An Ex for Christmas(57)

When she straightens, she runs a nervous hand over her hair. “Look, Kelly, I really owe you an apology for the other day. I was jealous and I overstepped—”

“Ten years,” I interrupt.

She blinks. “Huh?”

I nod toward the still-gossiping teens. “Ten years. That’s how long it’ll take her and best friend to hook up.”

“No way,” Erika says, shaking her head. “I say two months. It only took you and Mark ten years because . . .”

“Because why?” I ask when she doesn’t continue, because I’m a little desperate for the answer.

She gives a puzzled smile and tilts her head. “You okay?”

If you’d have asked who’d be the first person I’d tell about my newly discovered feelings for Mark, I’d never ever had said Erika Simmons.

And yet I feel if I don’t tell someone it’ll burst out of me, and . . .

“I think I’m in love with Mark,” I say.

Her eyes go wide for a second, then she reaches down for her flask. “Merry freaking Christmas to me.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, already regretting my outburst. “I know you care about him and were hoping—”

She waves a hand as she takes a sip. “It’s okay. It’s better, really. For a while there I hoped maybe he would forgive me, but it wasn’t going to work out anyway. For starters, the new restaurant will keep him plenty busy in the city, and—”

My world goes perfectly silent with only the buzzing of my ears for a moment.

I hold up a hand. “What? Sorry, what?”

Her expression is really baffled now. “Cedar and Salt is expanding to New York. He just bought a little place down in the Village. He didn’t tell you?”

I open my mouth, then shut it again, managing to shake my head, although it still doesn’t clear the cobwebs.

“That can’t be right. How much whiskey sour have you had?” She laughs, but it’s not unkind. “Obviously you need a bit more. He didn’t tell you?”

“I—No. He didn’t. You’re sure?”

She shrugs. “Pretty sure. It’s why he’s hired a new head chef, and why he’s been so extra scowly all the time. His stress level’s been through the roof.”

“Places!” booms the voice of Ken Prismill, Haven’s go-to Santa for the past ten years. “We move out in five!” He lowers his voice slightly. “Kelly, good to see you, dear.”

I try to manage a wave, but my hand only gets as far as my forehead as I rub at the sudden dizziness. Mark’s opening a restaurant in New York?

And he didn’t tell me?

Best friend my ass. Best friends tell each other these things. Where will he be living? What about his house here? What about Rigby? What about—us?

The panic claws at my throat now, and Erika places an alarmed hand on my arm. “You okay?”

“Yeah. No. I don’t know.”

“Take a deep breath,” Erika says. “Maybe he just didn’t want to tell you until he has the details. Or maybe he was trying to surprise you. You guys will be closer now, right?”

Physically? Sure. Emotionally? I have no freaking idea. Here I am falling in love with the guy, and he’s making the biggest move of his career and not telling me about it?

I let Erika maneuver me over to the side of the float. I listen to Santa and Mrs. Claus tell me how I’m to drop the mini candy canes to the crowd, not fling them.

I nod, I smile, I even manage a laugh when I see that Ken’s dressed his new puppy as Rudolph and set him at the head of the float.

Inside, though, I’m a mess.

I barely register when the float starts to move. I hand out candy canes, I wave, I smile, I sing along with “Jingle Bells,” but all the time I’m trying to figure out why he wouldn’t mention it.

Like most of the town, the parade’s always a Christmas highlight for me, but this year I barely register it. All I want is to get out of this too-tight elf costume, put on sweats, snuggle my dog, and maybe yell at my best friend.

I don’t see Mark in the crowd, but then I don’t really see anyone, courtesy of the fact that my eyes keep watering.

I know. Go ahead and say it. I’m a hot mess.

After what seems like days, the misery finally ends. Santa ho-ho-hos until the float finally, mercifully, comes to a stop at the end of the route.

Every year there’s a makeshift photo studio set up at the end of the parade line, where kids can make last-minute requests to Santa, pet Rudolph, et cetera, so my job’s not quite done yet.

We’re met by a cheerful mob, most wanting selfies with Santa, although there are a few demands for us elves as well.

Even as I smile for camera after camera, I keep an eye on the crowd for Mark. I don’t know what I’m going to say when I see him.

Why didn’t you tell me about the new restaurant? And by the way, I love you. Yeah, that should go over great.

The crowd starts to thin out a bit, and I do another quick scan, wondering where Mark is—

Wait, what?

I swing my gaze backward. I could have sworn I saw . . .

I go perfectly still when I see the man standing off to the side near the photo table where the high school yearbook staff manages the Santa photos.

It’s not . . . it can’t be . . .