A Christmas Caroline by Camilla Isley
Twenty-two
Happy New Year
My heart stops and I have to make an effort to swallow. I stare at the date in the picture. It was taken three years ago and the woman is tagged as Sylvie Dassault. I click on her name with my heart in my throat and enlarge her profile picture. She’s a gorgeous brunette with blue eyes and a warm smile. In the photo, she looks tired but happy as she sits in a hospital bed with a baby in her arms. I can’t see the baby’s face and can’t gauge if he or she bears any resemblance to Sam.
Adrenaline must prevent me from fainting on the spot as I scroll to her relationship status.
Married.
It doesn’t say to whom or since when.
As cold sweat clams my palms, my back, and my forehead, I browse through her—thankfully non-private—profile and collapse with relief when a shot of her appears standing next to a handsome man with salt and pepper hair as they cradle a newborn baby in their arms. The man is a regular on her profile with pictures of them on vacations, at restaurants, and wedding shots.
Oh, thank goodness.
My anxiety returns to bearable levels. And my heart quiets down even further as I delve further into her timeline and find a relationship status change: Sylvie Dassault is no longer in a relationship with Sam Crawley.
I keep scrolling back to the time they were a couple.
Sylvie is the kind of person who posts everything on Facebook and never deletes a thing. Her profile is a lot more forthcoming in the stalking of my ex. I’m treated to shot after shot of their two years together. Again, comprising vacations, dinners out, long, romantic walks, even a bed selfie that makes me gag. I keep going until I find the writing Sylvie Dassault is in a relationship with Sam Crawley. And then scroll further to when Sylvie’s posts portrayed her partying around Manhattan with her girlfriends.
I go back to the pictures of her and Sam together, but they’re so sickening I shut the laptop and throw it to the side. I chew on my fingertips. So far I’ve only proved Sam is no longer in a relationship with Sylvie. But what about the other hundreds of thousands of single women in Manhattan?
On my phone, I pull up his Instagram profile. The first photo is an invitation to the grand opening of the Koi Hotel on New Year’s Eve.
An air pocket forms in my belly.
Well, Caroline, certain field-researches are better done in person.
***
The five-day countdown to New Year’s Eve is the most nerve-wracking week of my life. The days pass alarmingly fast and unbearably slow in a mix of dread and anticipation.
I spend most of my time hustling to set up the new company. I interview Pam, who’s currently working at the Caldwell Public Library, and bring her to the original Rumpelstiltskin shop—still an abandoned pharmacy in this world. We click immediately. Even in this universe, we’re bookish soulmates. As I tell her all my ideas on how to make this the best bookshop ever, she finishes my sentences before I can give her the full vision. Pam and I are on the same page about everything. I hire her on the spot to be the store manager. Elsie is next and she’s just as onboard.
Tuesday, I take a break from work to show Harper, Nora, and Thomas around the city as I promised. The day with the kids is more intense and consuming than any workday could ever be and is over too quickly. By Thursday night, I’ve signed the agreement with Jackie to dissolve our partnership and leased a new hip office building in Dumbo. Staff has been hired and the Rumpelstiltskin logo trademarked.
But Friday, I reserve the day for myself. I get the best pampering money can buy and also shop for a new dress. The same evening gown Sam had gifted me for Christmas, but in a smaller size because, well, my boobs aren’t bursting with milk and this body hasn’t given birth to three kids—yet.
I already have the shoes to go with the dress and the Manolo are as much of a perfect fit as I’d imagined in my dream.
Feeling like Cinderella, I ride down in the elevator ready to go to the ball. I only hope my prince hasn’t found another princess in the seven years I ignored him.
My doorman opens the lobby door for me, saying, “You’re a vision tonight, Miss Wilkins.”
I beam at him. “Thank you, Philip.”
Nelson’s reaction is about the same as he holds the car door open for me.
The compliments give me a much-needed boost of confidence. But twenty minutes later, when Nelson pulls up in front of the Koi Hotel and, after opening my door, waits for me to get out, I’m petrified. I can’t move.
If Sam has a wife or a girlfriend, he will have brought her tonight. What if I walk in there and find him on the arm of a gorgeous woman? What if he looks at her the way he looked at me in my dream? I could die of heartbreak on the spot. Heartbroken syndrome is a real thing, I’ve researched it.
“Is everything all right, Caroline?” Nelson asks.
“Not sure,” I say, finally getting out. “But I will find out soon. Wish me luck.”
Nelson taps his hat at me. “You don’t need it. No sane man could resist you tonight.” My driver winks at me.
How he guessed my anxiety is about a man is a mystery, but I smile at him anyway and nod.
“Do you want me to wait for you?”
“No, Nelson, go home, celebrate with your family. I’ll take a cab,” I say, while really hoping I’ll spend the night making love to Sam for the first time in seven years just as in my dream—minus the milk spillage.
As I walk into the foyer, I’m momentarily stunned by how different the space looks. In this universe, without Jo to sway him, Sam has chosen the jungle theme. I’m standing in a tropical garden where green is the dominant shade, interspersed with the occasional splotch of color given by flowers and tropical birds.
I wouldn’t even be able to say which design looks better. They’re both stunning. And I could spend all night gaping at Sam’s genius on display, but my priority now is to observe without being seen. A passing server offers me a flute of champagne and I gladly accept—a little liquid courage never hurt anyone. The bubbly fizzes on my tongue in a delicious spark.
With the glass in my hands, I move into a shadowy corner of the room. I’m basically hiding behind a giant Swiss cheese plant, which much resembles the ones on the walls.
Screened by the wide leaves, I frantically scan the hall, looking for a head that will pop above the others by a foot. It doesn’t take long for me to locate Sam. Even if his back is turned to me, I’d recognize that nape everywhere. Same dark, curly hair, same broad shoulders, and same sweet ass. Upon seeing him, my brain overflows with a million overlying thoughts. Part of me is busy lusting after him, remembering how intense his gaze is on me while we make love, or how his hands feel on my skin when he touches me. Another part is self-loathing, yelling how stupid I’ve been for letting such a man slip through my fingers. My ovaries want to have even more of his babies. And my heart is about to explode from how much I love him.
What am I going to do if he’s with someone else?
Sam is standing in a tight-knit group of people, women too, but he’s not touching any of them nor seems affectionate toward anyone. In my dream, when we came here together, he wouldn’t keep his hands off me, not even for a minute. He’d always have a hand on my lower back or an arm looped with mine.
I observe him for a long time. Sam smiles, shakes hands, hands out business cards, but they all seem like business-related interactions. No PDAs so far. Also, the surrounding crowd keeps shifting and I can’t detect any constant presence except his.
Could he… could he really be alone? Single?
My heart soars with hopefulness while my stomach clenches in anxiety, because now I have to go talk to him, and what I have to say sure won’t be easy.
I drop my empty glass on a table, inhale, and take the first bold step in his direction.