What, you didn't know it was a holiday? Here, excerpted from my NaNoWriMo novel, is the story of the first January 17th.

Matt was making Rosie a mix CD. He assured her the cover art was guaranteed to rock her, but he was concerned the music wouldn’t be obscure enough to impress her. She told him it was fine, she wasn’t a music snob. She didn’t tell him she would be inclined to sleep with it under her pillow no matter what.

He finally presented it to her one night at work before they left together for a co-worker’s going-away party at a nearby restaurant. The cover was a picture of Rosie sitting in front of her computer at work, a thought bubble rising from her head that said, We do not belong here.

“When did you take—oh, I remember…” A couple weeks ago she had caught Matt snapping a picture of her through the cubicle glass, thought it was weird and promptly forgot about it.

“You saw me? Fuck!”

“It’s okay, I had no idea…” Her voice trailed off as she inspected the playlist (printed on a piece of their office letterhead, white-out artfully used for effect) and the back cover (a picture of the view out the front doors of the office). “This is amazing.”

“Yeah?” He was smiling hugely.

“Yeah.”

“What did Matt give you!” Molly yelled from the back of the office. “I want to see!”

Rosie walked back to show Molly and Shelby, who were sitting and chatting at Shelby’s desk. They inspected it closely. “Oh my god, he’s so in love with you,” Shelby pronounced.

“What? No…” said Rosie. She didn’t know what to do about the smile on her face.

“Yeah,” Shelby said.

“Yeah,” said Molly.

The going away party was at a restaurant on the beach, filled with well-coiffed adults in tasteful black clothes, including, oddly, the actor who played Kramer on Seinfeld. Rosie and Matt both ordered the steak frites and shared an appetizer. When the steak arrived, Matt made fun of the way she sprinkled salt on her steak—first she sprinkled the salt into the palm of her hand and then she meted it out with her fingers.

“I can’t see the salt,” she said. “This way I know how much I’m putting on.”

“It still looks ridiculous,” he said.

“I don’t care. I bet my food tastes better.”

After dessert and drinks, they decided to walk on the beach with Greg and Toni, two co-workers who were also ready to leave the party. “Woo woo!” someone yelled as they prepared to walk out together. “A romantic walk on the beach!” Matt, Rosie and Greg rolled their eyes, but Toni, who was in her 30s, single, and prone to turning everything into a sexual innuendo, said, “You know it, baby,” in her gravelly classic-rock-DJ voice. The other three were immediately sorry she was going along.

Out on the beach she was quiet though, and they all kicked off their shoes and socks to walk in the cold sand under the dark sky. Rosie stepped into the frothy water; it was freezing. Everyone had wandered off on their own, contemplating the dark, insistent waves, the sparkling lights of Santa Monica, the occasional lucky stars peeking through the pollution. She looked at Matt’s silhouette and wished for the 398,227th time that he was hers.

The next night, Josh, Matt, Jackson and Rosie decided to go out dancing with the girls who lived in the apartment below Matt and Jackson. Rosie bought a new top for the occasion, a low-cut, striped affair. She had a vague feeling that something was going to happen—there was a familiar bubbling, a volcano waiting to blow. She thought, It’s been over a month.

She went upstairs to help Matt and Jackson with their eyeliner before piling into Josh’s car together, along with two of the girls who lived downstairs. At the club, they all made a beeline for the bar, where Rosie was accosted by the creepy, camera-wielding, fake-gay guy who maintained the club’s website. He posed her against the bar to take a picture. “Lean over…just a little more…wait, just a little—good,” he said as he snapped the picture. “That’ll be a good one.”

Rosie rejoined the group, making a face behind the creepy guy’s back. “How’s your boyfriend?” asked Jackson.

“Shut up,” said Rosie.

It was the club’s three-year anniversary, so the dance floor was more packed than usual and the music was mostly their favorites. After an hour of dancing, they escaped to the patio and squeezed into an empty corner. Matt stood next to Rosie.

“So you like the CD?” he said.

“I love it!” she said.

“Do you really think it’s the best mix you’ve every gotten?” He was leaning toward her, smiling and looking quivery.

“Yes!” she said.

“Yes!” he said, and raised a fist in triumph. “That’s amazing.”

And when they went back inside to dance, as they were wending through the packed crowd, she reached out and took his hand, like she needed it to keep from being separated from the group, like it was a harmless gesture between friends, like it didn’t mean anything.

And his hand was perfect.

And then they danced some more, and she pointed out to him that the projections running on all four walls of the room read HAPPY ANNIVARSAY and they laughed together, hunched over on the dance floor, until their sides ached. “Happy Annivarsay!” one of them would wail, and they would collapse into giggles. She was hysterical, close to the edge, terrified, elated.

And Josh was out on the patio or drinking by the bar or dancing in the other room; she didn’t care.

And after they went outside and shared a cigarette, they walked back in together, Rosie leading the way this time, and Matt put his warm palm on her shoulder, on the exposed area close to her neck, like he needed it to keep from being separated from her, like it was a harmless gesture between friends, like it didn’t mean anything.

And his hand was perfect.

And when the night was over and the club was about to raise the lights, they stood together at a table, sweaty, waiting for the rest of the group, and she knew she had to tell him. Well, this is it, she thought, and touched his arm.