Garth's already packing up, all efficiency and zero sentiment. The Hartwell team files out with handshakes and "happy holidays," and then it's just us in this big conference room with Chicago turning into a snow globe outside.
"Good work today," Garth says without looking up from his briefcase.
Good work. Two whole words. That's what I get for fourteen months of basically reading his mind, working eighty-hour weeks, and learning his moods better than I know my own.
"Thank you, Mr. Rhodes." I keep my voice sunny and professional, even though inside I'm a disaster. "Your seven PM flight to Aspen should board on time. I checked the weather an hour ago and—"
"I know. You sent the update." He finally looks at me, and those grey eyes are completely unreadable. "Your flight to Detroit is at seven-fifteen. You should leave now to make it."
I should go. I really should. My mom's probably already at the airport, ready to spend the flight asking why I'm still single and telling me all about cousin Rachel's perfect engagement toher perfect fiancé. But standing here with Garth, even when he's being cold and dismissive, feels better than going home.
Which is so pathetic I can't even think about it.
"I'll send the contracts from the airport," I say, grabbing my stuff—tablet, phone, the giant leather bag I lug everywhere. "Have a good Christmas, Mr. Rhodes."
He nods, already on his phone. Dismissed, as usual.
I make it to the elevator before I let myself sag against the wall. The doors close and I catch my reflection in the polished steel—strawberry blonde hair I spent forty minutes flat-ironing this morning, minimal makeup, the navy blazer I specifically wore because it's structured and hides every curve I've been taught my whole life to be ashamed of.
I look like I have my shit together.
I look like a complete lie.
The elevator drops me in the lobby where there's this massive Christmas tree covered in white lights. There's a kids' choir singing carols in the atrium, their voices all high and sweet on "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas." I stop for just a second to soak it in, this perfect holiday moment that Garth would probably call a waste of time.
Have yourself a merry little Christmas, let your heart be light...
My phone buzzes.
Garth:Flight delays possible due to weather. Check status before leaving.
Of course he thought of that. The man thinks of everything.
I pull up my airline app while pushing through the revolving doors into actual winter. The cold smacks me in the face, and I'm digging for my coat when I see it:
FLIGHT 2847 TO DETROIT - CANCELED
No. No no no.
I refresh the app like maybe it's wrong, maybe—
FLIGHT 2847 TO DETROIT - CANCELED DUE TO WEATHER
I just stand there on Michigan Avenue, watching snow land on my phone screen and melt. Chicago's turning into this perfect winter wonderland around me—the smell of roasting chestnuts from a street vendor, "Silver Bells" playing from someone's car radio, couples walking by with shopping bags full of wrapped presents.
And I'm stuck.
My phone rings. Mom.
"Hi, Mom, I know, I just—"
"Claire, sweetie, the weather's getting worse by the minute. I don’t want you flying in this. Come tomorrow?"
Tomorrow. Christmas Day. I'm blinking back tears which is ridiculous because I'm twenty-four years old and shouldn't be this upset about missing Christmas with my mom, who's just going to criticize my life choices anyway.
"Yeah," I manage. "That's probably smart. Be safe, okay?"
We hang up and I'm alone on Michigan Avenue on Christmas Eve. The irony isn't lost on me—I've spent months pining after a man who barely knows I exist, and now I can't even make it home.
