Ice sculptures line the main street—swans and elk and abstract shapes that look impressive until they start melting around noon. Local vendors set up booths selling hot cider, roasted nuts, and handmade scarves. The whole town shows up, bundled in parkas and ski gear, taking pictures and pretending the cold doesn't hurt.
This year, Gail volunteers our café to run the main beverage station, which leaves me standing behind a folding table at two in the afternoon, serving hot cider to tourists and locals and trying very hard not to think about the fact that tomorrow is day five. Day five of
whatever this is with Santino. Day five of him coming in at seven-twenty-three. Day five of me still not knowing which version of him is real.
The professional one who answered that phone call.
Or the one who held my hand across a table and told me about go-karts.
"Two ciders, please."
I look up. Smile. Pour. Take payment. Make change. Everyone’s so busy with the festivities that I’ve become invisible, and I’m glad it’s so. I like serving, but I like it even more when I don’t have to make small talk while I’m serving. So this right now?
It’s pure bliss, just being the girl behind the counter who serves drinks and doesn't make eye contact and counts cups (forty-seven served so far) to keep herself calm.
"Thea!"
Jolie appears at the table, face pink from cold,Wuthering Heightssomehow tucked into her coat pocket. "You need a break?"
"I'm fine."
"You've been standing here for three hours."
"I'm fine," I say again, pouring another cider.
She studies me with those too-perceptive eyes. "He's here."
My hand stills on the ladle. "What?"
"Santino. He's here. I saw him by the ice sculptures near the park." She pauses. "With Kimberly."
“Oh.”
“I just wanted you to be prepared in case you see them.”
“Thank you.” I go back to pouring cider. “I appreciate it.”Forty-eight cups. Forty-nine.Thank goodness there’s something to count.
Jolie looks like she wants to say something else, but then someone calls her name from
across the street, and she squeezes my shoulder once before disappearing
into the crowd.
My thoughts start to wander even as I continue serving and pouring cup after cup after cup.
I know You’re more than enough, God.
But it still hurts.
If he’s not for me, please give me a sign.
And as soon as I finish praying, that’s when I see them.
Santino’s walking down the main street with Kimberly glued to his side. Literally glued—her hand is wrapped around his arm, her fingers pressed into the dark fabric of his jacket, her body angled toward him like she's claiming territory. She's wearing white again. White coat,
white hat, white everything, coordinated and perfect and expensive-looking in that way that makes me feel like I showed up to a black-tie event in jeans.
And she's talking. Animated. Gesturing with her free hand while the other stays locked on his arm. Introducing him to people they pass—I can see her doing it, see the way she touches his arm possessively every single time like she's proving a point, see the way she laughs at something someone says. That laugh. Bright and perfect and the kind that
