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GEORGIA

My apartment looks exactly the way I left it when I walk inside, which feels both reassuring and sad. I let my cases fall to the floor as I look around, my throat tight.

Dust dances in the air, illuminated by the winter sun. A book lies abandoned on the coffee table from when I was searching for something to read on the flight to London two weeks ago.

It sounds like my downstairs neighbors are watching a Christmas movie. The volume is turned up a notch too high.

I let out a breath and wheel my cases to my bedroom, but I don’t bother to unpack. I don’t have the energy. Instead, I sit down on the bed and look around.

Everything suddenly feels too small, like I’ve come back to a life that doesn’t quite fit anymore.

Stop feeling sorry for yourself, damn it.

I stand, rolling my neck to iron out the kinks, then head for the kitchen. I’m almost there when I remember.

I have no cream. No coffee. No food in the house at all. Because I wasn’t intending to be here.

I stare at the empty counter for a moment, letting out a low, why-me sigh. Then I grab my coat and slide it on. Apparently, my triumphant return to New York involves emergency grocery shopping on Christmas Eve.

It might be beautifully sunny with blue skies, but the streets of Manhattan are freezing. I pull my scarf tightly around me as I step out of my apartment building, dipping my nose against the wool to shield it from the icy air.

A Salvation Army Santa rings his bell at me as I hurry past. “Sorry, I don’t have any cash,” I mutter.

“I take card,” he yells, waving a square-shaped reader at me.

Shamed, I touch my phone against it, not bothering to check how much I’m donating. I might be feeling sorry for myself, but I know there are people out there dealing with so much worse.

“Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year,” he tells me.

Yeah, well right now I’d settle for getting through the day without crying.

When I turn the corner to the bodega, there are people spilling out of the door. A little old lady is holding a can of cranberry sauce aloft like it’s an offering to the gods.

I’m absolutely not ready for Christmas Eve shopping. I need coffee first. To my delight the café on the corner is open. I rush in, the blast of warm air hitting my face as the door swings shut behind me.

People crowd the tables with paper cups and shopping bags, their cheeks flushed from the cold outside. Someone is laughing loudly in the corner while Mariah Carey floats through the speakers.

I step up to the counter. “A large cappuccino please. Extra chocolate on top if you have it.”

“On it,” the barista says. “What’s your name?”

I take a breath. “Anna,” I say, because I don’t want to be Georgia right now.

I pay with my phone and move to the window to wait for my drink, rubbing my hands together. And for a moment I consider listening to those voicemails. But I don’t.

Because if I hear his voice right now, I might do something stupid.

Like fall for him all over again.

“A large cappuccino for Anna,” the barista calls out.

I rush forward and grab the cup, muttering my thanks as I take the first, heavenly sip.

The scalding liquid burns my tongue.

“Shit,” I mutter. Except it comes out “Theeet.” Just as I’m wondering if there’s any such thing as a tongue transplant, my phone buzzes and Jennifer’s photo appears on the screen.

As much as I don’t want to talk to anybody. If I know my friend, she’s not going to give up calling until I do.