Chapter 17
I focus on the diamond. It’s big and crystal clear, perched atop a dainty platinum band.
Completely impractical for an emergency room physician, but definitely a showstopper.
A ring that suits Austin’s personality and lifestyle, which tends to be flashier than mine.
So why did this ring never make it out of the box?
I think back to last Christmas—or this Christmas if I’m keeping track, which I am desperately trying to do.
I was in Harmony Hills for two days, after my mom fell off the ladder hanging Christmas lights.
There was no party, nothing celebratory about my time here.
Once I knew Mom was okay, I drove back to Toronto, a full day before Austin and I flew to L.A.
I was exhausted after the long drive, and Austin offered to unpack for me.
He was insistent on it, actually. Weirdly so, though at the time I chalked it up to his meticulous nature.
Austin likes order in every aspect of life—I trend more messy and chaotic, including with my clothing, which is relevant in this memory.
In my defense, what’s the point of hangers or colour-coded systems when you wear scrubs every day, and your at-home uniform is leggings and sweaters?
When I arrived at Austin’s condo that evening, I was wearing his sweatshirt—the one I just found the ring box tucked into. Now I recall Austin’s reaction upon seeing me in that sweatshirt.
“Where did you get that?” he asked, his tone urgent.
The navy sweatshirt has been washed so many times the gold letters were faded.
It was far too big on me, so the sleeves were rolled and the hem hung below my hip creases.
But it was comfortable and cozy, and made me think of him—which is why I packed it for my quick trip to Harmony Hills.
I looked down at the sweatshirt, then back at him. “This? It was in the back of the closet,” I said. “I didn’t think you’d mind. You haven’t worn it in ages.”
Something flickered across his face. Alarm, maybe? Odd, because Austin was always so measured. His Adam’s apple bobbed, and he cleared his throat. I was confused by his reaction. He seemed angry with me, and I couldn’t understand why. Especially if it had anything to do with this old sweatshirt.
“Let me just take it off, throw it in the wash. I only wore it for the drive,” I said.
Austin’s frown suddenly transformed into a smile. “Hey, don’t worry about it. You look cute. Just surprised to see it, that’s all.”
“I should have asked. Sorry.”
He waved the apology away. “Here, let me unpack for you. There’s a bottle of red breathing on the counter, and I’ve ordered Thai. I’ll join you in a few minutes—you go relax, babe.”
He grasped my duffel bag and took it from me without waiting for me to answer, then headed into the primary bedroom.
At the time I was tired and grateful, and so I’d padded to the kitchen to pour the wine.
While I waited for him to finish and for our Thai to arrive, I noted how depressingly dull his condo was.
Cool neutrals, not a stitch of holiday decor.
A deep longing for Harmony Hills filled me then, for the twinkling Christmas lights, tinsel-draped trees, snow-dusted rooftops, and the overall warmth of the season.
Now, coming back to the present, a ring I’ve never seen before today still pinched between my fingers, understanding bubbles to the surface.
This ring was in my duffel bag the whole time.
It came to Harmony Hills with me, accidentally, when I packed Austin’s sweatshirt.
He must have panicked when he saw me, which is why he offered to unpack—he was looking for the ring box, obviously no longer in the sweatshirt’s sleeve.
But most critical of all, he never gave me this ring.
Not that Christmas, and not at any time during the following nine months, before our breakup.
I’ve made up my mind. Until I figure out what’s going on—why I’m like Ebenezer Scrooge, in Christmas past—I can’t leave Harmony Hills. Also, I need to dig into what’s going on with my parents and the practice, in the present, or future, if I accept that I’m currently reliving the past.
I consider the possibility that this is some unbelievable second chance to repair whatever broke with Austin.
To go back a year and do things differently, so maybe in the end he is my “happily ever after”?
That this ring could end up on my finger after all.
Maybe I would get married around the same time Amelia does…
The moment I think it, I’m sure that’s not what I want.
I can’t forget where our relationship ended up, with the toilet paper incident being the last straw.
It’s past time to admit that Austin and I were like a gingerbread house put together with Marshmallow Fluff, rather than the far sturdier, break-your-teeth royal icing.
It’s clear to me now that we were never going to make it, our relationship doomed from that first date.
Our first date.
I go back in time again, but in my mind, to two Christmases ago.
It was December 28, and the gorgeous plastic surgeon Dr. Whitmore, a friend of a coworker, asked me out.
It was an easy yes. I dated, but infrequently, as there wasn’t much time to nurture relationships with my demanding hours.
Plus, dating coworkers was risky, because if things went south, you still had to work together.
But Austin and I were in different departments, and our paths rarely crossed. It—he—seemed a safe bet. Not to mention, he was handsome, funny, smart, and, truth be told, it had been, ahem , a long time.
We went out for dinner to Sotto Sotto, a restaurant beyond my typical dinner budget.
It was fancy, dress-code enforced (I wore a fitted wrap dress and heels; Austin wore a dark suit and lavender tie).
Sipping drinks while we waited for appetizers, I asked him to tell me three truths and a lie, a cutesy icebreaker dating game trending on social media.
“Hmm, three truths and a lie…” Austin smirked, setting his chin into his hands, his bluest of blue eyes holding mine. My heart actually pitter-pattered under his gaze that evening.
“I have one tattoo, of a Caduceus, but well hidden,” he started.
“Interesting for a plastics guy, if true,” I replied. “Okay, next.”
“I have never had a pet of any kind,” he said, then adding, “I speak three languages fluently.”
“I’m impressed, if that’s true,” I replied, which I was.
“And because it’s so close to Christmas, how about a holiday-themed one? Let’s see… I don’t believe we should tell kids that Santa Claus is real.”
I laughed at this one, at the time fully believing it to be the lie. “Why not?”
“It’s an outright fabrication.” He leaned back, taking a sip of his drink. “What happens when your kids learn it’s not true? They’ll never trust you again.”
I’d heard this argument before but didn’t buy it. “My parents went all in on Santa Claus—they used to get a neighbour to record us a message on Christmas Eve, pretending to be Santa, and my dad always nibbled the carrots we left for the reindeer. I still trust my parents. Deeply.”
“When was the last time you told them a secret? Something you didn’t share with anyone else?”
“Umm…” I shrugged, sipping my Aperol Spritz. “I don’t have secrets, I guess. And that better be the lie in our little game here, because I’m not sure I can go on a second date with someone who doesn’t believe in the magic of Santa Claus.”
Austin winked, raised his glass—a Green Monkey, made of absinthe, lime juice, and dry vermouth. “Well, this has been a lovely one and done, Dr. Elizabeth Munro.”
“What?! That’s true ? What’s the lie, then?”
It was about the pets—Austin had raised geckos as a kid and, growing up, had a family cat named Milkshake.
Later that night I would discover the small tattoo on his ankle and be properly impressed when he showed off his fluency in English, German, and French when we weren’t busy doing… other things.
“Should I get the cheque?” Austin asked. The menus were still open in front of us, as we’d only ordered appetizers. He was grinning, amused by how incredulous I was about the whole Santa Claus thing.
“Might be wise to cut our losses…” I replied. “But one more question, before we throw in the towel.”
“Ask me anything,” Austin said.
“What are your feelings about the Easter Bunny?”
He tipped his head back and laughed, hard, then gave me a look I can only describe as smoldering . I was hooked, Santa Claus issue aside. Of course he would change his mind, maybe when he had a family of his own.
So when he answered, “That’s a conversation best saved for the second date, Elizabeth,” I nodded in agreement. After which I returned his smoldering look with one I hoped came off as flirtatious (closed-lipped smile, one eyebrow raised, deep eye contact), and said, “I’m free for New Year’s…”