Now? Now I call it the best three months of my life.
Quebec City is in three days. But it doesn't matter anymore.
Because I already have everything I need.
Right here. Right now.
Home.
30
RECEPTION CRASHERS
Eleven days later
HARPER
New Year's Eve. 6:59 PM.
And I'm pretty sure I'm never flying commercial again.
Outside the town car window, Queens is dressed up for the holiday—strings of white lights still draped across brownstone porches from Christmas, inflatable snowmen deflating in front yards, the occasional firecracker already popping in the distance even though midnight is hours away.
The temperature dropped to twenty-three degrees today, and even through the heated car, I can see my breath fogging the glass when I lean too close.
And Victor and I are back after six days in Quebec City and Montreal over the Christmas holiday.
Six blissful days of cobblestone streets slick with ice and snow, French pastries so buttery they left grease stains on the wax paper, and a happiness I once thought was reserved for fairy tales.
We spent Christmas Eve at Fairmont Le Château Frontenac, that castle-looking hotel that dominates Old Quebec's skyline.
Victor had booked a corner suite with views of the river and the old city walls, and we'd spent the evening drinking hot chocolate spiked with Grand Marnier while snow fell outside the massive windows.
The room smelled like cinnamon and wood smoke from the fireplace, the sheets replete with a high-thread-count luxury that made me never want to leave bed.
Christmas Day, we ate our way through a seven-course meal at a tiny restaurant tucked into a stone building that was older than the United States.
Duck confit. Foie gras. Tourtière—a traditional Québécois meat pie, rich with spices and butter—in plentiful amounts, the crust flaking apart on my fork. We drank wine that was worth a car note, and I didn't feel guilty about it for even a second.
The next three days in Montreal were more of the same—bagels from St-Viateur that we ate still warm, the sesame seeds crunchy and sweet. Smoked meat sandwiches from Schwartz's, the meat so tender it fell apart, piled impossibly high on rye bread with yellow mustard. Poutine from a hole-in-the-wall that Victor initially refused to try until I physically put a forkful in his mouth, and then he went back for seconds.
The gravy was dark and rich, the cheese curds squeaky, the fries perfectly crispy underneath all that glorious mess.
We walked through the Plateau Mont-Royal in the freezing cold, our breath making clouds in the air, amongst row houses painted in bright colors, the sound of French conversations spilling out whenever someone opened the door.
It was perfect.
And then we had to come back to reality.
Specifically, we had to come back via a commercial flight that included: a two-hour delay because of "mechanical issues", screaming toddlers, turbulence, and a landing at LaGuardia so rough I'm pretty sure we bounced twice before the wheels actually stuck.
"Never again," I mutter, watching the Queens streets pass by. The neighborhoods are quieter here, away from the main roads—cars parked bumper to bumper, sidewalks shoveled but still icy, the warm glow of windows promising dinner and family. "Next time, it's the company jet or I'm not going."
Victor smiles, still looking far too composed for someone who just survived the flight from hell, raising an eyebrow. Dressed in dark jeans and a slate gray sweater under his wool coat—what he would a “casual look,” he still looks utterly divine.
Dark hair still slightly mussed from the flight, there's a shadow of stubble along his jaw that makes him look ruggedly handsome, and honestly?
It’s unfair.
