Chapter 9
SOL
“Next,” I hear someone yell, and the line moves forward a few steps.
I’m standing in the check-in line, boarding pass glowing on my phone, suitcase handle slick under my palm. My heart isn’t in it, and I’m dreading going back to my normal life—an empty, crappy apartment and a city that is way too cold for me.
I tell myself that this is what adults do—what responsible, well-adjusted people do. They have a brief vacation, pack up, and go home. Back to work and the noise and pretending like they don’t feel the quiet creeping in at night.
The woman ahead of me adjusts her reindeer headband and laughs into her phone. Her screen flashes with the smiling faces of what looks like her family, gathered and all wearing cozy sweaters. Behind me, a man hums along to a tropical rendition of “Feliz Navidad” playing through the speakers.
I scroll through my work emails to find the same three things as yesterday: two project updates on the boutique hotel we are remodeling in Tribeca and one email from the upholsterer to let us know that the fabric came in for the vintage armchairs we sent in for the project’s lobby.
Nothing will get done until the new year, anyway, so really there is no point to even crack open my laptop and reply when I can do it from my phone.
My mom sent a “te vamos a extranar” text this morning, accompanied by a string of heart emojis and a photo of my sister and her kids at their pool.
My sister had her daughter send a voice note, telling me all about how she’s going to be sleeping over in my childhood bedroom for Christmas and how she’s so excited for Papá Noel to bring her the cat she’s been asking for since February.
For as long as I can remember, Christmas meant choosing sides. Matías and I alternated years, but we always made an effort to go back to Argentina to escape the cold. This is my first Christmas single in over a decade. And also my first one not flying home.
I thought I’d be okay with it. I think I actually tried to gaslight myself into thinking I would be okay with it.
But standing here, surrounded by families and couples and people who have somewhere to go, I feel that ache again. The one that starts in my chest and spirals outward until it’s hard to think.
So when Camila picks up after the fourth ring, I almost don’t trust myself to talk.
“So!” she says, bright and cheerful as ever, the glow of Christmas lights behind her. “Wait, you’re at the airport already?”
“Yeah.” My voice sounds flat, even to me. “I’m about to check in.”
She squints at the camera. “You look miserable. Why do you look miserable?”
“Because I’m standing in line at an airport two days before Christmas and going from paradise to a boring apartment,” I dead pan.
“Liar.”
I frown. “What makes you say that?”
“You don’t want to leave.” She grins. “Your face. I can read you like a book. What happened? Tell me everything. Oh god—did you hook up with someone? Please tell me you did.”
I groan. “Camila—”
“Oh my god, you did!” She gasps delighted. Her husband George appears in the screen behind her, looping his arm around her shoulders and pulling her back into his body. “You did! ?Quién es? Is he cute? Is he local?”
“American. Blue eyes. Talks too much.”
“Perfect,” she says immediately. “Stay.”
“What?”
“Stay,” she repeats, enunciating every letter. “You don’t really have to go into work this week. You don’t have to be anywhere. Stay for a few more days.”
“I can’t just—”
“Yes, you can,” she interrupts. “You’re not flying to Argentina this year. George and I are spending it with my in-laws, and the girls all have plans. Why are you running back to New York to sit in an empty apartment?”
“I wasn’t—”
“Sol,” she says, softer now. “You’ve spent this entire year being careful. Doing the right thing. Ending a marriage politely and being responsible about everything. You can afford to do something reckless for once. Something just for you.”
The line moves forward. My feet don’t.
I glance at the agent in front of me, at the people heading in every direction, saying goodbye to others, smiling as they disappear behind the security lines into another part of the world.
Then I look at the departure board—so many destinations, every reason not to stay—but none of them make sense anymore.
“What would I even do?” I ask quietly.
Camila’s grin softens into something knowing. “Whatever you want.”
She ends the call before I can answer, and leaves me standing there for a long moment, phone warm in my hand, and the noise of the terminal closing in around me.
“Fuck it.”
Then, without thinking, I step out of the line, drag my suitcase in the opposite direction, and head straight for the exit.
The drive back to the resort feels extremely short.
The shuttle smells like coconut air freshener, and the driver hums along to “All I Want for Christmas Is You.” It’s a fitting metaphor that makes my stomach flutter.
The closer we get, the lighter I feel, like the decision is pulling a weight off my shoulders I didn’t know I was carrying.
By the time we pass the front gate, the sun has already started to set. The resort glows golden, music spilling from the bars, people laughing over dinner, glasses clinking. It’s warm and alive and nothing like the apartment waiting for me in Manhattan.
I wheel my suitcase down the path toward Ben’s building, heart thudding so loud it downs out everything else.
When I reach his door, I sit on the floor across the hall and wait. I have no idea what I’ll say when I see him. Hey, surprise, I missed my flight? Or maybe Hi, I’m Sol and I’m completely out of my mind but would you let me stay with you for a few days?
The sound of laughter drifts up from the courtyard. Then footsteps. Two men’s voices, one of them familiar.
He turns the corner with a jacket slung over his shoulder, shirt half untucked, hair mussed from the wind. He’s smiling, easy and relaxed, until his gaze lands on me.
“Sol?”
“Hey.”
He blinks a few times. “Okay. I’m way drunker than I thought. Or hallucinating.”
“Neither,” I say, pushing to my feet. “I, um… missed my flight.”
He laughs, slow and disbelieving. “Missed it? How?”
“Or… skipped it,” I admit, trying not to slap my forehead at how pathetic I must sound. “Still deciding on the wording.”
His grin widens, but his eyes are searching mine, like he’s not sure this is real. “You came back.”
“Yeah.”
He takes a small step closer, that crooked smile starting to form. “So what you’re saying is… fate intervened again?”
I shake my head, smiling despite myself. “Don’t push it.”
“Right. Right. You’re here purely for the food.”
“Obviously.”
He chuckles, then gestures toward the door. “Do you need a place to stay?”
As he unlocks the door and the soft light spills into the hallway, I feel it—the quiet certainty blooming somewhere deep inside me.
Maybe this could work. Only for this week.