I nod."Yes."
There's a pause.One of those quiet Christmas pauses where everything is glowing and nothing is quite spoken.
I should say something likewe're just colleaguesorit's nothing.
But I don't.
Because I miss him.
And not just the way you miss someone you kissed in a hotel hallway or laughed with in a race van.
I miss the way he listens.The way he doesn't flinch when I push.The way he looks at me like I'm not ornamental.
But still… I know what comes with being the woman beside a top athlete.
Even now, twenty years later, I see it in my mother's posture.A tiny flicker in her smile when we talk about ski racing.
She used to dream of opening her own clinic.Now she dreams of a ski-free Christmas where everyone shows up.
And I am not the kind of woman who wants to wait at home with a hot meal and a half-tied ribbon in her hair.
Not for anyone.
Not even for Thomas Kern.
My phone buzzes in my lap.
Tom:“Merry Christmas, Kat.Hope your brother did not sing.My father is singing carols now, and it's killing me.”
I smile.
And my heart stutters.The way it always does when he texts.
Damn it.
Because I know better.
I know better than to fall for someone like him.
But hearts… don't always take instructions from heads.
I type back:
Me:“Merry Christmas.Don't insult the carols.Some of us are traditionalists.”
Three dots.Then nothing.
I lock my phone.Slide it into my lap.
My mother refills the wine glasses and lights the last candle.
And somewhere between nostalgia, logic, and longing, I sit still.
Half glowing.
Half bracing for the burn.
***
