress was still in place, “I’m sure you didn’t mean to throw your amazing, still perfectly in-tact relationship in my face. I’m sure you’re just cracking jokes or trying to compliment this sinfully-priced, take-out-a-personal-loan-to-pay-for-it strip of fabric.” She was shaking and getting louder by the second. “I’m sure you’re just too drunk to notice I hate this place, because everyone has someone to kiss at midnight but me…” she trailed off, her voice failing her at the sight of Bucky coming up behind Darcy and snaking his arms around her waist.
He must have heard her ranting about kissing at midnight since he had this dreadful pitying expression on his stupidly attractive face, and it made her want to punch him right between his pretty steel blue eyes. She didn’t want his pity, but apparently, she had it now. How fucking embarrassing.
“Hey, Sigyn, let me buy you a drink,” he offered, pulling his wallet from his jacket pocket.
Waving a hand, she shook her head. “Thanks, but I can pay for my own alcohol, Bucky.”
He raised an eyebrow, eyeing the credit card in her hand. “You sure? Sounds like you might have maxed it out already.”
“Bucky!” Darcy turned to smack his arm.
He shrugged one shoulder, most likely about to defend his lack of comedic timing, but Sigyn’s shriek cut him off.
“Forty dollars for one glass of champagne?” she scoffed, her jaw falling to the ground as she squinted at the drink menu on the wall behind the bar. Well for god’s sake, maybe she couldn’t pay for her own alcohol tonight. Unrealistically, she’d hoped it would be an open bar, what with how much cash former neurosurgeon and now fancy restaurateur Stephen Strange was swimming in. Talk about wishful thinking.
“Fine,” she sighed, shoulders slumping as she turned to her best friend’s boyfriend. “I rescind my earlier answer. You may buy me a drink.” Setting her elbow on the counter, she laid her chin on her palm.
Darcy mirrored her, blowing out a breath. “You know I couldn’t let you stay home tonight, right?”
Sigyn gave her a withering look, but Darcy kept talking.
“You would have started binge watching Breaking Bad on Netflix for the thousandth time!”
“So what?” she plucked the champagne flute from Bucky’s hand and took a sip, her face screwing up. Eek— a bit sweet for her taste buds, but whatever. “It’s an amazing show.”
“I know it’s an amazing show!” Darcy shouted, flinging her hands up. “But I had to save you from watching it for sad reasons.”
Since the champagne didn’t exactly have a flavor she wanted to savor, Sigyn swallowed the rest of it in one go. “At least if I had stayed home, I could have made the drink I want for a fraction of the cost of this glorified grape juice.”
Darcy gave her a look. “You mean two gin and tonics, then crying yourself to sleep on your couch in one of Loki’s five hundred-dollar black hoodies big enough to drown in?”
“No, three gin and tonics. Get. It. Right,” Sigyn stared daggers, poking Darcy’s chest with her forefinger.
She looked down at her feet then, knowing it was such a cliche to cling to her ex-boyfriend’s clothes that he didn’t bother to retrieve from her place after their awful break-up in October, but she couldn’t help herself. The fabric was so soft, and it still smelled like him— like woodsmoke and jasmine had somehow mated and spawned a fragrance that made her toes curl. She wrinkled her nose at that thought— fragrances having babies? Well alright then.
“I know you miss him,” Darcy said, squeezing her shoulder, “and I totally get needing time to grieve over the loss of a relationship, but maybe you can take one night off from the self-flagellation. I mean, look at you.” She waved a hand up and down the length of her. “You listen to me, Sigyn Frey, you are a ten, and there are, like, a thousand guys in this room alone who would kill for a shot with you. I’m not saying you need to find a replacement boyfriend, just a quick casual thing for fun. Remember fun? That thing you used to know how to do?”
“Hey, Bucky,” Sigyn called to him, looking around Darcy, ignoring every word out of her mouth, and tapped his shoulder. He turned around, eyes wide and one eyebrow cocked. “Can you hook a girl up with a proper drink? Something with gin, please? Bombay, not house.”
“Yup, I can make that happen,” he nodded with a smile, leaning over the counter, and waving the bartender over. He said something she couldn’t hear then pointed back to her, one finger raised.
Eyes sweeping the room nervously, looking for one person, she tucked her hair behind her ears. In exchange for fifteen percent ownership during the initial fundraising phase back in August, Loki had invested a huge sum of cash in this place as a favor for his old Harvard mate (he’d been in undergrad, and Stephen in med school), so it wouldn’t exactly be a shock if he showed up tonight. And come on, his place, which made her apartment look like a broom closet, was only three measly blocks from here at way-out-of-her-price-range 55 Thompson. She could be there in less than five minutes if she wanted to. And damn, did she want to. She’d chosen this low-cut, leggy dress and sky-high heels, and applied extra jet-black mascara to make her eyes greener and dark red long-lasting lipstick for one reason— she wanted to wow the pants right off him. Literally. She knew that wouldn’t happen though. His silence since the break-up had made that clear. Still…that nagging inkling of hope was in the back of her head.
Still waiting for her drink, and getting more anxious by the second, she pulled her phone out of her clutch, because why wouldn’t she stalk her ex’s Instagram when she had two seconds to spare? His official blue-check account— @LokisWriting —had grown to over three hundred thousand followers over the past four years, but even with his increasing popularity, he rarely posted anything. However, with all his incredibly-good-looking-son-of-a-real-estate-king-and-now-critically-acclaimed-author connections in the lower west side, new pictures of his face (or back) were posted by those connections, with his knowing it or not. Lucky for her (or unlucky, depending on how one viewed the situation), they nearly always tagged him. Just as she tapped on his profile, Darcy snatched her phone away from her and closed the app.
“You haven’t changed your home screen?” Darcy scoffed at the image of Loki standing in Sigyn’s pint-sized kitchen, his head thrown back and laughing with her black cat Sketch wrapped around his leg, literally trying to climb him like a tree.
“Siggy, this is amateur stuff. Break up 101,” she hissed, sliding her thumb up the screen to open the camera. “No wonder you’re still mooning over the guy. You see him every time you use your phone. Which is, like, every eight seconds! Listen to me, you are gonna take a brand-new selfie with me right here, right now. Then you’re gonna post it because you look like you just walked off a Vogue shoot, and there’ll be dudes lining the block for you, both literal and digital, and you’re gonna use it to replace your current, soul-crushing background. Got it?” She turned around, holding the phone up and centering the image with her arm around Sigyn.
She sighed, eyes glazing over while reaching around Darcy to swipe her poison of choice from the counter as soon as the bartender finally set it down. Playing with the small black cocktail straw in the icy tumbler, she waited for Darcy to tilt her shiny “2020” top hat sideways to just the right angle. Sigyn had refused a similar hat when the coat check guy had offered because yeah, she was that much of a new year’s Scrooge. The last quarter of this year had left her hollow.
“God, Siggy, smile,” Darcy said, eyes rolling. “You have the prettiest teeth I have ever seen, and they’re going to absolute waste with you as their owner.”
Forcing a smile that in no way reached her eyes, Sigyn held up her glass in a universal CHEERS! gesture. The smile fell the second Darcy tapped the screen to take the picture, and Sigyn resumed mindlessly stirring her drink. She couldn’t be less interested in posting fake happiness that would only contribute to the growing anxiety of young adults requiring likes by the hundreds for validation of their plastic, self-centered, shiny object, devoid of meaning lives. Darcy slapped her shoulder then, and she looked up.
“Ouch! The hell, Darce?”
Darcy pointed to the photo. “I can literally hear your existential angst in this picture.”
“Using the word ‘literally’ all kinds of wrong, yet again,” Sigyn droned, taking another sip, hoping the alcohol would kick her dopamine levels into overdrive here in the next few moments. “And how one can hear angst simply by looking at a billion colored pixels, I’ll never know.”
“Sigyn!” an excited voice called out from behind her shoulder, cutting off whatever defensive line Darcy was about to throw at her.
She turned to see her favorite colleague Carol with her new wife Val coming toward her, their champagne flutes raised in the air to avoid any unfortunate beverage collisions with other partygoers. She reached for Carol when she was within arm’s reach.
“Look at you beauties, welcome home,” she said, squeezing the woman and kissing her cheek, then repeating the gesture with Val. “I didn’t know you were back from the Alps. How was it?”
Carol laughed, snaking her arm around Val’s waist. “SOOO, I love this woman to death, and she’s a phenomenal horse rider, which we did a little bit of, but… she can’t ski for shit.”
“I feel that deep in my bones,” Darcy nodded, tipping her hat toward Val. “I don’t get the fuss over skiing.”
“What’re you talkin’ about?” Bucky piped up, turning away from a casual conversation with another friend on his other side to give the newlyweds hugs. “Skiing is fun as hell.”
Darcy stuck her tongue out at him. “Yeah, well, some of us aren’t solid muscle Iraq vets with thighs of betrayal that can handle snow like some kind of winter soldier or whatever.” She giggled when he dragged her face up to his and nuzzled her nose, giving her a series of small kisses on her mouth, which quickly accelerated into a GET-A-ROOM! situation when the tongues came out.
Sigyn made a face at their display, her eyes darting around the room for someone else to talk to. Not that she didn’t love Carol and Val, but they still had that honeymoon glow, and no amount of being happy for them— currently idling at 73% —made up for the fact that she felt like a third wheel. That, and Val and Loki went way back, as in, grew up in Oxford together before his father dragged the family (Loki’s older 19-year old brother included) to the states back in 2000. Val made the move thirteen years after that, and had been his literary agent ever since, and it was taking everything in Sigyn to not shake the woman for any information at all about him. She needed distance from Val. Now. Maybe she should excuse herself to the ladies’ room.
“He asked about you last week,” Val spoke suddenly, her voice breaking through Sigyn’s inner despondent, and frankly desperate dialogue.
Chest tightening at the prospect of him still giving a damn about her after nearly three months of radio silence, her eyes snapped up to the woman. She cocked her head sideways, trying to appear nonchalant.
“Yeah?” Keep it cool. “Just generally or…?”
“Texted me on Christmas day,” she answered, far too vaguely for Sigyn’ s liking, while fishing her phone out of her bag, then handed it to Sigyn. “It’s easier to just show you.”
Holding Val’s phone with a shaking hand, Sigyn stared at the screen, her heart racing at just the sight of his name in text.
Loki: Happy Christmas, Val.
Val: It’s MERRY Christmas
Loki: I swear, dating and marrying an American has ruined you.
Val: Loki Odinson. How dare you. You take that back right now
Loki: Jumpers or sweaters?
Val: Sweaters
Loki: FFS. I'm revoking your British card.
Val: Haha. Listen, I love ya, Lo, but since I AM on my honeymoon and all, I’d rather be going down on my wife than texting you about Brit vernacular. Anything else?
Loki: Christ.
Loki: That’s a divine image.
Loki: Maybe we should switch to Facetime.
Val: You are not serious
Loki: Just prop the phone up and mute me.
Val: OMG
Loki: What? You're the one who brought it up.
Loki: In more ways than one.
Val: HAHAHAHAHAHA. Save that world-class charm for the single girls. But let's be real. You are clearly stalling. What’s going on
Val: God, are you writing a goddamn essay over there? You have been typing a response for a thousand years now
Val: Must be something legit
Loki: I’m sorry I left your wedding early without saying goodbye.
Val: Um...that’s fine?
Loki: I feel the need to preface this by saying I am quite aware that it will sound beyond pathetic, but I need to get it off my chest. I saw Sig at the ceremony, and everything else in that room just disappeared. I wanted her, was desperate to get my hands on her, but I wasn't allowed to. I couldn't sit with her and put my arm around her shoulder. I wouldn't get to kiss her or dance with her, and I most certainly would NOT get to pull her into a bathroom stall and fuck her (classy, I know) against the wall like I damn well deserved to, in my mind. It was like a kick to the gut, and I just couldn't handle another second of it. So, I left like a positively insufferable, self-entitled brat. I’m terribly sorry, Val.
Val: *sigh* It’s FINE. I wasn’t mad. I kind of gathered what was going on there. Obviously not those graphic specifics, just generally speaking. But you’re forgiven if that helps.
Loki: I'm relieved to hear that. Thank you.
Val: Of course, Lo. Be sure to tell your mum hi for me when you see her at the family dinner tonight
Loki: Have you seen her since?
Val: Who?
Loki: Sig.
Val: Um...not in person. But Nat posted pics from her and Sam’s Xmas eve party last night. Sigyn was in a few of them.
Loki: Yes, I saw those. Quill had his goddamn arm around her.
Val: He has a girlfriend. There are pics of her all over his profile
Loki: He was still holding my girl.
Val: Shit...Lo...
Val: She’s not your girl anymore
Val: I can’t even begin to describe how much I hate saying that to you
Val: If you’re this torn up about it, CALL HER.
Frowning down at the screen in her hand, Sigyn blinked back tears, her chest aching. He had left it at that. The conversation ended there. He’d left Val on read at 3:47pm on December 25. Handing Val her phone once more, she shrugged and smiled weakly.
“Well, he hasn’t called me. Guess he’s not that torn up about it,” she said, using the words Val had.
Val and Carol exchanged baffled glances with each other. It was Carol who spoke first.
“Both of you are either impossibly prideful or impossibly dense.”
Shaking her head, Sigyn snorted. Carol had hit the nail on the head, though she sure as hell didn’t want to admit that. Honestly, she was having a hard time remembering why she and Loki called it quits. There had been an all-out shouting match. Doors had been slammed. That much, she remembered. Something about him leaving her or maybe it was about him supposedly not giving a damn when their friend Tony died in April? There had been lots of accusations tossed around, and thinking back to that day—October 1, to be precise —not even one of them stood out as being even remotely legitimate for breaking up.
She’d seen him at that early December wedding too, sitting on the other side of the aisle— Val’s side, of course —and a good seven rows back. Despite his tired eyes hinting at a string of sleepless nights, he’d looked fine as hell. With his hair tied back, just neat enough for a nice event while still having an easy-going, effortless feel to it, in his perfectly tailored charcoal grey suit and crisp white shirt, no tie, unbuttoned to just below his collar bones, she would have been all over him if they were still together. Rather, she had avoided him like the plague because she was a coward. It hadn’t been a difficult task to steer clear of him since he’d ducked out right after the ceremony, and now she knew why he had.
Reading Val’s conversation with him felt surreal— like going into another dimension, as ridiculous as that sounded. He’d admitted to looking for her in six-degrees-of-friends-of-friends posts. He wanted to kiss her, to have sex with her in a public bathroom (classy, like he’d said), and heaven knew she would have done it in a heartbeat, but he hadn’t said that he still loved her. That hurt. Bad. Because she was still so in love with him.
Abruptly, she stumbled forward a little as Darcy and Bucky, in all their drunken making out lack of awareness glory, knocked into her back. A bit of her drink sloshed out onto her chest, and she groaned, quickly grabbing a cocktail napkin to soak up the liquid from her exposed skin before it dripped onto the dry clean only fabric of her dress. She would have told them off, but they were still very much attached to each other’s faces, so it wasn’t worth it. Turning to Val and Carol, she mouthed “happy 2020” and clutching her precious gin and tonic to her chest, she walked away.
With no specific destination in mind, she moved through the mass of undulating bodies ringing in the roarin’ 20s with a bang on the make-shift dance floor. Were they all as happy as they looked? Or was it just the alcohol and uppers (for some) and good music? Was anyone else in this socialite-trap-of-a-restaurant just as beaten down and broken as her? Were they hiding behind luxury designer outfits and under-eye concealer? She stopped and tilted her head back, trying to let the heavy bass relax her tight, anxious muscles as it traveled from her heels all the way to her head. This was the part where Loki would have gripped her hips from behind, and she would have slid her hand up into his hair and arched her back, grinding into him, and it would have been heaven on earth because he would have dragged her back to his place, and they would have destroyed his bed frame. She could feel the liquor now, since rather than fall to pieces at the thought of him, she groaned and bit her lip. In her periphery, she saw Darcy shimmy like a total dork across the floor to her.
“Kiki, do you love me—” Darcy sang off key, whipping her hair out of her face and laughing “—are you riding? Say you’ll never ever leave from beside me-”
“Why are you dancing alone? Where’s Bucky?” Sigyn shouted over her tone-deaf friend.
“I’m not alone! I’m dancing with you!” Darcy shouted back. “You know, if you would actually start dancing instead of just standing here like a total weirdo. And Buck is, for all his muscular capability, the worst dancer. Like, super white.”
Sigyn raised an eyebrow. “Um…he is white.”
“Fair point,” Darcy nodded, then squeaked when she almost dropped her glass. “My god, everyone is going all hashtag In My Feelings challenge right here on this floor, and I love it!”
“Minus the moving, driver-less car,” Sigyn pointed out, moving her hips a little, not feeling Darcy’s pep at all.
Letting out an annoyed sigh, Darcy put a hand on her hip. “Why did you come here if you were gonna be such a grump? I mean…I am trying to be a good friend. Trying to cheer you up. For months I’ve tried to get you to talk to me. I still have no clue what happened with you two, and it’s driving me insane to not know because it was so out of left field, but I haven’t nagged you about it. I haven’t asked and asked and asked you to tell me the gritty details because breaking up is shitty enough without having to give the play by play to someone else. But if you won’t open up at all, I can’t help you. Is this…is this because of the whole midnight kiss thing?”
Sigyn set her empty glass on a waiter’s tray as he passed by them, then took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. God, if Darce had any idea why this day was so important…
“Thanks for bringing that up,” she laid the sarcasm on thick. “Really appreciate that.”
Eyes rolling, Darcy held up her hands in surrender. “You win. I’m done. I am not gonna argue with you. It’s New Year’s Eve, and you are sucking all the fun out of it for me. And yeah that sounds heartless and selfish, but this day only comes around once a year, and it is not supposed to be a total downer. If you decide to do something other than mope, I’ll be at the bar with my friends who don’t make me miserable.”
Feeling a pang of regret for “making her friend miserable” but also pissed that Darcy had accused her of moping, as though she was some sort of moody teenager throwing a passive aggressive tantrum, she practically bolted to the restroom, which did not have a line out the door thank god. Setting both hands on the granite counter, she stared at her reflection in the soft vanity lighting. January 1st was almost here, and none of her friends knew the significance of it. Yes, her original plans for today had been to stay home, but now that she was here, she realized just how scared she was to be alone tonight. Not that she needed to wash her hands since she hadn’t used the toilet or anything, but she turned on the faucet and reached for the soap anyway. This end of 2019 love fest that all her friends had in the bag made her want to fall right through the floor, but at least if she was here with them, they would make sure she didn’t fall through the floor. Just as she grabbed a towel to dry her hands, one of her favorite “break up” songs— one that she’d listened to way too much these past three months —came through the overhead sound system. She froze, her running-on-fumes energy to stick around plummeting. The lyrics twisted her stomach painfully.
“I eat my dinner in my bathtub, then I go to sex clubs—”
OH NO.
“And I drank up all my money, dazed and kinda lonely—”
NO NO NO NO NO.
“You’re gone and I gotta stay high all the time, to keep you off my mind. Ooh-ooh, ooh-ooh—”
Exhaling shakily, she covered her now trembling mouth with the back of her hand. Oh god, she was going to crumple to the ground right here in front of all these giddy, care-free, younger, hotter women making duck faces in the mirror while re-applying their already flawless makeup.
“Spend my days locked in a haze, Tryna forget you, baby, I fall back down—”
Vision clouding over, her mind left the room, and she saw an entirely different image:
A smooth, freshly shaven, pale face with stunning bone structure and darkened green eyes hovers over her. Locks of raven hair, just barely too short for the elastic at the nape of his neck, hang down, grazing her cheeks. She sees her hand on his neck, her thumb running along his sharp jawline. The other clings to his shoulder, fingers digging into the hard muscle. He turns his head, catching her thumb between his teeth, then closes his lips over it. Her responding moan is loud enough to drown out the pounding bass from her neighbor’s 4th of July party next door…
Reality came screaming back then, the all too appropriate music in Strange’s ultra-chic ladies’ room breaking through the still fresh and utterly sublime memory.
“Gotta stay high all my life to forget I’m missin’ you—”
She was vaguely aware of someone asking “you okay, hon?” and her muffled answer— “allergies” —then she felt her body gliding toward the door, the clicking of her stilettos on the gleaming marble tiles the only clear indication that she wasn’t a ghost. Head down lest anyone see her red eyes and smudged black eyeliner and ask if she was okay when clearly she was not and wanted to be left the fuck alone, she walked as fast as possible through the crowd, making a beeline for the exit.
She had to get out of here. All these couples— Darcy and Bucky, Val and Carol, Natasha and Sam, who she’d just spotted grinding against each other on the dance floor —only shined a light on her misery. She couldn’t do this. Great beats, sexy designer dresses, numbing alcohol— none of it would bring him back.
After grabbing her black bomber jacket from coat check, she started toward the doors again, yanking the sleeves on as she went. A mere ten steps from her steel framed plate glass salvation, she bumped into a broad, muscular chest. Taking a deep breath, she steadied herself before looking up because— goddammit —she knew exactly who it was, and she was not prepared to talk to him.
“Sigyn?”
His gruff, English-accented voice that reminded her of home sounded pleasantly surprised, and she wanted to smack him for it. Why the hell would he not just say “pardon me” and step aside? Why did he have to be nice? Why did he have to be such a sweetheart— an ever happy puppy greeting you at the door when you return fifteen minutes after you left for work because you forgot your breakfast smoothie on the kitchen counter? If he had a tail, it would be wagging all the time. White knuckling her wristlet, she put on a smile and lifted her chin.
“Hello, Thor,” she said, relieved her voice didn’t sound as weak as she felt as she made reluctant eye contact with her ex-boyfriend’s older brother.
“Hi!” He wrapped her in a tight hug, and she gave him a lifeless pat on the back, stepping away quickly. Running a hand through his short, perfectly mussed dark blond hair, he cleared his throat. “Feels like it’s been ages since I saw you!”
Swallowing the sudden, massive lump in her throat, she merely nodded, choosing not to respond verbally to that hard to accept truth. She was in denial, but she already knew that.
“Heard you were in London?”
Another nod. “Yes, um,” she looked down at her hands, picking at her black nail polish, “I went to see my mum and dad for a bit in November. Everyone here was off for Thanksgiving, which you know…it’s really an American thing anyhow…and I guess I wasn’t feeling, you know,” she paused, chewing her lip, “thankful…for much. Plus, I hate turkey. Erm, eh, the taste of it, I mean. Not the bird. Though someone told me wild ones are pretty vicious, so maybe I would hate them if I met one.”
Rambling at its finest, ladies and gents.
Thor chuckled. “Never took you for a poultry bigot.”
Snorting softly under her breath, she pressed her lips together and mustered the courage to meet his eyes again. They were smiley and warm, as usual. She’d always thought blue was a cool color, but his eyes proved otherwise. He had a heart of gold, and it made her chest ache.
“Jane mentioned you might be here tonight,” he said, pocketing his hands in his simple black slacks. “Darcy tells her everything.”
She rolled her eyes. “Well, they’ve worked together for nearly ten years, and Darcy can’t hold her tongue for anything. Not that it bothers me if Jane knew I would possibly attend this shindig,” she added, motioning to the crowd behind her.
Is Loki here? — she bit the insides of her cheeks so she wouldn’t ask it.
“Speaking of work…how’s the new job going?” Thor asked, eyebrows up.
Her mouth opened and closed a few times, at a loss for words to even that simple question. Thank god it wasn’t the dreaded “how’ve you been” that everyone seemed so hell bent on asking her. She knew it wasn’t malicious on their part, but rather checking in with her, making sure she was eating enough, getting fresh air and sunlight, letting her know she wasn’t invisible to them. Granted there had been that one incident at her gym though, when Amora, who Loki dated five years ago and clearly relished in other people getting their hearts broken, had smiled sweetly and warned her to take it easy with the revenge weight loss because “Loki isn’t into the heroin-chic look, sweetie.”
Fucking bitch.
Back to Thor’s question— how’s the new job going. Pushing her hair behind her ear, she shrugged.
“Can’t complain.”
She might have gone into further detail but conversing with this absolute gem of a man who she’d honestly thought might one day be her brother-in-law, was making it increasingly hard to breathe. The tears were building again, and she wouldn’t be able to hold them back much longer. He must have sensed her anxiety, her need to disappear from the celebrating— from the planet, to be honest —because he took a small step back.
“I know that right now you need the distance,” he said so softly, she barely heard him, “but please don’t stay a stranger, Sigyn.”
He gave her a small, obviously sad smile, and a little wave, then turned away.
Bottom lip quivering, her chest hitched as she watched his impressive six-foot-three frame get smaller and smaller, his blond head shining like a halo under the neon lights. When she couldn’t see him anymore, she looked up at the ceiling, blinking away the burning tears and spun on her heel to leave the overwhelming heat of the packed restaurant.
Once outside, she inhaled deeply, the cold air shocking her senses. Keys in hand, shivering from both the cold and the stabbing pain in her gut after seeing Thor, she hurried up the crowded SoHo sidewalk, sidestepping puddles and the unsteady, tipsier types. God, her feet were not happy with these heels, but at least her building was only a seven-minute walk from here. Twenty or so annoying, but harmless catcalls later, she arrived at the outside doors that led to her small, pre-war one-bedroom, a few floors above a trendy cycling cafe (so weird) and next to a juice bar on Prince Street. The owner of said juice bar saw her just as she was about to push through those glass double doors and drag herself up to her place.
“Hi, Ms. Frey!”
“Hey, Joe,” she said, foot tapping anxiously on the concrete as she leaned back against the elaborate, painted black wood door frame, “and for the hundredth time, please just call me Sigyn.”
“Oh right, yeah,” he chuckled. “You heading in for the night?”
“Um,” she pressed her lips together, looking up at the street numbers—161-159 —painted onto the glass over the doors.
“Sadly, yes,” she blew out a heavy breath. “I know it’s early, but I’m just not feeling it this year.”
He nodded. “I’m right there with you, even though tonight’s been great for business. Well, anyway,” he waved a hand, “get some sleep if you can with all those fireworks and stuff, Sigyn. 2020 will be here tomorrow either way. Nothing wrong with greeting it at 9:00 am instead of midnight.” The second he turned away, she pushed through the heavy doors.
He was right. She knew that. But it didn’t change the fact that she didn’t want to greet New Year’s Day.
At all.
Could she please just wake up on January 2nd instead? She felt like a broken, pathetic shell of a woman, and this night’s incessant revelry and joy only served to magnify it. When the doors closed behind her, saving her from the excitement on the street, she absolutely lost it. Eyes slamming shut, she cried without restraint, sobbing, coughing, and gasping into her the back of her hand. Fingers gripping the wrought iron art nouveau handrail for dear life, she climbed three flights of stairs, just barely aware enough of her surroundings to walk to the correct door— the one with a gold number 8 on it.
Sniffing loudly, she shoved her key angrily into the deadbolt, begging the universe for no one to walk into the hall and see her in this state. She slammed the door shut behind her, locking it forcefully. Shrugging out of her jacket as she stepped around her studio-sized couch and through the open French doors to her bedroom, she saw Sketch curled up in his chair near the radiator under her window. He’d claimed the plush, dark green velvety thing for himself a while ago, and she hadn’t fought him on the matter even though it was supposed to be a spot for her to read. She skirted around her queen-size, swiping a tissue along the way to wipe the snot (ugh) off her nose, then bent down to kiss the top of his head. The buzzing sensation of his purring against her face tickled enough that she backed away, scratching her cheek.
“He wasn’t there, Sketchy boy,” she whispered, picking the 2019 top NYT fiction bestseller up from her pillow. This was her fourth read through, and it wouldn’t be her last. She turned it over, eyes roving over the sample of adoring reviews printed like watermarks over the author’s picture:
“His first novel, 2016’s STARBOY, which hit the shelves in July of that year, wasn’t just well-written, it was SLEEK— as sleek as Odinson’s real life glacier white F-type and Ray Bans. Narrated by a man born with a silver spoon who had no use for it without a lighter, a swab of cotton, and a needle, this starboy reeked of privilege, of sex, of endlessly deep pockets, yet I LIKED him, and considering how massively successful the book was, clearly I wasn’t alone. Fast forward to late 2018, when literary critics are given early access to LOOKING FOR SUNLIGHT, and I am thrilled to say Odinson is no one-hit-wonder. What an absolute knockout.”
-Harper’s Magazine
“How the hell did this man keep putting one foot in front of the other? Forget seeing the forest through the trees— he can’t even see the TREES. The pathos of LOOKING FOR SUNLIGHT is gut-wrenching, and even though my insides are aching, I’m going to read it a thousand times more.”
-The Kenyon Review
“Halfway through LOOKING FOR SUNLIGHT, I slammed it shut to sob into my living room rug. I went through three boxes of tissues to get through the second half. Mind. Blown.”
-The Paris Review
“I am in love. LOOKING FOR SUNLIGHT is a raw, unaffected read, every bit as tall, dark, and handsome as its author.”
-Esquire
“The atmospheric metaphors in Odinson’s sophomore effort LOOKING FOR SUNLIGHT suck the oxygen out of the room, his pain and desperation seeping through the paper with every page turn, of which there are over three hundred, each more beautiful than the one before it.”
-Harvard Review
“In LOOKING FOR SUNLIGHT’S darker moments, of which there are many, I wondered if the heroine was ACTUAL heroin. Presumably Odinson’s muse is a woman rather than a life-ruining opioid, but she is still a dangerous, painfully addicting habit that he cannot quit. Speaking of which, I might be in withdrawal after reading the last line of this stunner twelve hours ago. I am shaking and sweating, my stomach in knots. I need more.”
-The New Yorker
Gingerly turning the book over, Sigyn opened the front hard cover. She flipped through the first few pages to find the one she wanted. Staring at the ink on the nearly empty page, she ran her thumb over the dedication that she’d first read almost a year ago…
~One Year Ago, 8:52am, January 1, 2019~
Returning to Loki’s apartment after going out to grab two coffees with extra espresso shots and breakfast bagels from Ground Support cafe just around the block, Sigyn tossed her keys on the console table in the entryway. She set the drink carrier and piping hot pastry bag down beside them so she could unwind her scarf, then hung it from the stylish coat tree next to the table. It was quiet, so it was fair to assume Loki was still asleep. Keeping her steps as light as possible on the white oak floor, she walked down the front hall and turned the corner into the living room.
She stopped dead in her tracks, eyes popping and jaw dropping when she saw a fresh bouquet of absolutely STUNNING sunrise calla lilies, still wrapped in florist’s brown paper, laid sideways on the coffee table, and propped up in front of them was a crisp, pre-release hardback copy of Loki’s highly-anticipated second novel.
Holy shit. Those had NOT been there when she left. Mouth still hanging open in shock, she dropped their fresh coffees (carefully) and food off on the kitchen island first, then hurried to the table. She all but fell to her knees, leaning in to inhale the flowers, then quickly swiped the book up to get a better look at the cover.
Matte black background with chaotic, unevenly spaced vertical glossy black lines running from top to bottom, which she quickly realized were silhouettes of bare-branched trees, and barely there emerald eyes with all the iridescent complexities of actual irises hiding in the background, just below the embossed, thin gold lettering of the title. A shiver shot up her spine. The cover was hauntingly gorgeous. She would hang it on her wall if she could.
But as perfect as the cover was, it was the black and white, high contrast full-length shot of the author on the back that floored her. He stood facing the camera, but his head was turned sideways, the angle highlighting his to die for profile. Clad in a GQ-worthy leather black jacket and classic white V-neck with dark, perfectly fitted jeans and boots, he gave James Dean a run for his money. One hand was in his back pocket, the other on the top of his head, his fingers threading through his long jet-black tousled hair, obviously halfway through pushing it off his face.
Oh god, was she drooling?
Probably.
Managing to tear her eyes away from the very definition of “bad boy”, she finally opened the book, slowly turning the hot-off-the-press, untouched pages. She stopped breathing when she got to page five, gaping at the simple dedication:
“For my forever dream girl. I’ll never get enough of you.”
Hand over her mouth, she blinked several times. Had he- had he really done that? She rubbed her eyes, wondering if she was seeing things. She wasn’t. Those words were there, printed in a million copies the world over. The entire planet would have access to what amounted to his public profession of love and unwavering hunger for her in a few more weeks, when it was due to hit the shelves and e-bookstores. What the planet could NOT see, however, was his neatly slanted handwriting on the opposite page in her personal copy.
“Oh my god,” she said under her breath, then quietly read aloud the words he’d written only for her.
On new year’s day 2017, I was a 33-year-old loaded gun, a bottle of oxy, a noose around the neck, a razor to the wrist when I rolled out of bed and went for my obsessive must-never-miss-a-day morning run. I was hungover and freezing my ass off. It was drizzling and dreadfully dreary, and the streets were disturbingly empty, save for leftover confetti and discarded, dead Christmas trees that had more life left in them than I did. It was a new year, but I wasn’t a new man— just a man with a few more lines around his eyes, and a bit less hair around his temples. The Weeknd blasted in my ears on repeat at an ungodly decibel, reminding me that I wasn’t the only empty man trying to fill a void with cars instead of love. I wanted to turn around and run back home, but my legs had a mind of their own, dragging me further away, breaking in the new Nikes my father had given me seven days prior in lieu of any affection or affirmation whatsoever for the better part of three decades. I was unhappy, cold as ice, and desperate for a shower, but rather than run home, I took a detour up Greene street, hooked a left onto spring, then rounded the corner onto west Broadway and skidded to a halt, colliding with you as you came flying out of ground support. You shrieked and grabbed my arms because the heel of your boot caught the crack in the sidewalk, and you very nearly fell back onto the café steps. Your hands were still on me, no gloves, short nails painted black, as I yanked my air pods out. I asked, “where’s the fire, darling?” And you laughed so hard. The attraction was off the charts. You felt it. I felt it. We agreed to meet on that corner again the next morning at 8. I bought you a coffee, and we walked every block of Soho twice. I took you to lunch at Fanelli where I finished my plate plus half of yours, and I asked for your number when we left. Rather than take my phone out of my waiting hand to add yourself to my contacts, you took my hand, pulled a pen out of your bag, and wrote your number on my palm, signing your name under it and winking as you sauntered away like a goddamn siren. Fuck, I was done for right then. Mark me down as a head over heels, lovesick fool of a man. You were sunlight breaking through the endless grey. Two years later, you still are. I’m not going anywhere, love. Not unless it’s with you. Here’s to 2019, forever dream girl. All my new years are yours. -Loki Odinson x
With tears stinging her eyes, Sigyn closed the book and held it to her chest. How would she ever be able to repay him for this? Was he even REAL? What kind of man DOES this? Oh god, he was perfect. Flawed…but absolutely, one hundred thousand percent perfect. One hand still hugging her new precious gift, she wiped her eyes with her sleeve. She saw Loki in her periphery then, standing in his bedroom doorway, a hint of a smirk on his face, his hands in the pockets of his sweats.
“I hear it’s pretty good,” he said, his smirk growing.
Pushing to her feet, she ran to him, and his arms opened, wrapping her in a hug that she wanted to last forever.
~11:59pm, December 31, 2019~
Head hanging and breathing shakily, Sigyn let the book drop back onto her pillow, then walked back into her kitchen to pour herself a shot of whatever she had left in her cabinets. There was shouting outside suddenly, and she looked at the clock on the microwave. The countdown was starting. Oh god. Oh god. Oh no. This was actually happening, and she was not ready. She never would have been ready. Not in a million years.
Ten!
Shit. Not yet please.
Nine!
Pulling the skirt of her dress up around her waist, she climbed awkwardly onto the counter to reach her shot glasses on the top shelf.
Eight!
Eyes searching the shelves for the pretty glass bottle of Bombay, she breathed hard. Where the hell was it?
Seven!
Oh no. She scrambled to push dishes and glasses aside.
Six!
NO NO NO NO NO.
Five!
It wasn’t there. She’d forgotten to pick some up from the store yesterday.
Four!
She climbed back down off the counter, landing on shaking legs.
Three!
Her skirt fell back into place, and her knees buckled.
Two!
Loki’s face flashed across her vision, and she slid down to the floor with no care for dirtying up her useless designer “depression” dress.
One!
She hugged her knees against her chest, shaking from head to toe.
Happy New Year!
Fireworks exploded, booming across the city. She heard people singing “Auld Lang Syne” in the streets, and “New York, New York” blasting all the way from Times Square.
All she could do was drop her forehead to her knees and cry silently. She needed Loki. He’d said all his new years were hers, but here she was, only one year later, alone and sobbing on her kitchen floor. This was beyond agonizing.
She barely heard the “ding” of a text message, muffled from inside her bag that she’d tossed onto the counter when she first walked in, but she heard it, nonetheless. It was probably Darcy asking her where the hell she’d gone. Whatever.
It dinged again. She stayed put, no longer crying, just staring ahead.
Another ding. Maybe it was her parents.
And another. No, neither of them texted in quick succession like that.
Another. Any of her friends might be checking in right now, after suddenly noticing her absence.
Another.
Another.
Wait— what if it was…
Eyes widening, she twisted to look up at the small bag over her head. No way in hell was it who she wanted it to be. Slowly, she reached up and pulled her phone out. Heart racing, hand shaking, she chewed her lip. Her stomach was in knots. Exhaling through her mouth, she looked at the screen. It was a group message from Darcy, obviously blind drunk, saying “happy 2020, love you guys so fucking much!” and a selfie of her kissing Bucky’s cheek. Her face fell.
Goddammit, Darce. Talk about tone deaf.
She scrolled through the recipients, looking for one name. Nat, Sam, Bucky, Carol, Val, Jane, Wanda, Sharon, Steve, Thor. No one else. Of course. The lot of them was responding with their own pictures and giddy messages. Well, that explained the incessant dinging. With fresh tears in her eyes, she put her phone on silent, seriously considering throwing it across the room. Then a separate, non-group text lit up her screen:
Loki: Are you awake?
She was on her feet in half a second, stumbling in her sky-high stilettos.
“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, oh my god,” she whispered, gaping at the screen, clinging to it like it was a life raft after falling overboard, her thumbs tapping out an immediate response.
Sigyn: HELL YES
She slapped a hand to her forehead. Shit. Caps lock. Too aggressive!
Loki: ...
Her entire body was shaking, flushing with heat that had her in a sweat. While his anxiety-inducing ellipses taunted her, she hurried the few feet into her bathroom to find a hair tie to get her hair off her neck.
Loki: Are you at home?
Biting her lip hard enough to draw blood, she grabbed a tissue to clean up her eyeliner with one hand and text with the other. He wanted to know if she was home. That could only mean one thing. Right?
Sigyn: I am now. Went to Strange earlier, but I left early.
Loki: ...
Oh god, she might throw up. Good thing she was already near her toilet.
Loki: May I come up?
Her jaw fell to the floor. Did he mean…up the block? Was he at his place? Or was he at the entrance to her building? Would responding that he could come wherever he wanted, especially inside her, be inappropriate?
Sigyn: Wait...are you downstairs?
Loki: Yes.
OH DEAR GOD! This couldn’t be happening, could it? She texted so quickly that it hurt her thumbs.
Sigyn: Are you alone?
Loki: Yes.
Phone in her hand and chest heaving like she’d just stumbled into her place after a 10k run, she crossed her living room and opened her door. The pounding of her heart was loud enough to drown out the fireworks and cheering outside. Heels clicking at a snail’s pace because she was half-convinced that she’d been imagining his texts— that he wasn’t really down there —she walked to the railing and looked over. Oh fuck. Loki was in her building. Three months without him, and now he was here, looking as gorgeous as ever, pacing back and forth across the first-floor entry. He must have heard her because he looked up, his eyes finding hers immediately.
“Please get up here,” she called down to him, voice shaking. His chest looked like it caved in on itself, releasing a breath he’d been holding, and jaw clenching, he ran up the stairs two at a time.
THE NEW YEAR FEVER DREAMS SERIES
A LOKI+SIGYN MODERN AU SERIES
NEW YEAR SAME HABIT CONTINUES IN CHAPTER TWO: HELLO, MY NAME IS LOKI
Visit the New Year Same Habit main page HERE.
Chapter links: 1 We’re Just Strangers 2 Hello, My Name is Loki 3 A Helluva Drug 4 Written in the Dying Stars 5 This Helen of Troy (Worth Drowning For) 6 STARBOY INTERLUDE 7 Live Fast, Die Right (Crashing Hard) 8 It’s Called “Being Present” (Hit the Gas) 9 Burn it to the Ground, Sig. (Just Don’t Burn Me) 10 Hotel Hell, Closing Bell 11 Do Not Go Gently (Run West, Boy) 12 Happy New Year, Love.
CHAPTER ONE FEATURED MUSIC:
“In My Feelings” (clean) by Drake
“Habits (Stay High)“ by Tove Lo
THEME SONGS:
“Starboy” (clean) by The Weeknd ft. Daft Punk (for Loki)
“Forever“ by CHVRCHES (for Sig)
What Readers Have Said
About CH 1 “We’re Just Strangers”
“YES YES YES YES! This is spectacular!!! Eeek!!! I’m obsessed with this already. You had me from the first line. And now I cannot wait for an update!! Loki and sigyn not being together is such a foreign concept and god you write so beautifully! The angst in this is both unbearable and addicting, I just want to keep reading forever and ever.”
-DevilishDoll, on CH 1 “We’re Just Strangers” (AO3)
“Woah…. I got no words, I clicked on your story for my fix of Darcy 😉 and got my mind and my heart blown in return by your portraying of Loki/Sigyn relationship! That’s a beautiful start and the only way it could be better was if I held your story in my hands as a book and could jump directly to the second chapter! I can’t wait to see (read) Loki talk since we have only his writing and one sentence for now. 😊 ❤❤❤”
-Bullla, on CH 1 “We’re Just Strangers” (AO3)
“Oh, I just absolutely love and adore this! I just love, love, love angsty tension where you just KNOW they love each other and are meant to be, but they have to figure out how to get out of their own way. I’ll be at the edge of my seat waiting for an update. I adore the little snippet of Thor – so understanding, so sympathetic, and probably knows that this won’t be the of Loki and Sigyn. I can’t wait for chapter two and seeing the two of them together!”
-OhTheObsessions, on CH 1 “We’re Just Strangers” (AO3)
“Oh my god, Jen!! What is all this?? It’s so so good, really!! Loki is a writer??? He and Sigyn break up for some reason!! NO!! I want them to be happy together, they’re obviously miserable without each other!! They belong together, I really hope they’ll get back together again!! That ending is wonderful!! It is obvious Loki misses her as well!! Cannot wait to read the rest of your story!! Also, I love Loki’s book cover, it is amazingly beautiful!💖💕💓💖”
-Maïté, on CH 1 “We’re Just Strangers” (AO3)
“My god you write the angst so well. My chest is tight and hurts after feeling Sig’s pain secondhand. In my mind Loki and Sigyn NEED to be together to live. Otherwise they are simply existing. (Bucky skis like a winter soldier, LOL! I see what you did there)”
-Ferbette, on CH 1 “We’re Just Strangers” (AO3)
Sigyn’s NYE 2020 new dress. (Saint Laurent, black “crystal embellished v-neck minidress)
Sigyn’s new high heels. (Louis Vuitton, black “2020 call-back pump”)
CHAPTER ONE SOURCE LINKS:
Loki’s apartment (55 Thompson, 8A, New York, NY 10012)*
Sigyn’s apartment (159 Prince Street, #8, New York, NY 10012)*
*Read more about the linked locations in New York on the bonus features page: NYC New Year Dreamscape.
Receive instant notifications directly to your inbox when Jen updates her in-progress works, such as the next chapters of Neon Daydreams and Fearless Immortals in October 2021; we’ll let you know when new short stories and multi-chapter works have been posted as well.* To keep up with our latest news (and to just joke around with us), follow the Jen Eowynir Fiction Admin Team’s Twitter account @LokisWriting (previously Jen’s old personal account). As of June 2021, Jen has a new personal-use Twitter. Both are linked in the icons below, along with her other socials.
🔥Found New Year on AO3, and I literally can’t even. Got emotional whiplash, but it was LEGIT worth it. Had to read it again, and since you said you had your own site, I decided to do the second read-through here. Good GAWD this site is like going into another timeline. Imma call it the “DREAMY AS F**K” timeline. 😍💘