Page 11 of Misbooked for Love

“Pancakes? Now you’re pushing it,” I say, but I can’t help the smile that tugs at my lips. There’s something about this back-and-forth, this light teasing, that feels effortless, like slipping into a rhythm I didn’t know we could have.

After breakfast, Tom and I go our separate ways, but we keep crossing paths like it’s inevitable. I see him at the ski rental shop, testing out something that I assume are bindings, his expression focused and serious. We exchange a quick nod, the kind that feels more like a silent conversation. Later, at the little café by the ice skating rink, he’s at the counter ordering a coffee, and I wave from my table. It’s small moments, fleeting but easy, like the universe keeps nudging us together.

By early afternoon, I find myself at the Valentine’s Day craft fair, my breath visible in the crisp air, surrounded by the sounds of festive music and the hum of happy chatter. Booths line the cobblestone path that looks completely out of place in such a master-planned town, like maybe the only reason why this path is here is for this exact reason. Each vendor offers something different—handmade crafts, hot mulled wine, natural wreaths adorned with Valentine’s Day ornaments. It’s charming in a way that’s almost overwhelming, and I let myself get lost in the sights and smells, moving from one stall to the next.

I spot Tom by a stand that sells carved wooden animals, his attention fixed on a small horse. He turns it over in his hands, examining the intricate details, and there’s a softness in his expression that I haven’t seen before. I hesitate, wondering if I should interrupt, but then he looks up and catches me watching.

“See something you like?” I ask, walking up to him, my hands stuffed in my pockets.

He makes a gesture with his hand and mouths “one minute,” and that’s when I notice he is on the phone.

I step back, pretending to browse the neighboring stall, but I can’t help myself—I’m listening. Tom’s voice is softer than what I’ve ever heard, almost tender, and it catches me off guard.

“Hey, honey,” he says, and my heart drops to my stomach. There’s an intimacy in the way he says it, a kind of warmth that I’ve never heard from him before. I shift my focus to a display of ceramic mugs, running my fingers along the rim of one, trying to ground myself, but my mind is spinning.

Tom’s voice carries over the noise of the market, low and filled with quiet affection. “I miss you, too. It’s not the same here without you.” His words are so gentle, so personal, and suddenly, I feel like I’m intruding on something I have no business hearing.

I turn the mug over in my hand, staring at the intricate pattern painted on its surface, but my thoughts are miles away. Who is she? His girlfriend? His wife? My chest tightens, and I feel a ridiculous pang of jealousy that I have no right to feel. Tom and I are practically strangers; we’ve only just started tolerating each other’s presence. But hearing him talk likethis, knowing there’s someone else he’s connected to—it stings more than it should.

“I wish I could be there,” Tom continues, his voice dipping lower, as if he’s trying to keep this moment just between them. “I love you, too.”

I set the mug down a little too forcefully, my pulse quickening. This isn’t what I signed up for. I didn’t come here to feel like some outsider looking in on a relationship I can’t ever be part of. I’m here tofindmyself.Not a freaking man.

I take a few steps back, wanting to put distance between us, between whatever this strange, sinking feeling is.

I glance back at Tom just as he’s hanging up, slipping his phone into his pocket. He turns to me, and there’s that softness still lingering in his expression, like he’s carrying the weight of that conversation with him.

“Sorry about that,” he says, his voice back to its usual tone, but there’s a lingering warmth there, something that hasn’t faded away. “Didn’t mean to make you wait.”

I force a smile, hoping it doesn’t look as strained as it feels. “No worries. Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” he says, nodding, but he doesn’t elaborate. He’s already moved on, picking up the little horse again and turning it over in his hands. But I can’t shake the heavy feeling, the jealousy curling in mychest like a hot, uncomfortable knot. I’ve been here before—getting too close to someone, only to find out they’re already tangled up with someone else. And it’s exactly what I need to get away from right now.

We walk through the rest of the market together, but my mind is only half present, caught between our earlier easy banter and the reality of what I overheard. I try to laugh at his jokes, to smile at the right moments, but everything feels a little off-kilter now, like I’m pretending to be okay when I’m not. I keep wondering about the person on the other end of his call, about who she is to him, and why it bothers me so much.

I mean, I partially know why it bothers me so much… Because in a weird, fucked up turn of events, I felt like the other woman for years, even though he didn’t cheat on me at all. And a few months ago, Santiago married someone else, when it had been clear for years, at least to me, that I was going to be the person to marry him.

As the sun starts to set, the resort begins setting up for the evening’s lights display. The sky is streaked with shades of pink and orange, and couples and families are gathering near the bonfire, their faces lit up with the warm glow of anticipation. I find a spot on a bench facing the mountain, and Tom follows behind, sitting down on the other end, our bodies completely separated by a few of the hotel-provided blankets.

“What are we watching?” he asks, his gaze set on the face of the mountain where the main chair lift operates.

“It’s the Valentine’s Day torchlight parade. The receptionist called this morning to let me know it was happening.”

At that exact second, the crowd gasps as the first skier appears at the top of the run, a red flare in one hand, moving from side to side in tandem with the music. A few more follow, and it’s a matter of seconds until the whole mountain is covered in red. An accurate choreographed display of lights and movement, skiers weaving down the slope in perfect unison, their flares casting an eerie, beautiful glow against the snow. It’s mesmerizing, like watching a river of fire flow down the mountainside.

“Wow,” I say, my voice barely louder than a whisper, not wanting to disturb the peaceful atmosphere.

He nods, his eyes still fixed on the mountain. “Yeah, it’s…” He clears his throat. “It’s something else.”

The last skier reaches the base and the crowd erupts in applause, cheers echoing through the crisp evening air. I feel a sudden rush of cold as the sun finally dips behind the peaks, and I pull a blanket tight around my shoulders, trying to hold on to the fleeting warmth.

Tom notices, his gaze flicking to me for a moment. Without saying a word, he reaches over,pulling his side of the blanket towards me, closing the gap between us. Our arms brush as he adjusts the fabric, and I feel a jolt of electricity shoot through me. It’s just a blanket, just a simple, practical gesture, but the proximity, the unexpected contact, sends my heart racing.

“Here,” he says, his voice softer now, almost gentle. “You’re freezing.”

I nod, swallowing hard as I let the blanket settle over both of us, our bodies now closer than they’ve ever been all week. The fabric is warm, but his presence is warmer, and I’m suddenly hyper-aware of every tiny movement—his shoulder brushing mine, his knee pressing lightly against my thigh. It’s not much, but it’s enough to set every nerve in my body on edge.

I try to focus on the fireworks starting in the distance, the sky erupting into bursts of red and white, but all I can think about is the heat radiating from Tom, the way his arm lingers just a little too long against mine. There’s an intimacy in it that catches me off guard, something that feels both innocent and charged, like we’re toeing the line between strangers and something more.

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