You make the decision to stay home. You have both been asked to countless parties to watch the ball drop and drink with your friends, but you turned them all down. This year was different than the others. This year you’ll be saying hello 2025 with the man who is no longer your boyfriend, no longer your fiancé, but your husband.

At ten o-clock, you settle in on the couch with a bag of chips in your lap, Schlatt wraps his arm around you, and holds a beer in his left hand. Everything is perfect, more perfect than if you had been in Times Square, more perfect than if you had gone to one of those parties.