Chapter 17
SOL
Camila’s brownstone looks like something out of an Architectural Digest Christmas issue—tall ceilings, warm, twinkling lights, lit candles everywhere. It smells like a forest, and I wouldn’t be surprised if the living room held more than a couple of fir trees by the window.
She and George went all out. Of course they did.
It’s their first holiday season as a married couple, their first real party in the house they bought, and she’s glowing, barefoot in a sequined dress, her hair in loose waves. Every time she passes George, he catches her waist and kisses her like they’re still on their honeymoon.
I’m happy for her. I really am.
But I’m also allowed to feel slightly bitter, I guess. It stings a little.
I hover near the kitchen island, fingers wrapped around a glass of champagne that keeps refilling thanks to a too-attentive waiter.
Everyone’s talking—about the economy, new restaurants that are popping up, a group ski trip in February.
The laughter ricochets off the high ceilings, all light and effortless.
It’s one of those parties where the attendees seem to know exactly what to do with their hands.
Except me.
I try to join a conversation about travel but zone out halfway through, nodding at the right moments. Someone mentions a beach, and all I can think of is a pool and Ben’s crooked grin.
God. I’m ridiculous.
A voice cuts through my thoughts, warm and slurred. “Refill?”
I turn. It’s one of George’s friends. I met him once before in passing while we were out to dinner and Camila ran into him at the restaurant. He’s grinning, tie loose, clearly tipsy. He holds up the bottle, waiting, and that’s when I notice the Santa hat.
“No, thanks.” I lift my half-full glass.
“Come on, it’s New Year’s Eve,” he insists. The hat slips sideways as he leans closer to me, the white pom-pom moving dramatically in my direction.
And just like that, the air shifts.
I see Ben standing by the pool bar, sunlight hitting his sunburned nose, that same stupid hat on his head. His laugh, easy and unguarded. Something twists deep in my chest.
I mutter something about needing air and slip through the crowd, my heels clicking against the shiny marble floors in the entryway. The front stoop is too visible, so I cut through the dining room and push open the French doors that lead to the back deck.
The low temperature hits me immediately—sharp, clean, alive.
I wrap my arms around myself and breathe in the smell of winter: snow, exhaust, and something I can only describe as cold.
In the years since I’ve lived here, it’s my first holiday season in the cold, so it feels different already.
Not because of Ben or me or my divorce, but simply because it is different.
The skyline glows in the distance, windows twinkling against the dark. It’s still a few hours until midnight, but I can feel the buzz in the air, the anticipation of a new year palpable.
This city used to thrill me. Just the idea of moving out of my small town for university, and then to New York City of all places was my highest achievement, and I’d been giddy with emotion in the running up to my relocation so many years ago.
But I guess now it just feels muted. Like I’m finally settled and nothing about living here excites me anymore.
I can’t stop replaying it—the beach, the salt on my lips, the way Ben looked at me like I wasn’t temporary. Like he saw something I’d stopped recognizing in myself.
The door opens behind me, and Camila steps out holding two champagne flutes. She looks impossibly at ease; one of those people who can host and sparkle at the same time.
“I knew you’d be out here.” She hands me a glass. “Did you call your parents?”
“Before coming here,” I reply. “They send their regards.”
She sighs, a small shiver running through her shoulders as she leans against the railing. “God, it’s freezing. I forgot what winter actually feels like.”
I smile faintly. “Everything looks amazing, though. You really outdid yourself.”
“Thanks for coming,” she says, bumping her shoulder against mine. “I know this isn’t really your scene.”
“The house is really spectacular,” I add again, feeling like I’m sounding repetitive. I look back through the glass doors at the golden light spilling across the hardwood floors, the laughter, the champagne tower. “Everything is perfect.”
Camila huffs out a breath that fogs in the cold. “And yet here you are, hiding from it.”
“Did I tell you it’s the first year I’ve spent the holidays here? We went back to Argentina every single year since we moved.”
“Really?” Camila replies, cocking her head. I know she knows I’m avoiding the topic. She’s definitely waiting for me to say it first. She’s normally pushy, incredibly kick-ass in her professional and personal lives but definitely the voice of reason in our group.
“Just say it.” I look down into my glass, watch the bubbles fizz and fade.
Camila arches an eyebrow. “Whatever are you talking about?”
“Camila.”
“Fine. I was right and you were wrong and now you’re moping around because you got dicked down good on vacation and want more. Am I close?”
“It’s not just a good fuck.”
She rolls her eyes. “A great fuck then.”
“Camila.”
“Just call him. What’s the big deal? You can fly out to see him at any point.”
The pop of fireworks starts and there’s a few celebratory whoops heard in the distance, somewhere behind us.
“It’s the first time in a long time that I didn’t even try hard. I could just… be. And now everything feels louder again. Like I came back to a life that doesn’t fit me, even though the life I had before didn’t fit me either.”
Camila doesn’t say anything for a moment. Then, “Maybe that’s not a bad thing.”
I glance at her.
She shrugs. “Sometimes we outgrow what fits. Doesn’t mean you can’t find something better.”
Those words settle under my ribs.
“He lives here.”
Camila blinks a few times, then another one in slow motion just for the theatrics of it.
Finally, she gasps, hand flying to her chest like I just confessed to having an affair with a B-list celebrity.
“?Qué?” She’s loud outside her house, and I feel my cheeks heat.
“He lives here. As in New York here? How have you buried the lede this hard?”
I can’t help but laugh so I don’t cry, and something tightens in my throat. “You make it sound like I’ve been harboring classified information.”
“Because you have!” she says, clutching her champagne flute like it’s part of her performance. “Sol, god, this is fate. You’re both in the same city. You could literally run into him on the subway, or—god forbid—at the bodega down the street.”
I shake my head, half smiling, half trying not to fall apart. “It’s not fate, Camila. It’s just bad luck wrapped in good timing. And also, he’s too young for me.”
Her expression softens. “You don’t believe that.”
The city hums beyond us—car horns, laughter, the faint echo of popping fireworks elsewhere.
I grip the edge of the railing, the metal cold against my fingers.
“I was just getting used to the idea of being alone again. And now he’s everywhere.
The smell of my sunscreen, a Santa hat, a stupid mojito. He’s everywhere.”
Camila studies me quietly, her voice gentler now. “Sounds like you’re not done with him.”
For the first time since I got back five days ago, I let myself fully imagine what it would feel like to see him again—not on a beach or half-drunk under fairy lights, but here. In the city where my life happens.