“It never happens that way in real life. Take my parents, for example. They get married, my mom cheats on my dad with her boss, then he gets diagnosed with a central nervous system disease six weeks before Christmas. Show me that Hallmark movie.”
“I’m sorry—” I reach, placing my hand on his arm.
“Don’t,” he says sharply.
I withdraw my hand, and with it, my instinct to play nice. “That movie you described? It exists, just in a different genre. Don’t fault romance movies for not telling the story of your life. That’s not what they’re for, that’s not why they’re made, and that’s not what romance fans want. That’s not a problem with the movie. It’s a problem with your expectations.”
He gives me a sidelong glance as we exit the train. “Call them what they are—fantasy.”
“Not always.” Fitz is living proof that nice guys exist. He’s the guy in the movie, even if I’m not the girl.
“Yes. Always. And I think you agree with me.”
“Why?” I walk faster to keep up with him, stuffing my cold hands into my pockets.
“If you believed in true love and happily-ever-afters, you wouldn’t be so scared to let the guy read your embarrassing declaration of love. As it is, you’re walking down a dirty, frozen street with a near stranger. And you want to tell me I’m the cynic?”
“That’s a lot of assumptions considering you don’t know me. Not to mention big talk for someone moping over his ex.”
“Are you always this bad with directions, or only in New York?” He evades my accusation as we turn the corner and pass the market where I bought bread ingredients all those hours ago. I let it slide.
“There’s not much in the way of public transportation where I’m from,” I say. And then, because I have no sense of self-preservation, I add, “Plus, there’s this app.”
“What app?”
“I didn’t know where to go, so I asked it for directions?” I cringe at the way my voice goes up at the end. I cringe at the fact that I’m telling him this at all.
“Google Maps? I’ve heard of it,” he says dryly.
“Not a directions app.” I roll my eyes. “It’s a—” I press my lips together, regretting this entirely.
He stops in his tracks and turns to me. “A what?”
“A decision-making app.” I speak slowly, choosing my words carefully.
“What the hell is that?”
“Never mind. I’m cold. Let’s go.” We walk in silence the rest of the way home, although he practically has to drag me away from the man selling Christmas trees on the corner.
When we get back to the apartment, his dad and my mom are rinsing takeout Chinese food from their dinner plates. The heavy scent of kung pao makes my mouth water.
“Paige! What happened? Are you okay?” Mom slips her plate into the dishwasher and then crosses the kitchen and pulls me into a tight hug. “Harrison sent Tyson a text, something about you ending up in Brooklyn. I called a dozen times but your phone went straight to voicemail.” She pulls back and holds me at arm’s length.
“I got a little lost, but I’m okay.”
“Are you?” She furrows her brow and inspects my face, probably for mascara tracks or some other sign that I’m in distress.
“I’m fine. Thanks to Harrison,” I say begrudgingly.
“Good.” She hugs me again. “Thank you, Harrison. And you, Paige, are not going out alone again. Understand?” I nod.
When she finally releases me, Tyson instructs Harrison and me to help ourselves to dinner, and he and my mom clear out of the room, leaving me once again with the uncanny impression that I’m going to be spending a lot of time alone this vacation.
We pile our plates high with sticky rice and beef and broccoli. I sit and take a huge bite, relishing the warmth. “I meant what I said to my mom,” I say quietly. “Tonight could have been a total disaster, if it wasn’t for you.” I glance up from my plate to see Harrison shrug off the comment. “Seriously. Thank you.”
He finally meets my gaze, holding eye contact for a beat. I clench my fork tightly, waiting. Anticipating. Finally, he lets out a breath, gives me a quick nod, and stuffs a handful of fortune cookies into his pocket. “See ya later.”
I’m too surprised to respond. It’s not that I think we’re suddenly best friends or anything, but it felt like we’d come to some kind of truce out there. Guess I was wrong. He retreats down the hall, leaving me alone in a sad, dark kitchen with a giant plate of Chinese food.
At least it tastes good.
After I’ve devoured dinner, I rinse my plate, scroll through the pictures Fitz sent while I was out, text him and Clover a quick update, and set out the ingredients for gingerbread. I find a stand mixer in the back of a cupboard and cream together the butter and sugar. The soothing whir of the machine works its way into my brain. My hands fall into the familiar rhythm of measuring, pouring, and mixing, and by the time the bread is sliding into the oven, I’ve almost convinced myself that this trip isn’t the worst decision I’ve ever made.
* * *
“Merry Christmas Eve,” Mom shouts as she cracks the door to Harrison’s room. “Get up! Get showered! Get ready to go!”
“I thought you’d want to stay in?” I sit up, squinting through the muted morning light that slants through the shutters.
“Not today! You’re sweet to be understanding of Tyson, but you and I are spending the day together. Bring your list to breakfast and we’ll map out a plan.”
I stumble into the hall, still jet-lagged and half-asleep, and push open the bathroom door to find Harrison brushing his teeth. He’s shirtless, with skinny joggers slung low on his hips. “Oh! I, uh, didn’t realize—”
He tucks his damp hair behind his ear and spits, then moves over to make space for me in front of the sink. “No worries. You need to brush?”
I nod, because I do need to brush my teeth, but also because I’m not about to say out loud that I also need to pee and shower and put on deodorant and brush my hair and generally become less like a zombie and more like a human.
The bathroom is not big, and as we crowd the sink, I try my very best not to look at Harrison at all, but the only other place to look is in the steamy mirror, and my eyes keep straying from my own reflection to his surprising abs. I wouldn’t have suspected a tall, thin bookworm would have defined ab muscles.
The revelation does unsettling things to my stomach.
“Whatcha looking at?” Harrison smirks.
I tear my gaze from his chest as my cheeks heat. “What’s the tattoo?” I gesture to the black ink over his heart. It’s an intricate, swirly design, but I don’t let myself stare long enough to decipher any of the shapes or symbols.
“Just a thing,” Harrison says maddeningly. He rinses his mouth a final time and brushes behind me to leave.
“What is the point in getting a tattoo if you don’t want to talk about it?” I slam my toothbrush on the counter with more force than I intended.
“It reminds me who I am,” he says. It’s as cryptic and frustrating as ever, but I can’t shake the feeling it might also be the most revealing thing he’s ever said to me.