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“Let’s just say it reminds me of Mark.”
As I was lying awake last night—all night—I’d replayed the evening’s events over and over, and made the not-so-pleasant connection between our conversation last week about the kiss between Keira Knightly’s character and the sign guy.
The worst part? I was the one who’d informed Mark that it had been a goodbye kiss.
Little did I know it’d blow up in my face.
She gives me a pitying look. “Sorry to tell you this, but that’s what happens when you tangle with someone you’re that close to. Everything’s going to remind you of him, at least a little bit.”
“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?”
