"Lane? You still there?"
"Sure," I say finally. "That sounds nice. Well, it would just be me, though. Sanders is with his dad."
The wordnicetastes dull on my tongue, but I hold onto it. Nice is safe. Nice doesn't make promises it won't keep.
Nice doesn't break you.
"Bummer, he'll miss it! But I'm thrilled to do it with you. I'll pick you up around six?" Jerry's pleased murmur hums in my ear as I turn down my street.
"Six works."
The comfort of predictability washes over me like static as I pull into my driveway. The Christmas wreath on my front door welcomes me home.
The sea breezewhispers through the palm trees wrapped in twinkling white lights, carrying strands of music across the crowded beach. I grip my jacket tighter around my shoulders, watching families sprawl on blankets and children dart between clusters of people.
The floating Christmas tree, a massive pine mounted on a barge offshore, bobs gently on the waves, its reflection rippling across the dark water.
"Beautiful night," Jerry murmurs beside me.
I nod. It is beautiful. Picture-perfect. The kind of scene that belongs on the town's tourism brochure.
The pier stretches before us, glowing under strings of golden lanterns. Salt and kettle corn mingle in the air, undercut by hints of cinnamon from a nearby vendor.
Jerry stands close enough that his arm brushes mine, his laughter warm and easy when the emcee cracks a joke about beach snowmen.
"Want another hot chocolate? They've got the peppermintkind you like."
"I'm good with this one." I fold my hands tighter around my paper cup, letting the heat seep into my palms.
A group of children in red Santa hats spins near the stage, their faces bright with wonder as fake snow drifts down from hidden machines. Couples sway together, some with eyes closed, some whispering secrets between verses of "Silent Night." Everyone looks so... content.
I try to let the scene soak in, to be present in this moment of small-town Christmas magic. This is what normal feels like. This is what I should want.
Jerry leans closer, his breath warm against my ear. "Your song."
The band transitions into the opening notes of "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas," slow and wistful. I nod, trying to focus on the melody.
But my mind drifts away from the beach, away from Jerry, back to New York. To Rockefeller Center. To Sanders between us, laughing as his blades cut across the ice. To Woody's hands steadying my waist, his fingers warm through my coat. To his eyes finding mine across the rink.
"...and then they said the carolers will—Lane? You with me?"
Jerry's voice fades to background noise. I see only Woody's face when he kissed me in that dim studio hallway, the way his hands trembled slightly against my cheeks.
I feel the unmistakable current that ran between us, electric and alive, nothing like the gentle comfort beside me now.
I force a small smile when Jerry glances over, pretending to listen, pretending to be present.
The song ends. Applause erupts around us, jolting me back to the moment. Jerry turns toward me, his eyes soft in the lantern light.
"It's getting cold. Want to come back to my place? I can start a fire and we can have a glass of wine. Would be a perfect ending to a perfect evening."
For a heartbeat, I almost let myself picture it. Ending the night in a man’s arms, closing out this strange, exhausting week with something simple, something physical, a release of all of this pent-up emotion.
But simple isn’t what's in the stars for me, apparently. I rub Jerry’s arms, pretending it’s just to warm my hands, to convince myself I need physical touch.
"Come back with me?" His voice is gentle, hopeful. He doesn’t press, but I see it, the openness, the quiet want. The Jerry who used to never hesitate now waits for me to decide.
And that’s the problem. He’s exactly what Ishouldwant. But my chest stays tight, my mind a thousand miles away.
