No, I’m not at all sure I’m ready for this. But I don’t exactly have a choice in the matter, so I open the door. A blast of arctic air fills my lungs as we step outside, pushing out any notions of electricity or sparkling eyes and grounding me in reality.
Reality. The universe in which Fitz was just dumped by the girl he called “the one.”
We crunch across fallen pine needles and up the porch steps. He turns to me. “I lied. You do need to prepare yourself.”
Anxious nerves hit me straight in the gut. “You’re scaring me.”
“You should know that what’s behind this door is overwhelming,” he says with a stone-faced expression.
“Oh no. Which sister? It’s Darcy, isn’t it?” I frown at the remembered image of his oldest sister’s profile picture. She’s all razor-sharp angles and dark, piercing eyes.
“It’s not that.” He takes a steadying breath. “It’s the décor. It’s very … cozy.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“And Christmassy. It’s like the North Pole on steroids.”
“And you thought this would scare me?”
He huffs out a laugh and it transforms into white puffs of air between us. I roll my eyes, shoving him hard in the shoulder, and open the door myself.
Fitz wasn’t wrong. My eyes are drawn to a towering behemoth of a Christmas tree, strung with lights and ribbons and mismatched ornaments. Garlands drape from every wooden banister and stockings are hung from the large stone fireplace. Crackling flames lick the logs inside, and squashy leather sofas strewn with fuzzy blankets beg me to collapse into them. Christmas cheer touches every inch of the cabin, and I’ve never loved a place more.
“I told you.” Fitz’s whispered words tickle my neck, sending electric shocks down my spine. “Stay here where it’s warm. I’ll grab your bags.” He doubles back out the door, and I tentatively move into the room.
A man I recognize as Fitz’s brother-in-law is the first to see me. He feeds a spoon of orange mush to a baby in a high chair and tosses a friendly smile in my direction.
“Molly! You made it!”
The jury is still out on airplanes.
On the one hand, this giant steel contraption is making one of my oldest dreams come true. On the other hand, Ben talks a lot. Too much. He drones on for so long that I want to break up with him. But the thing about airplanes is that you’re stuck. And I hate feeling stuck.
“Well, I guess I can’t stall any longer.” He claps his hands on his thighs before standing up. “Time to face the music.” He nods to me before ambling slowly down the aisle. The plane is about half-empty now. Insert Fitz joke about how he’d consider it half-full.
Gosh. I miss him.
I wanted to bolt from the plane as soon as it touched down on the runway, but it seemed rude to push my way through the aisle when other passengers had connections to make. Plus, my phone is already dead and my charger is in my carry-on bag, which is at the back of the plane. So, I had to wait.
But now Ben is gone and I retrieve my bag from the overhead bin near the bathrooms and then find Mom. “Hey. I’m gonna get off the plane real quick.”
“No, Sweets. There’s not time.”
“I have to make a phone call.”
“They’re boarding soon. They just announced it.”
“I heard the announcement, but I have to charge my phone. It’s important.”
Mom sighs. “Clover will be fine without you for a few hours.”
“I’ll be fast.” I take off, not waiting for an answer. I race down the long tunnel, brushing past boarding passengers, and am stopped at the gate by a frowny employee.
“No running.”
“Seriously?” That cannot be an airport rule. Watch the last ten minutes of any rom-com for proof. But then I remember Mom’s advice not to anger airport employees. “Sorry, it’s just that I need to charge my phone before the plane takes off.”
“You’re going to New York?”
“Yeah.”
“Get back on the plane. It’s leaving soon.”
“I know, but—”
“We’re not holding the plane for you. I’ll lock this door whether you’re here or not.”
“But—”
“Which side do you want to be on?”
I turn with a grumble and trudge down the tunnel, taking my place in line behind the boarding passengers. And lucky me, I once again get the seat by the bathrooms.
* * *
The flight from Atlanta to New York is torture. Why didn’t anyone tell me that airplanes are kind of boring? That they’re small and there’s nothing to eat and the temperature always feels wrong, and you’ll have nothing but time to think about the one thing you don’t want to think about? When we finally touch down in LaGuardia, I’m a sweaty (but also somehow freezing?) anxious mess.
And since I’m at the very last row and everyone is impatient and no one has any sympathy for the complete and total destruction of my life, I’m once again the last person off the plane. And my phone is still dead, and my charger is smashed somewhere in the depths of my carry-on, and Mom is ushering me toward baggage claim, and my phone is dead, and I need to call Fitz and tell him to stay away from that letter but I can’t because MY PHONE IS DEAD.
I sputter out a bunch of protests while Mom retrieves our luggage, but she’s too busy reading subway maps and flagging down taxis and Google Mapping to pay attention. Before I know what’s happening, I’m in the back of a cab.
I rummage through my bag and find my charger, spinning it between my fingers while Mom chatters to the driver about our flight and our first time in New York. The big gray city whizzes by my window. I look up at the buildings, marveling at their size, but I can’t enjoy it, not really, because what if Fitz (or his nephew) is opening my letter right now?
By the time we pull up in front of a redbrick apartment building, I’m a twisted ball of knots, practically turned inside out from stress. “What apartment are they in?” I ask.
“5B.”
“Can I meet you up there?” I want to run ahead and charge my phone ASAP in Tyson’s apartment.
“No. You can stay right here and help me with the bags.”
I growl a frustrated sigh and step out of the cab. My foot lands in a taffy-thick pile of dirty sludge, and I’m soaked up to my ankle. “Gross! What is this?”
Mom steps gently over the muddy brown sludge. “Leftover snow.”
“This is snow?” I shake my foot, wishing I had a bucket of sanitizer to dunk it in. Snow is decidedly less magical than I expected.
“It was snow. Now it’s snirt. Snow plus dirt.” The trunk pops open and I help Mom pull out our luggage, careful to avoid stepping in the mounds of “snirt” piled next to the curb.
We lug our bags up five flights of stairs and stop in front of door 5B. Mom knocks, and a guy answers the door. He has messy brown hair pulled into a low ponytail and a bored expression.
“Harrison! You’re so big now! This is Paige. Do you remember her?”
Harrison sort of grunts in response as Mom and I drag our bags inside. “My dad’s in the other room.” He jerks his thumb down the skinny hallway toward a small living room. Mom heads toward it, but I follow Harrison into the clean but shabby kitchen at the back of the apartment.