Page 90 of Mistletoe and Mayday
I extract it, turning it over one last time. Sebastian gave me this just two weeks ago, his eyes brimming with promises I ran from.
“Ma’am, you can’t loiter here,” the server says, patience evaporating.
“Actually,” I say, my voice steadier than expected. “You can help me.”
The server’s expression shifts from irritation to surprise as I extend the snow globe.
“See that man over there?” I nod toward Sebastian’s table. “In the gray suit, by the window.”
The server follows my gaze, recognition dawning. “Mr. Lockhart?”
Of course, everyone knows him. Sebastian Lockhart, CEO, Chicago royalty.
“When he finishes his lunch,” I press the snow globe into the server’s palm, “give this to him.”
The weight transfers from my hand to his—a physical surrender of something never truly mine.
The server examines the globe, then looks up, puzzled. “Any message with this?”
I shake my head, swallowing the lump in my throat. “He’ll understand.”
My fingers curl into emptiness without the snow globe. I ball them into a fist, burying that emptiness deep in my jacket pocket.
With one final glance through the window at Sebastian—laughing, perfect, unreachable—I turn away. My legs move mechanically, carrying me forward, one step after another, away from the restaurant, away from him.
Twenty-Six
BAILEY
The keys clatter from my trembling fingers as I thrust cash at the Uber driver. Sixteen grueling hours of flying cargo from Denver to Seattle to Phoenix, and all I’ve got to show for it is bloodshot eyes and a gaping wound where my heart used to be.
“Need help with that bag, Miss?” The driver’s voice barely penetrates the fog of my exhaustion.
“No. Thanks. Got it.”
My carry-on drags like it’s packed with bricks as I trudge up the walkway. Gravity itself seems heavier since Chicago.
Three days since I stood outside that restaurant window. Three days since I watched Sebastian smile at Rebecca across a pristine white tablecloth. Three days of flying boxes and crates that don’t notice I’ve gone silent.
My feet scuff the concrete. This isn’t me. I’m Bailey Monroe. I bounce. I chatter. I make strangers regret sitting next to me on planes. That Bailey vanished somewhere overAlaska, left behind in a cabin with the rest of my stupid dreams.
I reach the first step of my building and freeze. Something glints on the sidewalk, catching the streetlight in a way that stops my heart mid-beat.
A snow globe.
My chest clenches as I bend down. Los Angeles skyline, tiny palm trees and all.
I look up.
Another snow globe waits a few feet away. And beyond that, another.
My carry-on crashes to the pavement, forgotten as I move to the next one. Seattle. Space Needle perfect in miniature. Then Phoenix. Denver. New York.
They create a path—glass breadcrumbs leading straight to my door.
My hands tremble as I gather them, cradling the little worlds against my chest like they might shatter if I breathe too hard.
I climb the stairs, arms loaded with as many snow globes as I can hold. Each step reveals more, tucked along the edges of the stairwell. St. Louis. Miami. Boston. Places I’ve flown. Places I’ve only dreamed about.
