Morning After Awkwardness
The morningafter you kiss someone in front of three hundred people apparently comes with its own special brand of awkwardness, especially when that someone is now treating you with the kind of polite professionalism usually reserved for customer service interactions.
“Good morning, Declan,” Holly said when I arrived at the coffee shop for our latest festival planning meeting, her smile bright and completely impersonal. “I’ve already ordered you a coffee—black, no sugar, right?”
Right. Except the fact that she’d remembered my coffee order exactly while delivering it with the emotional warmth of a hotel concierge suggested that last night’s mistletoe kiss had somehow moved us backward rather than forward.
“Thanks,” I said, settling into the seat across from her and trying to read her body language. She was wearing a cream-colored sweater that looked soft and expensive, her hair was pulled back in a sleek ponytail, and she was consulting her color-coded festival checklist with the kind of focused attention that suggested personal conversation was not on today’s agenda.
“So,” Holly said briskly, “we have six days left, and I’ve identified several areas that need immediate attention. The vendor confirmations are complete, but we still need to finalize the volunteer scheduling and coordinate the setup timeline.”
Vendor confirmations. Volunteer scheduling. She was discussing festival logistics like we were business associates who’d never kissed under strategic mistletoe, like I hadn’t spent most of last night replaying the way she’d looked at me in the snow.
“Holly,” I said carefully, “about last night?—”
“Last night was lovely,” she interrupted with the kind of bright efficiency that shut down personal conversation before it could start. “The tree lighting went perfectly, and I think the community really enjoyed the ceremony. Mrs. Peterson said the turnout was the best they’ve had in years.”
The tree lighting. Not the kiss. Not the way we’d ended up tangled together in the snow while the entire town cheered. Just the tree lighting, as if the most significant moment of my recent romantic history was a minor detail in the evening’s community programming.
My phone buzzed with an incoming call, and I glanced at the screen to see the name of the managing partner from my law firm. Perfect timing, as always.
“I need to take this,” I said slowly, my heartbeat reacting badly to the caller ID. “It’s work.”
“Of course,” Holly said, returning to her checklist with obvious relief.
I stepped outside into the crisp morning air, where fresh snow was falling in beautiful flakes that made the whole town look like a Christmas card.
“Declan,” Richard’s voice was brisk and impatient in the way that made my chest tight with anxiety. “We need to discuss your return timeline. The Morrison acquisition is moving faster than expected, and we could use your expertise on the environmental compliance issues.”
The Morrison acquisition. A massive corporate deal that would require eighty-hour weeks, endless document review, and the kind of high-pressure deadline management that had led to my panic attacks in the first place. Six months ago, being asked to lead environmental compliance on a major acquisition would have felt like professional validation. Now it just sounded exhausting.
“I’m still on sabbatical until after the new year,” I reminded him, watching Holly through the coffee shop window as she made notes with her perfectly organized system.
“I understand that, but this is a significant opportunity,” Richard continued. “Partnership track, high-visibility client work, substantial bonus potential. We’re talking about fast-tracking your career in ways that don’t come along often.”
Partnership track. The golden carrot that was supposed to make all the stress and anxiety and sleepless nights worthwhile. The career goal I’d been working toward for years, the reason I’d justified the panic attacks and the complete absence of work-life balance.
“When would you need an answer?” I asked, though what I was really thinking was that six months ago, I would have jumped at this opportunity without hesitation.
“Soon,” Richard said with the kind of vague urgency that meant ‘immediately, but I’m trying to sound reasonable.’ “The client wants to move quickly, and staffing decisions need to be made by the end of the week.”
The end of the week. The week before Christmas. Was this really the life I wanted to lead? But if it wasn’t, what was? Thetiming felt like a test of my priorities, and I wasn’t sure I was ready to figure out what those priorities actually were.
“I’ll get back to you,” I said finally.
“Don’t wait too long,” Richard advised. “Opportunities like this don’t stay on the table indefinitely.”
After I hung up, I stood in the snow for several minutes, trying to process the conversation. The white flakes settled on my shoulders like tiny weights, each one adding to the burden. My chest constricted as if wrapped in invisible bands that tightened with every heartbeat. The crisp winter air turned to cement in my lungs, impossible to pull in or push out. My fingertips tingled, then went numb—not from the cold, but from the familiar cascade of panic flooding my system. I recognized the signals immediately.
I was having a panic attack in the middle of town, outside the coffee shop, while Holly waited inside for me. The quaint storefronts of Main Street blurred at the edges of my vision, their red and green Christmas decorations smearing into a nauseating holiday watercolor. I leaned back against the rough brick wall, feeling each jagged edge press through my wool coat, its cold solidity the only thing keeping me upright as I tried to suck in deep breaths that wouldn’t come. My lungs burned as if I’d inhaled fire instead of the pine-scented December air. An elderly couple in matching plaid scarves slowed their pace to stare, their concerned whispers barely audible over the thundering of my pulse in my ears.
I gave them a smile that probably looked more like a grimace and stumbled back into the coffee shop, the bell above the door jangling accusingly as I entered, aiming mindlessly for the restrooms through a haze of cinnamon-scented steam and concerned glances.
“Declan?” Holly called out, the concern in her voice adding to the anxiety, her cream sweater now just another blurry shape in my tunneling vision.
“Be... right... back...” I wheezed, each word scraping my throat raw as I shoved open the door to the men’s room and practically fell into a stall, my trembling fingers fumbling with the lock.
I sat down on the toilet lid, my hands splayed out on the cubicle walls.
