I order a cup of cider and sip, taking it all in, reminding myself that outside this ring of lights there are hit lists and power plays,but inside is just December in New York, and for a few golden minutes, that’s enough.
That calm vanishes the second I spot my guards posted on the street just outside the park.
I’m mid-sip when Trina breezes in from Sixth Avenue, hair bouncing under a cream beret like she just stepped out of a holiday catalog. She spots me, waving so enthusiastically she almost whacks an unsuspecting tourist with her shopping bag.
“Teresa!” She pulls me into a hug, cinnamon and winter jasmine swirling around us. “You look amazing. The Upper East Side clearly agrees with you.”
I laugh. “Amazing is pushing it. I still haven’t figured out how the apartment’s thermostat works. But, yeah, the new digs aren’t bad.” I take another sip of cider, letting the warmth settle.
“Where are you?” she asks.
“I’m on East Seventy-Eighth, between First and York. This amazing little corner Italian place called Al Dente is right near my fire escape.”
“Ooh, Al?Dente,” she says. “Their Cacio e Pepe is sinful. You should try it.”
“Noted.” I nudge her as we start weaving through the stalls. “You always did love a good Italian restaurant.”
“What’s not to love?” she says, then links her arm through mine.
We detour into a booth filled with tiny glass nutcrackers. Trina studies a cobalt-blue one, then switches to a snow-white Santa, eventually buying both because “my tree likes options.” I enjoywatching her haggle with the vendor until eventually the guy gives a baffled shrug and knocks five bucks off each ornament.
We wander past the skating rink, and for a moment I actually feel relaxed. I let the music, the scents, the harmless chaos of kids on skates drown out thoughts of silver-tie shadows and relocation dossiers.
Then I spot him.
Copper-brown hair beneath a gray beanie. Broad shoulders in a bomber jacket. He’s halfway down the row of stalls, in front of the Bavarian gingerbread kiosk, scanning the crowd exactly the way I am.
Jack. My brother. Alive.
My breath catches so hard I nearly choke on it. “Jack?” The name leaves me in a squeak. He lifts his head, eyes locking on mine in recognition, shock, then fear. He turns on a dime, bolting toward the street entrance.
“Jack!” I shout, cider sloshing onto my glove. Without thinking, I shove the cup into Trina’s hands and sprint after him.
Shoppers blur past, an elderly woman yelping as I dodge around her cane. Jack darts between two stalls, nearly colliding with a sugar-cookie vendor, then disappears behind the carousel. I continue to chase, boots slipping on salted pavement, adrenaline burning through my veins.
I round the carousel’s painted horses, but he’s gone, vanished into the city’s maze of lights and skyscrapers.
“Teresa!” Trina calls out. She finds me at the edge of the lawn, breath clouding in little bursts. “Hey, are you okay? Why did you take off like that?”
I scan the crowd, heart hammering. Nothing but strangers in wool coats and hats. “I–I thought I saw Jack.” My voice sounds small against the music and laughter.
“Your brother?”
I nod, too winded to say anything else.
Trina’s expression softens. “It was probably just someone who looks like him. Holiday crowds can do that to the brain.”
I press a trembling hand to my ribs. “No. It was him. I know it.” The words feel weightless the second I say them.
She rubs my upper arm. “You miss him. When I lost my cousin, I swore I saw him in every crowd for months.” She tugs me gently away from the carousel. “Come on, let’s get you something stronger than cider.”
I let her steer me back toward the stalls, my eyes darting toward every man wearing a gray beanie. Maybe she’s right—maybe the stress is painting mirages. But the panic in those eyes looked real. And if Jack is back in New?York, the mess I’m already in just got a whole lot deeper.
We huddle near the heaters with fresh mulled wine, mine untouched because my stomach won’t stop flipping. Trina strokes a mittened thumb over the rim of her cup, waiting for me to speak.
“You’ve never really told me much about your brother,” she says when I stay quiet. “I only met him briefly, back when you and Maxim were first married, before…”
Before all of his problems started. She doesn’t say it, but I know that’s what she’s thinking.
