When I emerge from the bathroom, showered and dressed, Harrison is nowhere to be seen, which is fine by me. The last thing I need is to be caught gawking at his chest again. Mom and Tyson are eating breakfast at the table, and I help myself to a plate of pancakes and scrambled eggs.
“Did you bring the list?” Mom asks as she slides a bottle of maple syrup toward me.
I nod and smooth out my list next to my plate. “How many of these do you think we could get done in a day?”
“I’m not sure. Tyson, how long does it take to get from Central Park to Rockefeller Center?”
“Don’t tell me you’re visiting the two most generic, overpopulated, touristy attractions on Christmas Eve,” Harrison says as he steps into the kitchen. I cover the paper with my hands, but he lasers in on it immediately.
“Bad idea?” Mom asks.
“It’ll be crowded,” Tyson says as he adds another pancake to his plate.
“We don’t mind crowds,” Mom says, throwing a smile my way. “We’re here for the whole New York Christmas experience.”
“Great! We’ll all go together,” Tyson says while Harrison rolls his eyes.
“Are you sure you’re feeling up for it?” Mom asks.
“Positive. Harrison, grab some food and lace up your skates. We’re taking these girls to Central Park.”
* * *
As luck would have it, Central Park is embarrassingly close to Harrison’s apartment. As in, no subway needed. As in, if I had turned ninety degrees and walked straight, I would have run smack bang into the park.
I try not to dwell on it.
“Is it everything you thought it’d be?” Harrison deadpans as we stand in front of the enormous, sparkling white rink. Lush pine trees and bare branches dot the land around us, and above the tree line, hulking buildings tower over the park. I love it instantly. The air smells like pine and nutmeg and cloves, like the best loaf of bread I’ve ever baked.
“It’s better,” I breathe reverently, my breath fogging in icy puffs.
The danger of wanting something as much as I want to travel is the possibility of unmet expectations. Ever since the plane touched down yesterday, a growing, shifting, creeping doubt took hold of me, whispering that New York isn’t the magical city I’ve fantasized about for years. Yesterday, it felt dirty and frozen and foreign, leaving me full of regret. Regret for coming here, yes. But also regret for pinning all my hopes and dreams on the idea of something I’ve never experienced.
Yesterday, I was wrong, which means every day before that, I was right. This frozen skating pond in the middle of a bustling metropolis, like a scene lifted directly from one of those Christmas movies Harrison hates, feels like something special. From another world entirely. In this world, I’m different, not doomed to live my entire life in the same city where I was born, watching my best friend fall in and out of love with every girl but me.
“Are you coming?” I ask Harrison. He has skates slung over his shoulders, but he sits on a bench with his back to the pond and pulls out a book. “Of course not,” I answer for him. “Why experience Christmas cheer when you could be reading something stuffy and dull.”
He lifts his book from his lap to reveal the cover of a thick novel with a dragon on the cover. His lip twitches, but he doesn’t say a word. I lean closer, and see two characters riding on the beast’s back. The boy’s up front, in what I assumed is the dragon-steering position, and the girl is behind him, holding an awesomely scary sword.
“Oh.” So maybe it’s not as boring as I assumed. “Well, have fun with your book.”
“Have fun with your skates.”
I wobble onto the ice, smiling at the memory of the year Clover and I became deeply invested in the Winter Olympics. We took turns making Fitz lift us in the air and pretend to be our skating partner. He dropped me, and when my head banged into his mouth, his tooth cut my forehead and left a small scar above my right eyebrow. Closest his mouth is ever gonna get to my face, and it was the exact opposite of romantic.
Mom and I hobble along together while Tyson skates circles around us. “How are you so good at this?” Mom moans as she grabs my hands and we almost topple over each other. I glance at Harrison to see if he’s watching, but he’s focused on a large yellow Labrador that has its head in his lap. He scratches behind the dog’s ear, laughing as the creature licks his face.
“Are you forgetting the years I played ice hockey?” Tyson asks.
“Yes, I am forgetting that,” Mom confirms as we right ourselves.
“Come on, I’ll help you out.” He takes Mom’s hand and gently leads her around the rink.
I circle the rink two more times on my own, soaking in the jingly Christmas tunes and the couples holding hands. It’s tempting to throw myself a solo pity party, but the truth is that everything is festive and lovely, and the cold, fresh air feels like sharp magic in my lungs. Tyson drops Mom off at the side of the rink and goes out on his own, skating quickly past me. I’m about to cheer when he wipes out, clutching his knee as he goes down. Mom and I skate to his side as Harrison races across the rink, beating us there. Tyson groans a bit in pain, but it doesn’t seem serious.
“Dad! Are you hurt?”
“Just my pride.” Tyson smiles. It doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Dad.”
“I’m fine. I had a spasm in my leg, don’t worry about me.” Tyson waves off his son’s concern.
Harrison’s face falls. “I knew this was a stupid idea. Let’s go home.” He reaches out a hand to help his dad up, but Tyson brushes him off and stands on his own.
“I told you, I’m fine. I—” He steps forward and stumbles again, this time grasping Mom’s hand for support. “I’ll go home and rest.”
“I’m coming with you,” Harrison insists.
“No,” his dad says flatly as he exits the rink. He sits carefully on a bench and unties his skates.
“I’m not letting you walk home alone. You’re—”
“I’m fine, Harry. You’ve been moping around the house for two weeks, but you’re finally outside, breathing fresh air. You’ll stay here and enjoy the day with Paige and Tilly.”
Tilly? Matilda Collins hasn’t gone by Tilly since … ever, as far as I know.
“Don’t be silly. I’m coming with you; the kids can stay and have fun,” Mom says. “Is that all right, Paige?”
“Yeah, of course.”
She pulls out her wallet and hands me two twenty-dollar bills and her credit card. “Do not come home until you’ve seen everything on that list. And stay with Harrison so you don’t get lost again.”
“Same goes for you, Harry,” Tyson says.
I mutter an agreement while Harrison mumbles his protests, and two minutes later we’re standing alone but together in the middle of Central Park.
“Give me your list,” he sighs.
“Nah.” I shrug.
“I’m worried about my dad, because he likes to pretend that he’s tough and fine but I know he’s not. Give me the list so we can get this over with.” His eyebrows are pinched together, stress etched in every feature. My heart softens toward him ever so slightly and I hand over the list.