Chapter 36 December 22
It’s early the next morning, the day of the tree-lighting ceremony.
I’m lying on the floor of my bedroom, on an old yoga mat with a decades-old afghan my nana knitted covering most of me, except for my socked feet.
Austin snores lightly, still asleep in my bed, snuggled under the much-warmer quilt.
I’ve swapped my pillow for a sweater under my head, because I hate the slippery feel of a silk pillowcase, and Austin brought one for each of us.
Insisting we put them over the cotton pillowcases I prefer, because: wrinkles .
We didn’t stay long at the ice-skating event.
Shortly after the kerfuffle with my skates, and Liam, I told Austin I wasn’t feeling well—blaming it on the eggnog I ended up drinking.
At least it was heavily spiked, I reasoned, longing to anesthetize myself after the jarring, awful moment on the rink.
Then once we got back to my parents’ place it took me hours to fall asleep, the tree farm and ice rink events running on a continuous, torturous loop in my brain.
Liam and me, about to kiss… Austin in my parents’ living room, joking with Mom and Millicent…
Falling on the ice… Liam’s face when I introduced him to Austin …
Repeat. I’m shaky with exhaustion after only a couple hours of restless sleep.
I’m also highly disappointed to hear Austin’s snoring, because I had half hoped when I opened my eyes this morning, everything would be reset.
I would have returned to the present—Austin would not be in my bed, last night would never have happened, and Liam would be the gorgeous, sweet guy I only just met and would like to get to know better.
No such luck. I’m still in Christmas past, and last night wasn’t the bad dream I longed for it to be.
I sit up, wincing with the aches and pains in my back, neck, and hips.
Probably from my ice-rink tumble, made worse by sleeping on the floor on a thin yoga mat.
But Austin was spread-eagled on my small bed, and there simply wasn’t enough room for the both of us.
Austin and I are supposed to be hitting the road by nine, in our respective cars, which would get us back to Toronto midafternoon.
We’re cutting it close; our flight to L.A.
leaves later this evening. The thing is, I can’t get on that flight.
It’s past time to tell Austin the truth—that this isn’t going to work out between us.
He may not be the guy for me, but he deserves my honesty.
However, I can’t do it without a cup of coffee, so being as quiet as I can, I slip on my robe and tiptoe out of the room.
I’m surprised to find Mom and Dad already up, still in matching Christmas pjs with half-empty mugs of coffee.
“Morning, Libby,” Mom says. “How did you sleep?” She’s reading, the book open on her lap, leg propped up on the Santa Claus pillow and crutches resting beside her.
I kiss her cheek, and say, “Fine.” My subdued tone tells a different story, but I leave it at that. “How’s the ankle today?”
“Fine,” Mom replies, in a similar tone.
“Coffee’s hot,” Dad says, eyes on his newspaper crossword puzzle.
The clinic is closed until after Boxing Day, and I’m glad he’s getting a much-needed rest. Though if there’s an emergency, or someone requires medical care, he’s only a phone call away.
There’s no such thing as a day off in small-town medicine.
I pour myself a mug of the steaming, fragrant coffee—adding a generous pour of creamer until it’s the right shade of beige—then sit on the chair opposite my dad, tucking my legs up underneath me.
“I’m going to stay.” I sip my coffee and watch my parents’ reaction over the rim of my mug.
“Stay where?” Dad asks, followed by, “What’s an eleven-letter word for a ‘flourless chocolate cake’ typically served at Christmastime?”
“B?che de Noel,” I reply after a beat. Dad’s impressed, whistles softly. “Nicely done, Libby.”
“Anyway, as I was saying… I’m going to stay here. In Harmony Hills. At least until you’re back on your feet, Mom. I’m licensed in family medicine, so that’s not an issue—I can step right in with your patients.”
“But what about the hospital? Your trip with Austin?” Mom asks. I have their full attention now. The book has been closed, the crossword set down on the coffee table, pencil resting on top. “What’s going on, Libby?”
I sigh, take a fortifying sip of my coffee before launching into the whole sordid tale, minus the time-travel bit. I’ve learned that sharing that piece of the story doesn’t lead to anything except threats of hospital visits and time spent in CT scanners.
However, I do share my dream of one day joining Doctors Without Borders, and how I’ve realized Austin and I want different things for our futures.
I tell them how much I’ve loved being home this past week, and how much I’ve missed everyone, and Harmony Hills.
I explain that I have a plan, and I hope they’ll support me because I’m going to do it anyway.
Mom chuckles at that. “As expected,” she says.
My parents listen until I’m finished. Then they exchange a look, before Dad says, “Having you here would be a huge help, especially with your mom’s ankle. But we don’t want to get in the way of your plans. And definitely not the career you’ve worked so hard for.”
“I have so much vacation time banked. It will be fine.” I think about how, a year from now, my career will be a question mark.
At least my career as an attending emergency room physician in a major Toronto hospital.
Truthfully, I’m not sure I’ll go back to the city.
Only time will tell, and I’m growing more comfortable with the uncertainty.
“What about L.A.?” Mom’s eyes shift towards the stairs, and I know she means more than just the plane ride and vacation.
Sighing, I unfurl my legs and hold up my coffee mug. “I’m going to need another one of these before I deal with L.A.”
“What the hell happened this week?” Austin asks, his voice too loud for the space. He’s angry, pacing my small bedroom, back and forth in front of the closed door. I sit on the bed, watching him.
“Will you stop doing that?” I ask. “Please just sit here with me.”
But he ignores the request, continues his pacing. “This isn’t you, Elizabeth. This isn’t you.”
I understand why he believes this. For the entirety of our relationship, I’ve happily let him take the lead.
I’ve acquiesced on things like what takeout we order, whose condo we sleep at, which shows we watch, because I told myself I didn’t really care, and Austin is someone with more… preferences .
Up until the which-way-does-the-toilet-paper-go-on-the-toilet-paper-holder thing, I’m not sure I made it clear that I, too, had preferences. Which is on me, and while it’s easy to paint Austin as the bad guy here, it’s not fair, or accurate. It takes two to make or break a relationship.
“Austin, I understand that this probably doesn’t make sense to you right now. I haven’t been happy, for a while…” Though in truth I’ve actually been quite happy recently, thanks to Liam, and Harmony Hills.
“I don’t think we bring out the best in each other,” I add, my tone softening. “Do you, honestly?”
He stops pacing then and stares at me. His blue eyes are blazing, his cheeks reddened from his pent-up frustration. He runs a hand through his blond hair, but it’s short so the strands stay put, and lets out a long sigh.
“I do. Or I did.” He seems about to say something more, but then closes his mouth in a tight line. “But I’m not going to talk you into something you don’t want. Even if I think you’re making the biggest mistake of your life.”
“I’m sorry,” I reply. I know this is far from the biggest mistake of my life, but there’s no reason to say that now.
Austin nods, then pivots, bending to grab his leather overnight bag.
He sets it on the bed and packs the couple of shirts and toiletries he’s set on my desk, shoving them in with more force than is necessary.
“Austin.” He pauses when I say his name, before turning to look at me.
It’s then I see he’s not angry—he’s hurt.
The confident smile, the effortless wink…
replaced by a heaviness that weighs down his eyes, the corners of his mouth.
Like he’s just had a surgery go wrong, or lost something that mattered greatly to him.
“You’re an amazing guy,” I say, my voice steady but kind. He drops his eyes, fidgets with the bottle of cologne in his hand. “Really. You’re driven, talented, and passionate about the things you love. I’m sorry things can’t be different with us.”
He exhales, his features softening, though there’s still tension in his jaw. Then he zips up the bag and opens the bedroom door. “I’m going to head out.”
“Drive safely,” I say. “It snowed last night. The roads might be slick.”
Austin stands in the doorway, opening and then closing his mouth, leaving whatever he wants to tell me unsaid. Finally, he says, “Merry Christmas, Elizabeth.”
“Merry Christmas, Austin,” I whisper, but he’s already gone.
After he leaves, I sit in the silence of my bedroom, the faint scent of his cologne lingering in the air. I pull the afghan around me, eyes drawn to the frosted window. The world outside is quiet, the snow blanketing everything like a layer of soft, fluffy cotton.
For years, I believed happiness was something I had to chase—measured by career milestones, strategic plans, the right relationships.
But sitting here, in my childhood home with memories rooted in every corner, I finally see it: happiness isn’t about what’s next, it’s about cherishing the life unfolding right in front of me.
This time swap, as bizarre and disorienting as it has been, has given me the greatest gift you won’t find under the tree: the realization that what I was searching for wasn’t missing—it was here all along, waiting to be unwrapped.