Page 5 of If This Was a Movie

“I told him I want you to marry the real-life Ashlyn and make her my new mom.”

Jesus fucking Christ.

“Uh, sweetie, that’s…” Sloane starts, turning a bit to avoid some asshole on his phone slamming into her. Sutton stayed behind to wait for the photos to be printed. “That’s not exactly what Santa brings, you know. He brings toys, not people.”

“Ashlynisa toy. I just want him to use Christmas magic and make her real. Then Daddy can meet her and fall in love with her and she can be my new mom. I can be a flower girl at their wedding, and she can teach me how to dance.”

I jump at that opening, thinking maybe I can make due.

“Do you want dance lessons for Christmas?” I ask, looking at her. Maybe that’s what she really wants, and?—

“No,” she says simply with a small shake of her head. “I want Ashlyn.”

“A new Ashlyn doll?” Another shake of her head. “The Ashlyn Dreamhouse?” I ask, mentioning the giant gift I thought she was going to request as a last resort. I have no desire to sit and spend three nights meticulously assembling that nightmare, but I’ll do it if need be.

“No, silly. I want arealAshlyn.”

When we step out of the exit and into the cold November air outside the mall, I pull Sophie to the side and get to a knee in front of her, helping to zip up her jacket and getting on her eyeslevel. “Sophie, sweetie, I don’t want you to be disappointed this year. Santa brings kids toys, not people,” I say as I zip up her coat, trying to keep my tone even and kind.

“Yeah, but he's going to bring you a wife. He told me.”

He very fucking well did not, because I saw the same panic on that man’s face as the one I felt and heard him try and divert you.

“I think he told you that he only brings toys,” I say.

“Aubrey asked for a puppy last year, and she got a puppy.” Audrey is the brat in Sophie’s class who gets everything and anything she’s ever wanted. She even makes the occasional rude jab about Sophie not having a mother when she’s at our house, and it takes everything in me not to snap at a five-year-old. She might have two parents, but her mom hits on me and not-so-subtly propositions me any chance she gets.

“Well, a person is not a puppy, Sophie,” I say. She looks at me for a long beat, and for a moment I think I’m in the clear, that she understands and is going to accept my statement as fact.

But then she shrugs.

“I don’t know, but it’s going to happen. Trust me.” I stand in defeat and reach my hand out for her, but she continues to stare at me, her little face suddenly fierce and stoic, like she really needs me to believe in what she’s saying. “Trust me, Dad. Christmas is for miracles.”

We are definitely going to need a miracle, I think to myself as we start to walk toward the diner I promised we’d go to after Santa. Unfortunately, when I look across the street, it looks like it might be closed. A bunch of police cars and a fire truck block the way, familiar faces gathering on the sidewalk in front of a building. For a moment, I wonder what’s happening until a rush of water coming from the road catches my eye and I realize it must be some kind of water main burst.

“Soph, we might have to—” I start as we approach. I’m about to tell her we might not be able to go to the diner, which is oneblock further, and if it’s still open, we’ll have to detour our way there.

But before I can say anything else, my daughter shouts, “There!” pointing toward the chaos ahead, and bolts.

THREE

NEW YEAR’S EVE, LAST YEAR

JULES

If this was a movie, I’d be cozy on a couch with a glowing Christmas tree in my peripheral vision, a roaring fire warming me as I lay in the arms of the man of my dreams. Or maybe we’d be all dressed up at some chaotic, fancy party, getting drunk and preparing to ring in the new year in style.

But this isn’t a movie, so instead I’m spending my New Year’s Eve alone. .

My life is anything but cinematic.

My two best friends are off living their best lives, Ava and her beau Jaime are hosting some crazy party on behalf of the Miss Americana pageant in California, while Harper is at some fancy work party with Jeremy. Both have someone to kiss at midnight, someone to start the new year in love with.

And I’m here.

Lonely and miserable but too proud to tell anyone, eating at a bar before I go home and take a melatonin so I can go to bed early. It’s one thing to be alone on New Year’s Eve, but it’s a whole other to stay up until midnight and start another year alone.

“Hey, Donovan,” the bartender says, lifting a hand toward the front of the bar as a cold gust of wind enters, dancing along my skin and leaving goosebumps in its wake.

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