We meet in the lobby. It's crowded –packed with people coming in from the night slopes, families with kids returning from dinner and bored middle-aged couples waiting for something extraordinary to happen.

I must say I am mildly to moderately impressed by the boys' attire. Travis has a dark brown maybe tweed suit on with a brown cap and shiny shoes. He smells like mint when he passes me. Nate wears a plain black suit with a fedora. A silver feather is sticking out of his coat pocket. Meg. Alex has a long white swallow-tail coat and top hat. Extra. And then my eyes sweep to Brooks and my heart skips.

He's wearing a deep charcoal suit over a white shirt with black suspenders. His hair is slicked back and parted on the side, sleek against his head. What a mother fuckin' movie star. A 1920s bona fide movie star. I want to die. I think of sitting on top of him last night, on his lips. I'm dizzy just thinking about it –about how fucking lucky I am.

I kiss him once on the lips before leading the group across the foyer. It dawns on me how many people are turning heads to look at us –necks craning at unnatural angles to catch glimpses of decade-inappropriate attire-clad kids.

I wonder how many of them wish they could be us.

The parlor is off the main lounge. It's a smoke filled room, pipe tobacco wafting from the door as we step through. It is cozy and already filled with an array of guests. I notice as I glance around that mostly all of them are dressed like us. Dressed to impress.

Here we are strangers but all so similar.

We're all waiting for the midnight train.

8:02 PM

The woman sitting on the sofa bed beside the bar is legit the most elegant image I've ever seen: She's in her 50s maybe, hair curled and pinned against her head. She's got striking red lips and a strand of pearls pleasantly strangling her neck. An opera-length cigarette holder resting between her fingers. Seeping mystique. This isn't her first go at fin de l'année.

She hardly looks when we pass. Can't blame her. We are nothing compared to her. A man joins her, dressed in white with a walking cane and pocket watch. Some of the older men's eyes flash toward us when we walk to the bar. Can't blame them either. We must look too young to be here. Out of place.

Do we? Looking at us, I would believe we were as rich and boujee as the rest of them. Maybe we don't look out of place at all.

"We have time for a drink, right?" Travis asks, walking up to the bar.

"Sure do!" Trix answers.

I take a seat on a high barstool. Brooks stays close to my side. I feel his hand brush against my bare leg, lingering too long. But not long enough. I tilt my head back to see him behind me. He smiles and plants a tiny kiss on my forehead.

"Enough you two," Alex rolls his eyes.

"Seriously, you guys are too much. Look at you," Travis nods.

"You two look like Jay and Daisy." Meg laughs.

"That," I say, taking my glass from Travis. "Is the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

"It's true," Nate says.

"Wow, Nate. You actually got that reference?" Brooks nudges him.

"OK. OK. Behave." Travis finishes handing out the tiny shot glasses filled with amber liquid. Scotch or brandy no doubt.

If we're gonna be boujee, may as well make it an all-night thing.

"To tonight," Travis raises his glass. We all follow suit.

"To Emmy's dad!" Meg laughs.

"To all the champagne we will drink tonight," I smirk.

"To the roaring 20s," Brooks says, his voice like velvet. "May these next 10 be as wild as the last."

"Here, here!" Katie giggles.

We all cheers.

#RoarResponsibly

8:17 PM

A man enters the room, dressed in a black suit with a maroon long-tail coat and black top hat with a matching mustache.

"Ladies and Gentlemen of fin de l'année. This way." He steps through the door.

We enter the night. Fuck it's cold. I'm regretting this barely-there dress and absolutely useless shawl draped around my shoulders. The air pierces my lungs and I'm pissed Travis didn't make us all do more shots.

We file in a single line behind the usher, behind the classy AF 50-something lady and the dozen other party goers. There's a slight decline to the left of the front parking lot. A narrow trail leads between two trees then winds out of sight. I duck under the tree and follow the lady I hope to be one day. Brooks remains close behind me.

After three minutes of descending, we level out on a flat cobblestone platform of sorts that overlooks another track. There's a small sign hanging on a post near the railing 'TRAIN'.

We here!

We gather around, waiting, laughing, and talking in hushed tones –none of us wanting to break the air of mystery right now.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, the Express will collect the guests of the valley. There are four stops to make before we arrive at the Château Rosé." He looks at all of us in turn. "There will be several drop-offs. Please refer to the number on your card for your drop-off location."

I look at the tiny number 3 neatly etched on my invitation.

"Please, make yourself comfortable." He gestures behind him.

Just then, like materializing from air, or at least a very thick fog, a grand black steam engine rolls to a stop at the platform. The train is only three cars long. Each one is deep charcoal outlined with ornate gold. Holy shit. This is some real Hogwarts Express magic going on right now.

There are "oohs" and "ahhs" from those of us who are very clearly experiencing this for the first time. Not ashamed. It's magical as shit. It's what everyone secretly wishes was their daily life, or at least NYE tradition.

OK.

In honor of the night and the fact that it's NYE (Yes, I know they're the same thing) I am going to go all out here. Be fancy. Paint you an insanely detailed and Louvre-worthy canvas.

Here goes.

Leaving the ambient glow of the train behind, we step down to the platform and are greeted by two lampposts guarding the entrance to a quaint cobbled stone walk. The narrow path leads straight into a thin cluster of wooded pines. It is an empty and desolate scene, but still inviting and intriguing. Our party shares glances stolen in the crisp night, the warm air of our breath catching in the small space between us as we stand huddled. We are as clustered as the pines though we would not dare to compete with their majesty.

I set across the cobblestones, past the oil lamps, and under the cover of the forest. We draw our cocoon fur wraps around us, securing our bare skin against the harsh reality of tonight. Iron lampposts outline each block on the pathway, alternating sides mark each block we've traveled. After ten minutes the pathway stops and the lampposts are replaced by a wide archway outlined in white lights. I study their globe-like shape and copper wire centers flickering an eerie incandescent glow. If I hadn't known better, I'd believe these were the first strand bulbs ever created.

We enter through the archway and find the narrow lane winds to the right. We walk one block before the forest thins out and we enter a vast clearing. The moon reflects off the sweeping space below; the light casts its feeble attempt to compete with the floating city of stars. Regaining my own attention, I examine the rest of the landscape. My heart flutters as fast as my eyes blink, both unsure of the sight before me.

The clearing is a junction, a wide circular piece of land at the base of a modest incline. It is a crossroads, with at least seven separate lanes just like ours emptying into the clearing.

Each crowd of partygoers is as eager as the next. I sneak my arm under my fur and find Brooks's as we walk to the narrow gate at the base of the hill. Watching eyes reflect the awe we feel. Before us is a sight unlike any other.