An Ex for Christmas(61)

“Gosh, thanks for that.”

Erika shrugs. “Not gonna lie to you, Byrne, he’s a tough one to get over. I suggest lots of wine, and training for a marathon. Worked for me.”

I wrinkle my nose. “A marathon? What are you, some sort of monster?”

The wine, however . . . I fully intend to get behind that initiative.

“You ready to tell me what happened?” she asks as we finish setting the final table.

“Nope.” I straighten a fork at one of the settings. “I’m not even sure I know what happened.”

She gives my shoulder a sympathetic pat. “Doors open in five. We already have plenty of people to serve food, but the guests always enjoy company. And nobody chats as well as you do.”

I’m not feeling the least bit chatty, but I can fake it. Someone turns on Christmas music. An unfortunate smooth jazz situation that’s got too many loops and variations on the familiar choruses for anyone to properly hum along.

A few minutes later, the first guests arrive.

Haven does this every year, opening up the high school gym to those from the community who’ve fallen on hard times and can’t afford a warm meal. I wish I could say I’ve been more involved in the past, but this is a first for me. However, I usually host the Thanksgiving version, so I know from experience that all these people want is a hot meal and touch of Christmas cheer.

I paste on a smile and make the rounds, complimenting hair, handing out candy canes to kids, wishing they were the dolls and video games that I suspect they really want but won’t get.

I’m pleased to say that with each minute, my spirits lift a bit. Someone changes the music to Nat King Cole’s Christmas album, and though there’s no Christmas tree, someone’s hung twinkle lights from the ceiling and there are wreaths on each table.

There’s also mistletoe in the doorway, and it takes all my self-control not to toss that offending piece of crap out into the snow.

The crowd starts to thin out a bit, and I’ve just begun picking up plates, continuing to chat with the people who linger over coffee and pie, when I feel eyes on me.

My spine tingling with eerie déjà vu, I scan the room, and gasp when I find the source of the gaze.

It’s her.

The woman from the train station in Manhattan is watching me, lifting her plastic cup of apple cider in greeting when our eyes meet.

Her smile is wide and friendly. And that pisses me off.

Dumping the plates into a trash bag, I walk to her table and drop into the chair across from her. “You.”

She smiles wider. “Me.”

“Who are you?”

She merely sips her drink, the smile never fading.

I try again. “How’d you find me?”

Still, nothing but the smile. It’s not quite vacant—I think she knows where she is and who I am—but there’s definitely something . . . otherworldly about her.

“Did you send him?” I ask, leaning forward and touching her hand gently. “Did you send Colin?”

The woman blinks.

“Look, I know you were trying to help, and I’m sure in some version of the future I’m meant to be with Colin, but I feel like I need to tell you . . . I tried to take your advice, I tried to find my ex-boyfriend, and it’s just not the path for me.”

She takes a sip of her cider, then puts it down. “Who’s Colin?”

Ah. Apparently she sees faces but not names. “My college boyfriend. I kind of never got over him, or so I thought. But then he came here, and it was like this perfect fated moment, except it wasn’t perfect at all.”

She takes a bite of pie, unperturbed by my inner turmoil, but I can’t seem to stop babbling.

“I believe you think you saw someone for me, I really do,” I say, trying to break it to her gently. “But while Colin and I are compatible—I mean, he’s a Libra, hello—I don’t love him. I love someone else, and he means so much more to me than any prophecy or vision or destiny . . .”

My voice falters as I realize what I’m saying. Not that I might love Mark. Not that I think I love him. Not that I’m trying to figure things out.

I’ve already figured it out. I figured it out so long ago, I’ve just been an idiot, hiding behind Magic 8 balls and forcing someone else to make the decision for me, because it was easier. Easier to have a fortune cookie tell me my future, because it meant that I couldn’t make mistakes.

“Except I did make one,” I whisper. “I failed to see what’s been in front of me the whole time, and I love him.”

I say it again, louder, the truth of it making me laugh. “I love Mark.”

I see a few people look at me, including Erika, who rolls her eyes from across the room but smiles a little.

I need to find him. Tell him. Win him back.

I stand up and look down at the woman. “You were right about my parents’ anniversary. I’ll give you that. But you were wrong about the love of my life being an ex-boyfriend.”

“I never said that.” Her voice is clear and steady.

I frown. “What? Yes, you did. At the train station, you told me—”

“That you’d already met your one true love. I never said you’d dated him.”

I’m about to tell her I’m not in the mood to bicker over semantics, but then the pieces click into place.