Chapter 8 December 22 #2
“What?” I ask. Her expression is sheepish as she bites her bottom lip. She pulls the stack of cue cards, clipped neatly together with a rose-gold paper clip, from her pocket.
“See? Everything always works out,” Mom says, but she looks at me as she says it. “One thing at a time. Starting with Dad’s pancakes and too much syrup, because—”
“ We elves try to stick to the four main food groups: candy, candy canes, candy corn, and syrup ,” Amelia and I quote the movie Elf together, before laughing and then tucking into our breakfast.
Almost two hours later, I’m sitting alone in one of Season’s Eatings’ two-person booths, having given the excuse that I need to catch up on work emails.
Instead, I’m ruminating about my recent bad news, pushing a bite of sausage around my syrup-laden plate and staring blankly at my inbox, when I hear “Waffle for your thoughts?”
Liam, in his BEST MAN T-shirt over a navy sweatshirt and jeans, extends a plate with a heart-shaped waffle my way.
His look is teasing—eyebrows raised, dimples at midstrength with the restrained smile, head cocked to the side—but there’s warmth to his tone, which suggests legitimate interest in the answer.
“They aren’t worth the waffle,” I reply, setting my phone down and giving a crooked smile. “But I appreciate the offer.”
“Mind if I sit?” he asks, and I say, “Please do.” Taking the seat across from me, Liam sets the plate between us. “In case you change your mind.”
I nod, my polite smile fading as I continue pushing the sausage around with no intention of eating it. “Thanks, but this is my second breakfast, so the waffle’s all yours.”
“Ah, I’m not a waffle person,” Liam replies. “Actually, I’m not a breakfast-food person. Period.”
“Really?” I set my cutlery down, wipe my sticky hands with a napkin. “How come? Is it a time-restricted-eating thing?”
He laughs at this. “No, I like breakfast, just not typical breakfast food.”
“Pancakes?” I ask. He shakes his head. “A nice granola and yogurt parfait?” Another shake of his head. “Eggs benedict?”
Liam scrunches his nose and whispers, “Can’t do eggs.”
So, not perfect after all , I think, oddly pleased to have discovered this flaw, however tiny.
“What about bacon?” I ask. “Everyone loves bacon.”
“You remember Mary Piggins, right?” He winks. Right. Bacon comes from pigs. I cringe, offering an apology for my cluelessness.
“Don’t be sorry. I used to eat bacon, so I know it’s delicious.”
I lean in, whispering animatedly, “It is delicious.”
“That’s better,” he says. When I give a questioning look, he adds, “A legit smile. Which means whatever’s got you skipping second breakfast isn’t too dire.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure.” I laugh, but it’s mirthless. “Turns out I don’t have a job to go back to. Happy holidays to me!”
“Ouch. I’m guessing this wasn’t your choice?” he asks, leaning back against the red vinyl bench.
“No, it wasn’t. Well, that’s not quite true.
I gave notice at my hospital, because I thought I was getting an attending position at another one.
And then I got a Christmas card this morning with a lovely, festive letter telling me they’ve gone ‘in another direction.’?” I use air quotes and attempt a follow-up joke about being on Santa’s naughty list, but it falls flat.
“They sent it in a Christmas card? That’s shitty.”
“I know! Like, ‘Merry Christmas! Also, you’re unemployed. Hope you enjoy the fruitcake!’?” I say.
“I do love a good fruitcake.” Liam starts laughing and shaking his head, and again I give him a quizzical look. “So remember when I picked you up, and you noted my, ahem , grumpiness?”
“I do.”
“Well, right before I left my place that afternoon I received my own Merry-Christmas-slash-let-me-ruin-your-holidays card.” Liam’s fiddling with the cutlery at his place setting, aligning the knife up against the fork.
“Oh yeah? Who ruined Christmas for you this year?”
“An old friend whom I haven’t spoken to in ages. Actually, a friend of my ex’s.” He sighs, though his smile remains intact. “Wishing us happy holidays and a congratulations on our wedding.”
I stare at him, trying to piece it together. “Your… wedding?”
“Apparently my ex got married recently. My ex, who said she never wanted to get married, which was one of the main reasons things ended between us. And I guess this friend had her old address—my current address—and decided to pop a nice holiday card into the mail.”
“Oh no!” I press my fingers to my mouth, crinkling my eyes in sympathy. “That might be worse.”
“Nah, I think it’s a tie,” Liam says, and I laugh. “Now, tell me, Dr. Libby—what’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever seen in the emergency room? I’ve got a strong stomach, unless I’m the injured one. Bonus points if the story involves heart-shaped waffles.”
A burst of laughter ripples from one of the other tables.
Amelia’s retelling the story of her morning meltdown and lost cue cards—she’s animated, and quick-witted, like Mom—and it has everyone in stitches.
I glance at her, radiant and glowing in a way that only someone in love can be, and then back at Liam.
“Nothing waffle-related,” I say. “But give me a minute. There’s a lot to choose from.”
“Take your time,” he says, his green and gold eyes holding mine. “We’ve got all day.”
It’s such a simple statement, but it hits me hard.
I don’t have a job pulling me back to the city.
I don’t have an urgent reason to rush away, once the wedding is behind us.
For the first time in a long time, I feel untethered.
Not lost, like I might have imagined, considering all the factors, but like this is exactly where I’m supposed to be.