Page 58 of The Holiday Games

A businessman trips on a crack in the sidewalk, and the older man next to him reaches out to steady him before he falls, just as a woman shouts from somewhere farther up the street, “Fuck you, Jerry! Fuck you and the pink pony you rode in on. If I don’t get the rent by Friday, I’m setting your clothes on fire.”

A little girl giggles in her stroller, stretching a pudgy hand up to touch a lazy snowflake drifting from the sky, just as ahomeless man in a filthy Santa hat skateboards down the street shouting, “Merry Christmas and suck my dick!”

I try to take comfort in the fact that I still have my mental health, but the miserable voice in my head decides to fixate on the fact that I never learned to skateboard, instead. I never learned to skateboard, I’ve never walked the Camino Real in Spain the way I dreamed of as a teen, and I’ve never found love that lasts.

And now, I probably never will.

The text from Ainsley arrives at that exact moment, like a sign from the darkest forces of the universe—Caroline took Greg. He seemed really happy to be going with her. He crawled right into the carrier without missing a beat. I had one of the production drivers drop her at Penn Station. They’re leaving on the one p.m. Vermonter train. In case you want to say goodbye.

I wince at the thought. I can’t watch her go again. It feels like it would kill the last of my will to keep putting one foot in front of the other.Thanks, but I’m going to stick close to home today. I’ll see you tomorrow for the next competition. Oh, and would you like tickets to see the Rockettes tomorrow night? I have two tickets I won’t be using. You could ask Trevor.

She sends over a concerned-face emoji.Are you sure? We could go together if you want, and get cupcakes at Magnolia bakery before. It might cheer you up.

I emit a scoffing sound that sends the pigeons pecking at the ground nearby fluttering away.I’d rather have my toenails ripped out by the root, but thanks. I’ll send the tickets to your email. Hope you two have a good time.

Then, I force my creaky, aching skeleton from the stoop, pay the men for fixing my window, and crawl into bed, where I stay for the next twenty hours, a foolish part of me hoping Caroline will change her mind. I wait for a text, a call, but nothing comes,not so much as a picture of Greg in his new home, to assure me he’s settling in okay.

It’s really over.

Forever.

On Thursday, I return to the set, going about my duties like a zombie animated only by the industry maxim that the show must go on. As far as I’m concerned, the holiday games ended the moment Caroline walked out of my life, but the cast and crew are counting on me to see this through.

But it’s hard to care about anything, let alone a reality show. Eduardo is eliminated in the window washing challenge on Thursday, his fear of heights shutting him down, even though the contestants were all safely strapped to the platforms dangling six stories above the street. Then, it’s down to Jenna and Millie, but not even their compelling new big sister-little sister vibes or the puppies they’re in charge of dressing in holiday sweaters for the semi-finals can warm my cold, frozen heart.

When Millie wins the show, triumphing in an inspiring display of hospitality and creativity as she crafts a Santa’s workshop experience for underprivileged children more magical than anything I’ve ever seen at a mall, I feel…nothing. It’s beautiful, so beautiful that Ainsley and half the crew have tears streaming down their cheeks by the time we wrap filming.

Even Jenna looks emotional as she congratulates Millie and promises to come visit her next Halloween.

But still, I feel nothing.

No pride in my accomplishment.

No inspirational holiday vibes.

Not so much as a spark of hope that I will ever feel less absolutely fucking miserable than I do right now.

And then, suddenly, it’s the Twenty-fourth of December, and I’m meeting Ainsley and the camera team to shoot some last-minute B reel of New York decked out in all its holiday splendor.

It’s the last day with the crew. When we return to the project after the New Year, it will just be Ainsley and myself in an editing bay, piecing together a first episode we’ll use to hopefully sell the show to a network.

The thought of pouring through footage of Caroline makes me hope a meteor might crash into the planet before the ball drops on New Years Eve.

“That’s it,” Ainsley says, turning to me with a huff outside the toy store in Rockefeller Center, where the crew is filming a performance by life-sized dancing toy soldiers. She grabs my headset, pulling it off my ears.

“Hey,” I protest, reaching for the device.

She pulls it out of my reach with a scowl. “No, no headset for you. You’re out of here. Go. Now.”

“Go where?” I ask, meeting her scowl with a darker, broodier scowl of my own.

“Go pack a bag, get in your car, and go get your girl,” she says. “If you hurry, you can be in Vermont before dark.”

I sigh. “I’m not going to Vermont.”

“Yes, you are,” she insists. “Caroline is as miserable as you are. Her best friend, Kayla, and I connected on social media. Apparently, Caroline has barely eaten in days.”

I scowl even harder, until a vein in my temple begins to throb. “You did what?”

---