I scroll through my work emails to find the same three things as yesterday: two project updates on the boutique hotel we are remodeling in Tribeca and one email from the upholsterer to let us know that the fabric came in for the vintage armchairs we sent in for the project’s lobby. Nothing will get done until thenew year, anyway, so really there is no point to even crack open my laptop and reply when I can do it from my phone.
My mom sent a “te vamos a extrañar” text this morning, accompanied by a string of heart emojis and a photo of my sister and her kids at their pool. My sister had her daughter send a voice note, telling me all about how she’s going to be sleeping over in my childhood bedroom for Christmas and how she’s so excited forPapá Noelto bring her the cat she’s been asking for since February.
For as long as I can remember, Christmas meant choosing sides. Matías and I alternated years, but we always made an effort to go back to Argentina to escape the cold. This is my first Christmas single in over a decade. And also my first one not flying home.
I thought I’d be okay with it. I think I actually tried to gaslight myself into thinking I would be okay with it.
But standing here, surrounded by families and couples and people who have somewhere to go, I feel that ache again. The one that starts in my chest and spirals outward until it’s hard to think.
So when Camila picks up after the fourth ring, I almost don’t trust myself to talk.
“So!” she says, bright and cheerful as ever, the glow of Christmas lights behind her. “Wait, you’re at the airport already?”
“Yeah.” My voice sounds flat, even to me. “I’m about to check in.”
She squints at the camera. “You look miserable. Why do you look miserable?”
“Because I’m standing in line at an airport two days before Christmas and going from paradise to a boring apartment,” I dead pan.
“Liar.”
I frown. “What makes you say that?”
“You don’t want to leave.” She grins. “Your face. I can read you like a book. What happened? Tell me everything. Oh god—did you hook up with someone? Please tell me you did.”
I groan. “Camila?—”
“Oh my god, you did!” She gasps delighted. Her husband George appears in the screen behind her, looping his arm around her shoulders and pulling her back into his body. “Youdid!¿Quién es?Is he cute? Is he local?”
“American. Blue eyes. Talks too much.”
“Perfect,” she says immediately. “Stay.”
“What?”
“Stay,” she repeats, enunciating every letter. “You don’t really have to go into work this week. You don’t have to be anywhere. Stay for a few more days.”
“I can’t just?—”
“Yes, you can,” she interrupts. “You’re not flying to Argentina this year. George and I are spending it with my in-laws, and the girls all have plans. Why are you running back to New York to sit in an empty apartment?”
“I wasn’t?—”
“Sol,” she says, softer now. “You’ve spent this entire year being careful. Doing the right thing. Ending a marriage politely and being responsible about everything. You can afford to do something reckless for once. Something just for you.”
The line moves forward. My feet don’t.
I glance at the agent in front of me, at the people heading in every direction, saying goodbye to others, smiling as they disappear behind the security lines into another part of the world. Then I look at the departure board—so many destinations, every reason not to stay—but none of them make sense anymore.
“What would I even do?” I ask quietly.
Camila’s grin softens into something knowing. “Whatever you want.”
She ends the call before I can answer, and leaves me standing there for a long moment, phone warm in my hand, and the noise of the terminal closing in around me.
“Fuck it.”
Then, without thinking, I step out of the line, drag my suitcase in the opposite direction, and head straight for the exit.
