Lane blinks. “I'm sorry. Did you say 'a suite,' as in one? I thought it was two rooms.”
The clerk smiles apologetically. “Two rooms, correct. But they’re inside one suite. Shared common space, a kitchenette, two bedrooms.”
I exhale slowly, the weight settling between my shoulder blades. “Lane, didn’t you check the reservation?”
Her eyes flash. “Of course I did. Tighe kept saying ‘rooms.’ How was I supposed to know it was a suite?”
The clerk shifts uncomfortably. “We can certainly look for an additional room, sir.” He taps again, his brow furrowing. “Unfortunately, we’re fully booked tonight and tomorrow. Friday, we’ll have openings if you’d like to move then.”
Sanders reappears, clutching a pamphlet about ice skating at Rockefeller Center. “Can we go tonight?!”
"Not right now, Honey," Lane says to Sanders.
I rub the bridge of my nose. “So what am I supposed to do for two nights? Wander the city with my suitcase?”
Immediately, I wish I could take back my sarcastic tone. This isn't his fault.
The receptionist offers a polite smile. “We could try sister properties, but you’d be across town. Or, there are several other hotels within walking distance, if you want to try to contact them to check for vacancies.”
Lane jumps in, her voice calm but firm. “That’s not going to work. We need to stay together, Woody. Carly and her kids will be here, too. Otherwise, we’ll waste half the trip trying to meet up. We’ll make the suite work.” She gestures between us. “I’ll stay with Sanders in one room. You can take the other. Simple.”
Sanders beams, already oblivious to the undercurrent. “Perfect! We’ll be like a real family apartment in New York!”
My jaw tightens at the word family, the misconception everyone but Lane and I seems so eager to believe. I sign the paperwork, and the receptionist slides over two keycards.
Lane gathers them up, her knuckles grazing mine in the exchange. The contact is brief but enough to remind me of everything this arrangement risks. There's already too much closeness, too many reminders of why we didn't work in the first place.
We gather our stuff and head toward the elevators. Nineteenth floor. My stomach is fluttery just from the ride up.
The suite still smells faintly of new carpet and industrial cleaner when Sanders bursts through the door, already rummaging for his gloves. He bounces like a live wire, shouting about skating under the big tree.
He runs to the window and marvels at the view of Times Square. "Look at the cars and all the people. They look so small from here! Can we go ice skating?"
“We just got here,” Lane protests, tugging his jacket out of the suitcase. “Maybe tomorrow?—”
“No way,” I cut in, surprising even myself. “He’s beentalking about this for weeks. Come on. I just Google-mapped it, and it’s a twelve-minute walk from here to Rockefeller Center. Let's just see if we can get in.”
Sanders whoops, and Lane shoots me a look, halfway between exasperation and surrender. But she pulls on her scarf anyway.
By the time we step out into the damp December air, the city hums with an electric buzz. Tiny flakes of white are starting to fall.
Lights drape every tree, horns blare in the distance, and people spill across the sidewalks in holiday waves. Sanders darts ahead, the crowd swallowing his slight frame.
"Sanders, stop. Stay with us, Bud. There are too many people out here for you to be running ahead."
He comes back to us and pulls on Lane's arm. She grips my arm without thinking. I steady her, and for a second, I'm whisked back to ten years ago. Her hand is warm through my clothes, and I'm the anchor. She realizes what she’s done and lets go quickly, but the echo lingers.
At Rockefeller Center, the tree towers above us, glittering with a thousand tiny stars. Sanders gasps audibly. “It’s even bigger than inElf.”
We snake through the holiday crowd, Sanders zigzagging like a pinball between strollers and tourists with shopping bags. The closer we get, the louder it is.
The sounds of skates scraping, music blasting, and vendors hawking hot chocolate are all part of the complete experience. The plaza hums with energy, everyone chasing their own slice of Christmas magic.
At the booth, Sanders is nearly quivering, calling out his shoe size before the attendant even asks. Lane leans over the counter, clarifying with her “mom voice,” while I fish out my wallet andhand over my card.
For once, nobody argues about who pays.
The kid behind the counter slides a stack of scuffed rental skates across. Sanders snatches his pair and plops straight onto the cold concrete to tug them on. Lane groans, “Sanders, you’ll freeze. At least sit on the bench.”
