Ten minutes? It didn’t even feel like that long or even more than a minute. She has to be over exaggerating. There’s no way I’ve been standing here staring in the direction Ryatt walked away and nobody thought to bump me before then. But, as I lift my gingerbread watch up, I realize that she isn’t kidding. It’s almost time for the last batch of kids for the day. I turn to walk towards Santa who’s texting on his phone, the elf Ryatt ranted about is doing some weird face gesture towards her camera, and I’m pretty sure I just saw two of my elves kissing under the mistletoe.
My shoulders drop and I give myself one last second to stare over my shoulder, hoping I haven’t imagined a handsome man who asked me on a date. I know Emmeline said something about him, but if I can create that man from my imagination, then I clearly can add in her talking about him.
My feet throb, reminding me of the hours I’ve been on them, as I turn back towards the mess that I’ve now got to clean up. The vein running over my temple thumps as the incoming tension headache makes itself known.
It’s going to be a long few hours and I don’t have time to waste daydreaming about the man who made me believe in Christmas magic again.
By the time I leave work and rush home my anxiety has reached a new peak the longer the seconds tick down towards 6pm.
I’ve gone from convincing myself that my wild imagination and my dreams of becoming a screenwriter have clearly given me the illusion of Ryatt and that he didn’t exist to I’m going on a date with the hottest guy I’ve ever seen, pinch me.
I’ve always debated on exactly why someone like him, if he’s real because I’m still not 100% sold on that, would even want to date me.
My reflection stares back at me as my eyes skim down my large, round breasts to my curves that rival a vase, down to my stretch marks texturing my hip bones. I bet he doesn’t have those on a single inch of his body. He definitely doesn't look at himself in the mirror and see misshapen parts, areas he wished didn’t exist like the large mole below my breast that gives offthird nipple vibes.
I twist my torso to the side, checking the ass that my mother so graciously gave me. Even she has better roundness to hers though. Mine is wide and large, but I don’t have the Kim Kardashian bubble. Nope just hips and an ass that needs size 14 pants to fit over them.
The apartment looks as though the main character of this sitcom is having a mental breakdown and not in the cute, we alllaugh at it way. Nope, this is the tip toe across the floor, check around corners because you’re afraid she’ll jump out at you type.
There’s a pile of rejected sweaters along my couch, a mountain of scarves that could classify as an avalanche, and Chester has claimed my new, white fuzzy earmuffs as his next victim. He’s gnawing on them as if he’s preparing for the great bunny hunt of ‘25.
“Stop it, you little menace,” I groan as I drop down on my bed. I watch the multi color lights from the Christmas tree dance across my ceiling as the two phrases play on repeat for the hundredth time since he walked away.
Bryant Park at 6pm.
You’re already more than enough.
What does that even mean? Who even says this kind of stuff?
I clutch my pillow to my chest, groaning into the fluff as I smash my face into it. “What does someone wear to the hot guys date?”
Chester lets out an annoyed meow. Clearly he’s over my disruption to his evening.
“I’m serious,” I shout as I fling my small reindeer plush at Chester. It hits the back of the couch and Chester looks down at it, unimpressed with my attempt.
I bounce up from the bed, pacing back and forth in front of it. “Do I wear a cute outfit? Leggings and a sweater? Sexy siren? Casual Comfort? What if I fall and he sees my shapewear? I could die and I’ll be a ghost in Target leggings and a thrift store ugly sweater!!”
After fifteen more outfit changes and three mirror pep talks, I finally settle on dark jeans, my warmest cream sweater with tiny red reindeers jumping across the chest, and my bright, red coat—the one that always makes me feel as if I’ve walked out of a winter fashion spread, even though I just ate eight sugar cookies and probably the rest of last week’s cake.
Running my hands down the coat, I twist from side to side in the mirror. “Okay,” I tell myself. “Calm and rational. We are a grown woman going on a normal date. As normal of a date as it can be with a guy who looks as though he was carved from stone and built to be every woman’s fantasy.”
I don’t give myself anymore time to second-guess it. Not that I have the time regardless, well, if I want to be on time, that is. I grab my purse, my keys, and my phone as I glance at Chester. “If I don’t come home tonight, just know I love you, and lasagna is on the countertop for you.”
He blinks, his tail flicking aggressively behind him. I swear he’s judging me, and I’m not sure I want to know what he’s thinking.
Rushing down the stairs, I burst out onto the sidewalk with a mix of excitement and fear coursing through me. The moment my feet touched the sidewalk, the frigid New York air hit me in the face, like the Ghost of Christmas Present reminding me I had been stood up the last time I was this eager for a date. Snowflakes swirl through the glow of the streetlight as I hustle down the sidewalk.
Tonight feels different; the city is different. I don’t know if I’m imagining it or just hoping this date will be something new. But the world almost feels softer, quieter, like the deep breath between snowfalls. The usual chaos seems to have disappeared, only to be replaced with the laughter of friends walking together down the street and somewhere in the distance carolers are singingSilent Night.
My heeled boots click against the sidewalk as I try to dodge each puddle or pile of snow along the way. With my hands shoved deep into my pockets, I pull my shoulders up in the hope of blocking the ice breeze blowing down the road.
Bryant Park is only a few blocks from my apartment, but with each step closer my heart hammers even harder. I can’t decidewhich outcome is worse. Him actually showing up and this whole thing being real? Or him ghosting me like the Ghost of Christmas Past? Each click of my boots makes me feel like the main character, marching towards the pivotal moment of her life. I know I love writing these stories, but I never imagined being part of one.
The moment I turn the corner, I suck in a breath. It’s magical. From the soft yellow lights strung from one pole to the next, to the snow falling in thick flakes down on the couples skating hand-in-hand around the oval rink. There’s a small hot-cocoa stand with an antique sign proclaiming its fresh cocoa for only fifty cents. The soft Christmas lyrics mingle with the laughter coming from the couples. The smell of freshly roasted chestnuts wafts through the air, combining with the smell of the beautiful pine trees coated in snow. It’s picturesque.
As my eyes scan over the scene, that’s when I spot him, leaning against a post watching the couples go by. The breeze ruffles his dark hair, his white scarf peeking out from beneath his coat as he watches the skaters with the same silent, melancholy look he wore outside of Macy’s.
His head snaps in my direction before I can even think to hide behind Mr. Frosty and use him for emotional protection. Shit, why does he have to be so damn beautiful? How am I supposed to stand next to this man and not feel like a sack of rotting potatoes in the process?
