original fic: strangers who exchange
strangers who exchange
pg, original fiction, 5366 words. for seakisst, the fourth challenge at inrevelations. enjoy! ♥
When you wish the world becomes brighter. So wish -- it's what makes the holidays the holidays.
- Starbucks Holiday Cup 2009
December 24 (Christmas Eve)
Dan hasn't finished his Christmas shopping. It's cliché, sure, but he’s been busy the past few weeks with all kinds of crazy deadlines at the Times. Hopefully his parents will understand. They were pretty pumped when he got the job, after all. All the money they’d paid for his master’s at Northwestern actually came to something this past July. Come to think of it, he probably owes them some pretty nice presents, which is a little obnoxious since they’re always so vague on what, precisely, they would like to receive on Christmas morning. And for all that money is great, he can’t imagine wrapping up a couple of fifties for each of them. So that’s out.
While he’s walking and thinking, a Starbucks logo catches his eye across the street. Not that there aren’t thousands in New York City, but this particular one is on his way. Some strong coffee might be the key to gift-giving inspiration, anyway. It’s worth a shot. It’s worked on the last half-dozen articles, particularly after one in the morning.
There’s a line -- finding the perfect present seems to be a communal New York headache -- but Sinatra’s playing and Dan’s always been a sucker for those old-time crooners. He might even spring for a venti of the Christmas blend. By some kind of luck nobody appears in line behind him, so his being lost in thought doesn’t illicit the normal grunts and sighs he’s come to expect from a half-awake coffee run.
The girl at the counter’s wearing a green scarf shot through with silver thread. It doesn’t quite match the green of her apron, but she has a cute smile when he asks for his order.
“Can I get a venti Christmas coffee? And do you have any of those peppermint brownies?” He got paid last Friday and he hasn’t found anything particularly exciting to spend the money on, aside from his rent. Might as well amuse the taste buds. “Otherwise I’d like one of those cranberry bars. Come to think of it, can I get one of each?”
“Last-minute shopping?” Her voice is shot through with a laugh, making it sparkle, like her scarf.
“How’d you guess?” He pulls out his wallet and bookmarks a ten dollar bill with his index finger. “My unenthused expression? My extravagant order?”
“It’s Christmas Eve,” she replies, slipping his red paper cup into a cardboard sleeve. “I was bound to get lucky at some point.”
“Yeah, I’m spending the holiday with my parents on Long Island. My sister’s flying in from Seattle with her husband and kids. Sorry, you probably don’t want to know that.” Her hair’s caught up in a messy braid and she’s like the quintessential Starbucks girl, cute and a little hipster in the right proportions.
“No, it’s cool. Your total’s going to be eight seventy-five. Do you want a receipt?” She holds her fingers over the cash register hesitantly. During the week he gets paid to notice little things like that. It’s a hard habit to put an end to.
“Sure,” he says, handing over his money.
Of course, of course, her hand brushes his when she places the receipt, dollar bill, and quarter into his palm. He glances at her and she has this little smile on her face. New York is so notoriously sterile that they all have to get off on little accidental touches here and there.
“I hope you have a merry Christmas --” he starts.
“I’m Cristina,” she says, turning her smile up a notch as she fiddles with the CD display on the counter.
“Well, Cristina, I hope it’s great. I’m Dan.” Maybe this is dumb, but it’s Christmas Eve, and wasn’t it Sinatra (or maybe it was one of his buddies) that sang about believing in Christmas miracles?
“Merry Christmas, Dan.”
It could be the beginning of a beautiful something-or-other, but the jing-a-ling of the door indicates that Starbucks is open for business, and this girl has a job to do. He has presents to buy. It’s a good thing Starbucks makes their coffee strong.
December 25 (Christmas Day)
Cristina crosses her arms and thinks of sultry beaches and shimmering waves of heat. She’d forgotten that churches could be so cold in the winter and her only red dress is strapless. Christmas Day is exactly what the title implies for voice majors, since all the Broadway stars want to be home with their families or Christmas shows or their big drama or whatever it is Broadway stars do today.
It’s not that it’s not a big deal to sing at St. John the Divine on Christmas morning. Her voice teacher had asked her about it glowingly, and Papi had told her it was all right that she couldn’t come home this year, just so long as she made sure to visit over spring break. And there’s always the hope, for her and every other person at Juilliard, of being discovered as the next big thing to make millions doing classical music.
So she’s singing “What Child Is This” and “Adeste Fideles” St. John’s this morning, and when she’s done she’ll call her family and they’ll make sure to rustle the wrapping paper into the phone and they’ll probably tell her that the Miami sunshine misses her in their smiling, sing-song voices. She’ll put the phone on speaker and repeat the carols, just for them. Later this afternoon, she’ll think about that guy, Dan was his name, who walked into her Starbucks yesterday. She’ll strain to hear a wisp of Spanish-tinged conversation, if she decides to venture out into the city streets, a scarf wound snugly around her neck. But that’s afterwards.
When she sings here, in ten or fifteen minutes, her voice will resound off of the stone with half an echo and she will feel absolutely timeless, perfectly gorgeous, even shivering a little in the crimson gown. It’ll be a short Christmas, but it’ll be enough.
December 26 (Boxing Day & Gift Return)
Night time isn’t a good time for coffee, but Dan’s entire body relaxes when he walks inside that Starbucks from the other day. There’s the girl from Christmas Eve, Cristina, the only solid thing in his memories amidst the haze of dubiously cashmere scarves and grilling doodads and a hundred other discarded gift ideas. It didn’t help that his sister had reinstated their Christmas drinking game -- a drink every time Mom started a sentence with “I feel so blessed” -- which they’d had to stop midway through dinner after Sophie started hiccupping.
“Can I help you?” It’s only after she says it that he realizes how far he’s drifted, which is a shame because he’s been hoping to see Cristina for a solid 56 hours or so. Give or take a half hour.
“Oh man, sorry about that. What do you recommend to fix the after-Christmas blues?” He adjusts the strap of his messenger bag, trying to ignore the twist in his stomach. “I’m open to suggestions.”
“I had a hazelnut latte with cinnamon and caramel and whipped creme about an hour ago, but that’s pretty girly. You like your coffee strong, right?” She splays her fingers against the faux-granite countertop. “I could make you an espresso shot.”
“I have an article to write,” Dan says, patting his bag, “but I’m not sure I want to be up until five in the morning. Does anybody actually drink their coffee that way?”
“My grandparents.” She wrinkles her nose as she smiles. “They tell me all the milk and sugar I put in my coffee will make me fat. They’re Cuban -- and you probably don’t want to hear about my grandparents. Um, let me think. Do you like tea at all?”
“I like tea if it’s not that herbal crap, raspberry and vanilla. And I don’t mind hearing about your grandparents, really.” He takes a step closer to the counter, noticing the way the light glints off the fun-sized packages of granola. “I’ve spent a little too much time with mine over the past few days.”
“Really? Did you have a good Christmas?” She seems genuinely interested, not in a rush to make him an overpriced drink and shoo him out the door.
“Yeah, I mean, I guess it just gets more and more anticlimactic, but it was nice to see everybody. They were reading off my articles from the Times website and nobody’s ever as proud of your work as your family, you know?”
“You write for the Times?” Her eyes have gone all big. Dammit, maybe he shouldn’t have said anything. “Don’t you all know the New York City hot spots? My boss always complains about how you guys are taking away all of our business.”
“We’re not all hipsters. And sometimes it’s nice to know you can find the same coffee you liked yesterday on a different street corner.” He pauses, running his tongue against his teeth. “Sorry, that sounded completely creepy.”
“No, it just sounds like you need an espresso shot,” she says, her smile crinkling her nose again in a way he decides he definitely likes, “and because you’re not a hipster yet, I’ll put some whipped creme and caramel on top.”
The zipper on his coat rattles as he laughs. There’s nothing wrong with a little productivity.
December 27
“Today,” Dan says, smiling his slightly crooked smile, “I want black tea with two percent milk.” It’s the middle of the afternoon slump and he’s been her only customer in the last half hour. She’s put the flavor syrups in alphabetical order.
“That’s pretty English of you. I sold my last crumpet this morning, though.” She manages to keep a straight face by concentrating on the double cups and grabbing the right kind of tea.
“I never really figured out what crumpets were.” He’s got his messenger bag again, so it looks like there’s another article to write. After the espresso shot last night, he finished in an hour and they talked for a few minutes before anybody came in, mostly about the perks of Starbucks and he’d been way too impressed when he found out she went to Juilliard, but she’s finally started getting used to it after three and a half years.
“Neither did I. Weren’t they in Harry Potter, even?” The tea steams hot against her cheeks. “I didn’t ever find out, anyway.”
“So anything could be a crumpet?” His smile becomes a little more uneven, revealing a dimple on his right cheek. “Even a brownie?”
“We’re out of those peppermint ones until next November, I think.” The word makes something catch in her throat. Where will she be, next November? All her grad school apps have been mailed for at least a month, and she didn’t reapply to Juilliard. She swallows against it. “But I guess a regular one could be a crumpet. An American crumpet?”
“Sounds tasty. Give me a brownie, Cristina, and I’ll be back when I finish this article, okay?” There’s something in his eyes as she hands him the tea and rings him up. It glimmers and hesitates and her throat catches again.
“And, I wanted to ask,” he starts again, his voice the sonic representation of the look in his eyes, “would you maybe want to grab dinner tomorrow or the day after? My treat.”
She has to look away, run a towel unnecessarily against the espresso machine, so he can’t see the tears clouding her eyes. She can’t fully explain them to herself, either. She coughs, trying to free up her throat, and replaces the towel behind the counter. She blinks, three times, until she can see him, still unevenly smiling and dimpled, until she knows that she can do this.
“I’m free the day after tomorrow,” she says, “but tomorrow I’m working at night. If you have another article or something.” She doesn’t quite realize she’s leaning her hands, pressing on the counter, until she feels his palms on them, warm-hot from the tea, until she can smell the scent of his skin, hardly a counter length away.
“That’s perfect,” he says. It’s something just like that, tea and dimples and the swirling snowflakes outside the huge glass windows.
Then why the hell is his face blurring with her tears? It’s just a dinner date. So she forces herself to smile.
December 28
Dan stretches his fingers backwards, his knuckles almost pressing rainbow pools of color on the screen of his laptop. He finished his article for tomorrow this morning, and really this is one of his side projects and ordinarily he’d be at a bar or watching a DVD. But last week the Times published one of his side projects -- “Ten Things We Were So Over In 2009” -- because they needed three more inches, and hey, who knows if they’ll have another few inches open next month. And Cristina’s working late tonight, which is way better than here’s looking at you kid echoing against the wood floors of his studio apartment, so.
She’s fixing somebody’s drink and he can hear her humming just over Rilo Kiley burbling in the Starbucks sound system. The other night he realized that Juilliard is just a few blocks away, so she’s probably worked here for at least a few years, mostly while he was in Evanston writing dozens of unpublished articles for class and making his own coffee. He might not even be the first guy to ask her out for dinner, and who knows, she seemed at such a random loss yesterday when he asked her out that she might already have a Papageno to her Papagena.
He took out a trial subscription to the Met Player this morning and watched the Magic Flute on his lunch break. At the intermission, when the camera swept over the audience, it occurs to him just how lamely taken with this Starbucks girl he really is. Also he realized that his opera metaphors need some work. But seriously, who’s he to assume? Still, she said yes. Now he’s just got to pick a restaurant.
He doesn’t realize he’s started whistling the Queen of the Night’s aria until he hears Cristina’s laugh and he looks over at her and winks, big and dopey, and really, it’ll all be great. It’ll be fine.
He hits “Save As” in Microsoft Word and titles his newest project: Top Ten Operas Dan Needs To See In 2010. So far, it’s still a blank document. There’s still time.
December 29
She can feel the snow catching in her eyelids, just seeping in through the toes of her suede boots as they walk past Rockefeller Plaza, admiring the giant tree as if they were brand new New York tourists. Which, she guesses, in a way she is, seeing as this has been her first Christmas in the city. Her stomach’s warm from vaca frita and congri from her favorite Cuban restaurant, owned by old Spanish-speaking Chinese men who will give her dessert free since she comes every Thursday for lunch. Cristina’s not sure how Dan found out about it, but it was perfect, talking him through a good order and laughing while he insisted on getting kung pao chicken alongside his yellow rice and sweet plantains. He’d taken her hand when she had rested it on the table and it had been so incredibly easy to smile.
The Chinese waiters were winking the entire time. But it didn’t matter. The snow was falling outside the window again and he was smiling his uneven smile across the table from her, the smile he’s smiling standing next to her right now, his face changing color with the twinkling multicolored strings of lights. Why didn’t she apply here for grad school?
“When I was little,” he says, his voice just low enough that only she can hear, “my parents would take my sister and me to the tree for the unveiling, and my mom would make us thermoses of hot chocolate and bring these jumbo marshmallows. We’d stand in the crowd for hours, but it was always so worth it.”
“You grew up in the city.” She hadn’t realized before. Maybe he’d said something. “I’ve never been here for the holidays.”
“You’re Cuban, right? Any special traditions I should know about?” He turns his eyes upward, as if to gauge the amount of snow that’s going to land in the course of the night.
“Not really. When I was little my Abuelo would roast a pork and my mom would organize this whole big Christmas Eve celebration. My Abuela would cook and my dad would dress up as Santa. My brothers and sisters are a lot younger so I was in charge of teaching them carols. Not all that Cuban,” she says, determined to ignore the lump in her throat. It’s been a perfect date. “Although I guess most people don’t celebrate on Christmas Eve. We call it Noche Buena.”
“Noche Buena,” he echoes, distorting the words with his New York accent.
“Just like that.” She can’t help but giggle as she brushes the snow off the shoulders of her pea coat.
“So, are you a master at cooking Cuban food? That dinner was great.” There’s the weight of his gloved hand against her elbow, accidentally steadying her. She takes a deep breath.
“No, actually, I -- My mom. Um, no, I mean, I’m not such a good cook, just the coffee deal, you know.” A dozen snowflakes cling to her eyelashes. “Sorry.”
“You can tell me, if you want.” His hand snakes down to her wrist, to her hand, pressing the rib of the knitting against her hand. “Only if you want, Cristina.”
“My mom, okay, you know how people have weird traits and after a while you get used to them because, I don’t know, you’ve just known them for so long that everything they do is somehow more normal than anything? She had these thin black hairs on her chin, and she always plucked them, always. Except when she was in a down mood, but she had my sister Esme when I was fourteen, and then she was depressed all the time, but I was doing really well at voice lessons, I was the lead in my junior high musical and my teachers all wanted me to go to this special music school, so I noticed the little hairs on her chin, but I really didn’t think about them and then, the day before New Year’s Eve my freshman year of high school, she woke up early to take a shower, but she -- oh God, oh God, Dan, Papi’s face, I’ll never forget it when he saw her and I just couldn’t stop screaming and I couldn’t let the little kids see and so I made them come outside and we walked for an hour and I couldn’t stop crying but I had to tell them that Papi and I had had a fight about school and that’s why I was screaming.” She slaps at her face to stop the tears that are streaming down her cheeks, probably to freeze mid-fall, icicle tears. A perfect little family walks past and they’re probably staring but it doesn’t matter, she’s too concerned with stopping herself from sobbing and shivering so messily in the middle of Rockefeller Plaza. If only he had waited a week, if he hadn’t asked in just the right voice, soft and steady, the right pressure of his hand against her. “I couldn’t talk for a semester, my voice teacher let me make up the lessons over the summer.” The soft stream of words steadies her a little. Dan pulls her toward him, and she’s pressed up against him and that steadies her a little more, his arms around the small of her back.
He holds her like that, rocking a little bit back and forth, until her sobs subside into sniffles.
“I didn’t know,” he says, in that low murmur she knows is meant only for her. “I’m so sorry, Cristina. Tomorrow.”
“It got better.” The words are muffled by the puff of his coat. The red fabric scratches a little against her cheek. “I lived with my grandparents for a while and we learned Italian together and then junior year Papi and the little kids got a new house and we all moved in there. They bought me a grand piano for Christmas, that year, and as a thank you I swore to sing an hour of carols every day until New Year’s. It’s one of the new traditions. I got in here and somehow we could afford it with scholarships and everything. And next year, well...” Her voice trails off. She is not going to start sobbing again.
“One day at a time, sweetie,” he says, but the words sound uncertain even as he holds her closer and runs his fingers up and down her back.
“Thank you.” She tries to make the words hold everything she’s feeling. They’re like stuffing a pizza into tupperware, though, completely insufficient. “It’s just -- it’s tomorrow. And she always took me to my lessons, with my first teacher. I should’ve known. I mean, everyone told me I couldn’t have known, I shouldn’t blame myself, but today, tomorrow, I don’t know. I’m so sorry for crying like this. It was such a good date.”
“It’s still a good date, Cristina. Are you working tomorrow?” She nods against him. “Please tell me it’s not in the morning. I have to go into work for a meeting.”
“Dinnertime. Five to nine at night. Nobody’s ever in.” She lets herself play with the toggle of his zipper, enjoy the nasal sound it makes as she zips and unzips in a syncopated rhythm.
“I’ll be there.” He cups her cheeks and she’s looking straight into his eyes and they’re only a little hazy and unsure. Mostly they’re looking straight into her and they’re smiling and they’re tinged red and green and blue by the lights and somehow she relaxes against him.
December 30 (The Eve of New Year’s Eve)
Cristina’s eyelids are swollen when Dan walks into the Starbucks, a book in his hand. He only had some blurbs to write at work and he finished them over lunch at the office, so tonight it’s just a Kundera re-read and Cristina. Hopefully mostly her.
“You up for helping me figure out what I feel like drinking?” All of New York is out eating dinner, not drinking coffee, not yet. He can take her hand in his. “I’m not used to being in Starbucks this much. Usually I just get coffee in the morning.”
“I had a decaf Java Chip frappuccino a half hour ago, when I first got here,” she says. Her voice wavers a little. “I could leave off the whipped creme if it’d make you feel more manly.”
“Mmm, I’ve always been more of a caramel man. Grande. Decaf. I’ll even spring for the whipped creme and raise you some sprinkles.” He waggles his eyebrows, and by some coffee-scented miracle she rewards him with a smile. “I’ll buy you one too, if you want. I get paid on Friday.”
“No, it’s okay, I’ll be crazy sugar high and honestly it’s not too good for my voice.” The sentence tapers off into uncertainty. There’s a question he’s got to ask before he actually springs for a real Met Player subscription. He’s gotten halfway through Marriage of Figaro and if there’s a Figaro to her Susanna... He’s just going to have to put the question out there.
“I know today’s a bad day, but I need to make sure -- you don’t have a boyfriend, do you? Or if you do I’ll stop being a creeper. Just, let me know?” He can feel his face turning red.
“No,” she says, soft but certain. “It’s just grad school freaking out. And today. But it’s just you.” A smile blooms slowly across her features, first her mouth, then her cheeks, and finally her eyes, and this is definitely one of those New York City moments that belongs in a rom-com, it’s that perfect and suspended.
“Nice,” he says. At this point he couldn’t stop smiling if somebody held a gun to his head. “And honestly, grad school will be fine. I was freaking out most of senior year and it all worked out.” She may or may not have forgotten his drink, but that was never the point.
“Where’d you end up?”
“Northwestern. That campus is beautiful, really. I hear the practice rooms have a great view of Lake Michigan.” Somebody told him that when he’d gone on a tour the summer before applying. He’d never been to the music building in his two years there.
“I applied there.” There’s still that reluctance in her voice. “We’ll see, I guess.”
“Where do you want to go?” He tries to say it casually, like he’s asking what she hopes the weather will be like tomorrow, but really he can feel his pulse twitching in his temples. He tries to push his shoulders down, to make himself relax.
“If I can get in, I guess, Colburn. It’s in LA and it’s free and I like the teacher there.” She rushes the words out. They gush past her lips and her voice wavers a little towards the end. He forces himself to smile.
“California sunshine,” he says, hoping it doesn’t sound hollow. “Hey, I was thinking, you were saying yesterday about that one family tradition where you had to sing carols until New Year’s? Do you maybe want to let me in on it?”
“What if someone comes in?” She’s got her back to him, she’s loading up a blender with ice and caramel and espresso, but her voice sounds more steady. “This isn’t Coldstone.”
“I’ll stop you before they come in. Come on, I can’t believe we’ve been on a date and I haven’t heard you sing.”
She purses her lips but it comes out a smile.
“Okay,” she says, “but if you don’t warn me in time, then I’m done, got it?” But there’s this energy about her, like she might keep singing regardless.
She places her hands on the counter, just outside the frame of her body, tilts her chin a little forward, looks him in the eye, and begins to sing. It’s "O Come O Come Emmanuel", he’s heard it dozens of times over the years, but not in a Starbucks resounding with the charm of her voice, spinning like gold and silver pinwheels, blooming like a jeweled flower made of sound waves instead of rocks. Her mouth is hardly open, as though this is no effort at all, and still the coffee shop is filled with the sound of her singing, twining her voice around the melody line, giving each of the words more mystery than the lyrics themselves imply. She runs through three verses, and he feels his shoulders tensing and relaxing in cadence with her breath. He’s got to start watching more opera. He’s got to pay attention better to her in this moment, study the rapt expression on her face that tells him she’s barely aware of her surroundings, of the green apron swathed around her. When she stops singing she smiles and Dan is breathless.
“How in hell are you worried about getting into grad school?” That’s probably not the right thing to say, but still the words burst out of him. “That was the most amazing thing I’ve ever heard.”
She smiles, but it’s not a diva’s smile, it’s casual, like anybody could do what she just did.
“Welcome to my family’s Christmas tradition,” she says, handing him his decaf caramel frappuccino.
If it weren’t for the glass front and the counter between them, he would jump her right here. Instead, he smiles and waits for the next song. After all, the store’s still empty.
December 31 (New Year’s Eve)
It’s lucky that her roommate likes to go clubbing, Cristina thinks, smoothing her hand down the sequined black dress she found in Sasha’s closet. Dan had mentioned this Times party like it was no big deal, but late last night she’d Googled it and freaked out. This is the kind of place where real opera stars go, or the leading ladies of Broadway, not Cristina Gonzalez the singer from Starbucks.
Still, Dan’s got his arm around her waist and she’s sipping a glass of champagne and she’s actually gotten some compliments on Sasha’s dress. It’s ten minutes to midnight.
“Are you going to make a New Year’s wish?” she asks him, raising her glass to her lips.
“Is this another Cuban tradition I’m missing?” he says, his hand tracing concentric circles on her back. “I do, however, know who I want to kiss in ten minutes.”
“First kiss at midnight. You’re a lucky guy.” Last night they’d agreed on it as one of those things so corny it’d probably be actually romantic, not to mention if anyone saw them she’d probably get fired. “But honestly, you don’t eat twelve grapes at midnight and make a wish?”
“If there were grapes here we could try it.” He looks around the room, scanning for fruit dramatically, letting out an overdone sigh as he runs his fingers through her hair. “Alas, I think the tradition will have to wait until next year.”
“Next year.” The echo makes her stomach twinge. Next year, next year... Where?
“Listen,” he says, in that special murmur, just loud enough that it cuts over the clink of glass and the murmur of celebrated conversation, “next year wherever. In Miami. LA. I was thinking, Cristina, if you can still stand me next year... Let’s just say your buddy Dan has got a plan.”
“Oh?” Five minutes to midnight and she can see his dimple.
“I’m going to sit in Starbucks and write you letters every single day. And you are going to get sick of the smell of coffee and of my handwriting, and maybe of whatever lame non-journalism letter writing skills I have. You, meanwhile, are going to call me and after we’ve talked about everything we can think of, you’re going to sing me something. Oh, and I’m going to start watching opera. Met Player is pretty magical, you know.” She likes how quickly he lays it out, slurring his words just slightly so the phrases pour out a little faster.
“Even though that needs a lot of work as far as plans go, you know,” she says, stepping towards him so she can lay her hand against him, “I really like it. We can even spend Christmas in New York. As long as we see the tree.”
“As long as we visit Starbucks. And you wear that green scarf.” Two minutes to midnight. She’s wearing her favorite lip gloss, the one Abuela bought her from MAC last Christmas. It tastes like coconut. “Did I ever tell you how much I like that green scarf?”
“It’s not mine, though. It’s Sasha’s, like this dress.” She takes another sip of champagne, enjoying the feeling of the bubbles bursting against the roof of her mouth.
“New Year’s Resolution Number One: Buy Cristina Scarf,” Dan says, just like a headline except it’s a minute to midnight and his arms are around her and they’re all counting down, fifty-six, fifty-five!, and this could actually be okay.
“New Year’s Resolution Number Two: Figure Out Dan’s Starbucks Drink,” she counters, smiling as if she already knows that the new year will turn out perfectly, down to the littlest details.
Five, the room intones, four, three, two, one! Somewhere, a ball of crystal drops and everything is new and the same, familiar and novel and darling. There are Dan’s lips on hers, the shared taste of champagne, grape-wishes between them, fireworks and his tongue running against her teeth. There are a thousand wishes swimming behind her closed eyelids, hundreds of hopes and if-onlys interplaying with everything going on around her, the first seconds of the new year.
She presses her eyes shut tight, splays her fingers against Dan’s back, makes a wish. Somehow or another it’ll be okay.
pg, original fiction, 5366 words. for seakisst, the fourth challenge at inrevelations. enjoy! ♥
When you wish the world becomes brighter. So wish -- it's what makes the holidays the holidays.
- Starbucks Holiday Cup 2009
December 24 (Christmas Eve)
Dan hasn't finished his Christmas shopping. It's cliché, sure, but he’s been busy the past few weeks with all kinds of crazy deadlines at the Times. Hopefully his parents will understand. They were pretty pumped when he got the job, after all. All the money they’d paid for his master’s at Northwestern actually came to something this past July. Come to think of it, he probably owes them some pretty nice presents, which is a little obnoxious since they’re always so vague on what, precisely, they would like to receive on Christmas morning. And for all that money is great, he can’t imagine wrapping up a couple of fifties for each of them. So that’s out.
While he’s walking and thinking, a Starbucks logo catches his eye across the street. Not that there aren’t thousands in New York City, but this particular one is on his way. Some strong coffee might be the key to gift-giving inspiration, anyway. It’s worth a shot. It’s worked on the last half-dozen articles, particularly after one in the morning.
There’s a line -- finding the perfect present seems to be a communal New York headache -- but Sinatra’s playing and Dan’s always been a sucker for those old-time crooners. He might even spring for a venti of the Christmas blend. By some kind of luck nobody appears in line behind him, so his being lost in thought doesn’t illicit the normal grunts and sighs he’s come to expect from a half-awake coffee run.
The girl at the counter’s wearing a green scarf shot through with silver thread. It doesn’t quite match the green of her apron, but she has a cute smile when he asks for his order.
“Can I get a venti Christmas coffee? And do you have any of those peppermint brownies?” He got paid last Friday and he hasn’t found anything particularly exciting to spend the money on, aside from his rent. Might as well amuse the taste buds. “Otherwise I’d like one of those cranberry bars. Come to think of it, can I get one of each?”
“Last-minute shopping?” Her voice is shot through with a laugh, making it sparkle, like her scarf.
“How’d you guess?” He pulls out his wallet and bookmarks a ten dollar bill with his index finger. “My unenthused expression? My extravagant order?”
“It’s Christmas Eve,” she replies, slipping his red paper cup into a cardboard sleeve. “I was bound to get lucky at some point.”
“Yeah, I’m spending the holiday with my parents on Long Island. My sister’s flying in from Seattle with her husband and kids. Sorry, you probably don’t want to know that.” Her hair’s caught up in a messy braid and she’s like the quintessential Starbucks girl, cute and a little hipster in the right proportions.
“No, it’s cool. Your total’s going to be eight seventy-five. Do you want a receipt?” She holds her fingers over the cash register hesitantly. During the week he gets paid to notice little things like that. It’s a hard habit to put an end to.
“Sure,” he says, handing over his money.
Of course, of course, her hand brushes his when she places the receipt, dollar bill, and quarter into his palm. He glances at her and she has this little smile on her face. New York is so notoriously sterile that they all have to get off on little accidental touches here and there.
“I hope you have a merry Christmas --” he starts.
“I’m Cristina,” she says, turning her smile up a notch as she fiddles with the CD display on the counter.
“Well, Cristina, I hope it’s great. I’m Dan.” Maybe this is dumb, but it’s Christmas Eve, and wasn’t it Sinatra (or maybe it was one of his buddies) that sang about believing in Christmas miracles?
“Merry Christmas, Dan.”
It could be the beginning of a beautiful something-or-other, but the jing-a-ling of the door indicates that Starbucks is open for business, and this girl has a job to do. He has presents to buy. It’s a good thing Starbucks makes their coffee strong.
December 25 (Christmas Day)
Cristina crosses her arms and thinks of sultry beaches and shimmering waves of heat. She’d forgotten that churches could be so cold in the winter and her only red dress is strapless. Christmas Day is exactly what the title implies for voice majors, since all the Broadway stars want to be home with their families or Christmas shows or their big drama or whatever it is Broadway stars do today.
It’s not that it’s not a big deal to sing at St. John the Divine on Christmas morning. Her voice teacher had asked her about it glowingly, and Papi had told her it was all right that she couldn’t come home this year, just so long as she made sure to visit over spring break. And there’s always the hope, for her and every other person at Juilliard, of being discovered as the next big thing to make millions doing classical music.
So she’s singing “What Child Is This” and “Adeste Fideles” St. John’s this morning, and when she’s done she’ll call her family and they’ll make sure to rustle the wrapping paper into the phone and they’ll probably tell her that the Miami sunshine misses her in their smiling, sing-song voices. She’ll put the phone on speaker and repeat the carols, just for them. Later this afternoon, she’ll think about that guy, Dan was his name, who walked into her Starbucks yesterday. She’ll strain to hear a wisp of Spanish-tinged conversation, if she decides to venture out into the city streets, a scarf wound snugly around her neck. But that’s afterwards.
When she sings here, in ten or fifteen minutes, her voice will resound off of the stone with half an echo and she will feel absolutely timeless, perfectly gorgeous, even shivering a little in the crimson gown. It’ll be a short Christmas, but it’ll be enough.
December 26 (Boxing Day & Gift Return)
Night time isn’t a good time for coffee, but Dan’s entire body relaxes when he walks inside that Starbucks from the other day. There’s the girl from Christmas Eve, Cristina, the only solid thing in his memories amidst the haze of dubiously cashmere scarves and grilling doodads and a hundred other discarded gift ideas. It didn’t help that his sister had reinstated their Christmas drinking game -- a drink every time Mom started a sentence with “I feel so blessed” -- which they’d had to stop midway through dinner after Sophie started hiccupping.
“Can I help you?” It’s only after she says it that he realizes how far he’s drifted, which is a shame because he’s been hoping to see Cristina for a solid 56 hours or so. Give or take a half hour.
“Oh man, sorry about that. What do you recommend to fix the after-Christmas blues?” He adjusts the strap of his messenger bag, trying to ignore the twist in his stomach. “I’m open to suggestions.”
“I had a hazelnut latte with cinnamon and caramel and whipped creme about an hour ago, but that’s pretty girly. You like your coffee strong, right?” She splays her fingers against the faux-granite countertop. “I could make you an espresso shot.”
“I have an article to write,” Dan says, patting his bag, “but I’m not sure I want to be up until five in the morning. Does anybody actually drink their coffee that way?”
“My grandparents.” She wrinkles her nose as she smiles. “They tell me all the milk and sugar I put in my coffee will make me fat. They’re Cuban -- and you probably don’t want to hear about my grandparents. Um, let me think. Do you like tea at all?”
“I like tea if it’s not that herbal crap, raspberry and vanilla. And I don’t mind hearing about your grandparents, really.” He takes a step closer to the counter, noticing the way the light glints off the fun-sized packages of granola. “I’ve spent a little too much time with mine over the past few days.”
“Really? Did you have a good Christmas?” She seems genuinely interested, not in a rush to make him an overpriced drink and shoo him out the door.
“Yeah, I mean, I guess it just gets more and more anticlimactic, but it was nice to see everybody. They were reading off my articles from the Times website and nobody’s ever as proud of your work as your family, you know?”
“You write for the Times?” Her eyes have gone all big. Dammit, maybe he shouldn’t have said anything. “Don’t you all know the New York City hot spots? My boss always complains about how you guys are taking away all of our business.”
“We’re not all hipsters. And sometimes it’s nice to know you can find the same coffee you liked yesterday on a different street corner.” He pauses, running his tongue against his teeth. “Sorry, that sounded completely creepy.”
“No, it just sounds like you need an espresso shot,” she says, her smile crinkling her nose again in a way he decides he definitely likes, “and because you’re not a hipster yet, I’ll put some whipped creme and caramel on top.”
The zipper on his coat rattles as he laughs. There’s nothing wrong with a little productivity.
December 27
“Today,” Dan says, smiling his slightly crooked smile, “I want black tea with two percent milk.” It’s the middle of the afternoon slump and he’s been her only customer in the last half hour. She’s put the flavor syrups in alphabetical order.
“That’s pretty English of you. I sold my last crumpet this morning, though.” She manages to keep a straight face by concentrating on the double cups and grabbing the right kind of tea.
“I never really figured out what crumpets were.” He’s got his messenger bag again, so it looks like there’s another article to write. After the espresso shot last night, he finished in an hour and they talked for a few minutes before anybody came in, mostly about the perks of Starbucks and he’d been way too impressed when he found out she went to Juilliard, but she’s finally started getting used to it after three and a half years.
“Neither did I. Weren’t they in Harry Potter, even?” The tea steams hot against her cheeks. “I didn’t ever find out, anyway.”
“So anything could be a crumpet?” His smile becomes a little more uneven, revealing a dimple on his right cheek. “Even a brownie?”
“We’re out of those peppermint ones until next November, I think.” The word makes something catch in her throat. Where will she be, next November? All her grad school apps have been mailed for at least a month, and she didn’t reapply to Juilliard. She swallows against it. “But I guess a regular one could be a crumpet. An American crumpet?”
“Sounds tasty. Give me a brownie, Cristina, and I’ll be back when I finish this article, okay?” There’s something in his eyes as she hands him the tea and rings him up. It glimmers and hesitates and her throat catches again.
“And, I wanted to ask,” he starts again, his voice the sonic representation of the look in his eyes, “would you maybe want to grab dinner tomorrow or the day after? My treat.”
She has to look away, run a towel unnecessarily against the espresso machine, so he can’t see the tears clouding her eyes. She can’t fully explain them to herself, either. She coughs, trying to free up her throat, and replaces the towel behind the counter. She blinks, three times, until she can see him, still unevenly smiling and dimpled, until she knows that she can do this.
“I’m free the day after tomorrow,” she says, “but tomorrow I’m working at night. If you have another article or something.” She doesn’t quite realize she’s leaning her hands, pressing on the counter, until she feels his palms on them, warm-hot from the tea, until she can smell the scent of his skin, hardly a counter length away.
“That’s perfect,” he says. It’s something just like that, tea and dimples and the swirling snowflakes outside the huge glass windows.
Then why the hell is his face blurring with her tears? It’s just a dinner date. So she forces herself to smile.
December 28
Dan stretches his fingers backwards, his knuckles almost pressing rainbow pools of color on the screen of his laptop. He finished his article for tomorrow this morning, and really this is one of his side projects and ordinarily he’d be at a bar or watching a DVD. But last week the Times published one of his side projects -- “Ten Things We Were So Over In 2009” -- because they needed three more inches, and hey, who knows if they’ll have another few inches open next month. And Cristina’s working late tonight, which is way better than here’s looking at you kid echoing against the wood floors of his studio apartment, so.
She’s fixing somebody’s drink and he can hear her humming just over Rilo Kiley burbling in the Starbucks sound system. The other night he realized that Juilliard is just a few blocks away, so she’s probably worked here for at least a few years, mostly while he was in Evanston writing dozens of unpublished articles for class and making his own coffee. He might not even be the first guy to ask her out for dinner, and who knows, she seemed at such a random loss yesterday when he asked her out that she might already have a Papageno to her Papagena.
He took out a trial subscription to the Met Player this morning and watched the Magic Flute on his lunch break. At the intermission, when the camera swept over the audience, it occurs to him just how lamely taken with this Starbucks girl he really is. Also he realized that his opera metaphors need some work. But seriously, who’s he to assume? Still, she said yes. Now he’s just got to pick a restaurant.
He doesn’t realize he’s started whistling the Queen of the Night’s aria until he hears Cristina’s laugh and he looks over at her and winks, big and dopey, and really, it’ll all be great. It’ll be fine.
He hits “Save As” in Microsoft Word and titles his newest project: Top Ten Operas Dan Needs To See In 2010. So far, it’s still a blank document. There’s still time.
December 29
She can feel the snow catching in her eyelids, just seeping in through the toes of her suede boots as they walk past Rockefeller Plaza, admiring the giant tree as if they were brand new New York tourists. Which, she guesses, in a way she is, seeing as this has been her first Christmas in the city. Her stomach’s warm from vaca frita and congri from her favorite Cuban restaurant, owned by old Spanish-speaking Chinese men who will give her dessert free since she comes every Thursday for lunch. Cristina’s not sure how Dan found out about it, but it was perfect, talking him through a good order and laughing while he insisted on getting kung pao chicken alongside his yellow rice and sweet plantains. He’d taken her hand when she had rested it on the table and it had been so incredibly easy to smile.
The Chinese waiters were winking the entire time. But it didn’t matter. The snow was falling outside the window again and he was smiling his uneven smile across the table from her, the smile he’s smiling standing next to her right now, his face changing color with the twinkling multicolored strings of lights. Why didn’t she apply here for grad school?
“When I was little,” he says, his voice just low enough that only she can hear, “my parents would take my sister and me to the tree for the unveiling, and my mom would make us thermoses of hot chocolate and bring these jumbo marshmallows. We’d stand in the crowd for hours, but it was always so worth it.”
“You grew up in the city.” She hadn’t realized before. Maybe he’d said something. “I’ve never been here for the holidays.”
“You’re Cuban, right? Any special traditions I should know about?” He turns his eyes upward, as if to gauge the amount of snow that’s going to land in the course of the night.
“Not really. When I was little my Abuelo would roast a pork and my mom would organize this whole big Christmas Eve celebration. My Abuela would cook and my dad would dress up as Santa. My brothers and sisters are a lot younger so I was in charge of teaching them carols. Not all that Cuban,” she says, determined to ignore the lump in her throat. It’s been a perfect date. “Although I guess most people don’t celebrate on Christmas Eve. We call it Noche Buena.”
“Noche Buena,” he echoes, distorting the words with his New York accent.
“Just like that.” She can’t help but giggle as she brushes the snow off the shoulders of her pea coat.
“So, are you a master at cooking Cuban food? That dinner was great.” There’s the weight of his gloved hand against her elbow, accidentally steadying her. She takes a deep breath.
“No, actually, I -- My mom. Um, no, I mean, I’m not such a good cook, just the coffee deal, you know.” A dozen snowflakes cling to her eyelashes. “Sorry.”
“You can tell me, if you want.” His hand snakes down to her wrist, to her hand, pressing the rib of the knitting against her hand. “Only if you want, Cristina.”
“My mom, okay, you know how people have weird traits and after a while you get used to them because, I don’t know, you’ve just known them for so long that everything they do is somehow more normal than anything? She had these thin black hairs on her chin, and she always plucked them, always. Except when she was in a down mood, but she had my sister Esme when I was fourteen, and then she was depressed all the time, but I was doing really well at voice lessons, I was the lead in my junior high musical and my teachers all wanted me to go to this special music school, so I noticed the little hairs on her chin, but I really didn’t think about them and then, the day before New Year’s Eve my freshman year of high school, she woke up early to take a shower, but she -- oh God, oh God, Dan, Papi’s face, I’ll never forget it when he saw her and I just couldn’t stop screaming and I couldn’t let the little kids see and so I made them come outside and we walked for an hour and I couldn’t stop crying but I had to tell them that Papi and I had had a fight about school and that’s why I was screaming.” She slaps at her face to stop the tears that are streaming down her cheeks, probably to freeze mid-fall, icicle tears. A perfect little family walks past and they’re probably staring but it doesn’t matter, she’s too concerned with stopping herself from sobbing and shivering so messily in the middle of Rockefeller Plaza. If only he had waited a week, if he hadn’t asked in just the right voice, soft and steady, the right pressure of his hand against her. “I couldn’t talk for a semester, my voice teacher let me make up the lessons over the summer.” The soft stream of words steadies her a little. Dan pulls her toward him, and she’s pressed up against him and that steadies her a little more, his arms around the small of her back.
He holds her like that, rocking a little bit back and forth, until her sobs subside into sniffles.
“I didn’t know,” he says, in that low murmur she knows is meant only for her. “I’m so sorry, Cristina. Tomorrow.”
“It got better.” The words are muffled by the puff of his coat. The red fabric scratches a little against her cheek. “I lived with my grandparents for a while and we learned Italian together and then junior year Papi and the little kids got a new house and we all moved in there. They bought me a grand piano for Christmas, that year, and as a thank you I swore to sing an hour of carols every day until New Year’s. It’s one of the new traditions. I got in here and somehow we could afford it with scholarships and everything. And next year, well...” Her voice trails off. She is not going to start sobbing again.
“One day at a time, sweetie,” he says, but the words sound uncertain even as he holds her closer and runs his fingers up and down her back.
“Thank you.” She tries to make the words hold everything she’s feeling. They’re like stuffing a pizza into tupperware, though, completely insufficient. “It’s just -- it’s tomorrow. And she always took me to my lessons, with my first teacher. I should’ve known. I mean, everyone told me I couldn’t have known, I shouldn’t blame myself, but today, tomorrow, I don’t know. I’m so sorry for crying like this. It was such a good date.”
“It’s still a good date, Cristina. Are you working tomorrow?” She nods against him. “Please tell me it’s not in the morning. I have to go into work for a meeting.”
“Dinnertime. Five to nine at night. Nobody’s ever in.” She lets herself play with the toggle of his zipper, enjoy the nasal sound it makes as she zips and unzips in a syncopated rhythm.
“I’ll be there.” He cups her cheeks and she’s looking straight into his eyes and they’re only a little hazy and unsure. Mostly they’re looking straight into her and they’re smiling and they’re tinged red and green and blue by the lights and somehow she relaxes against him.
December 30 (The Eve of New Year’s Eve)
Cristina’s eyelids are swollen when Dan walks into the Starbucks, a book in his hand. He only had some blurbs to write at work and he finished them over lunch at the office, so tonight it’s just a Kundera re-read and Cristina. Hopefully mostly her.
“You up for helping me figure out what I feel like drinking?” All of New York is out eating dinner, not drinking coffee, not yet. He can take her hand in his. “I’m not used to being in Starbucks this much. Usually I just get coffee in the morning.”
“I had a decaf Java Chip frappuccino a half hour ago, when I first got here,” she says. Her voice wavers a little. “I could leave off the whipped creme if it’d make you feel more manly.”
“Mmm, I’ve always been more of a caramel man. Grande. Decaf. I’ll even spring for the whipped creme and raise you some sprinkles.” He waggles his eyebrows, and by some coffee-scented miracle she rewards him with a smile. “I’ll buy you one too, if you want. I get paid on Friday.”
“No, it’s okay, I’ll be crazy sugar high and honestly it’s not too good for my voice.” The sentence tapers off into uncertainty. There’s a question he’s got to ask before he actually springs for a real Met Player subscription. He’s gotten halfway through Marriage of Figaro and if there’s a Figaro to her Susanna... He’s just going to have to put the question out there.
“I know today’s a bad day, but I need to make sure -- you don’t have a boyfriend, do you? Or if you do I’ll stop being a creeper. Just, let me know?” He can feel his face turning red.
“No,” she says, soft but certain. “It’s just grad school freaking out. And today. But it’s just you.” A smile blooms slowly across her features, first her mouth, then her cheeks, and finally her eyes, and this is definitely one of those New York City moments that belongs in a rom-com, it’s that perfect and suspended.
“Nice,” he says. At this point he couldn’t stop smiling if somebody held a gun to his head. “And honestly, grad school will be fine. I was freaking out most of senior year and it all worked out.” She may or may not have forgotten his drink, but that was never the point.
“Where’d you end up?”
“Northwestern. That campus is beautiful, really. I hear the practice rooms have a great view of Lake Michigan.” Somebody told him that when he’d gone on a tour the summer before applying. He’d never been to the music building in his two years there.
“I applied there.” There’s still that reluctance in her voice. “We’ll see, I guess.”
“Where do you want to go?” He tries to say it casually, like he’s asking what she hopes the weather will be like tomorrow, but really he can feel his pulse twitching in his temples. He tries to push his shoulders down, to make himself relax.
“If I can get in, I guess, Colburn. It’s in LA and it’s free and I like the teacher there.” She rushes the words out. They gush past her lips and her voice wavers a little towards the end. He forces himself to smile.
“California sunshine,” he says, hoping it doesn’t sound hollow. “Hey, I was thinking, you were saying yesterday about that one family tradition where you had to sing carols until New Year’s? Do you maybe want to let me in on it?”
“What if someone comes in?” She’s got her back to him, she’s loading up a blender with ice and caramel and espresso, but her voice sounds more steady. “This isn’t Coldstone.”
“I’ll stop you before they come in. Come on, I can’t believe we’ve been on a date and I haven’t heard you sing.”
She purses her lips but it comes out a smile.
“Okay,” she says, “but if you don’t warn me in time, then I’m done, got it?” But there’s this energy about her, like she might keep singing regardless.
She places her hands on the counter, just outside the frame of her body, tilts her chin a little forward, looks him in the eye, and begins to sing. It’s "O Come O Come Emmanuel", he’s heard it dozens of times over the years, but not in a Starbucks resounding with the charm of her voice, spinning like gold and silver pinwheels, blooming like a jeweled flower made of sound waves instead of rocks. Her mouth is hardly open, as though this is no effort at all, and still the coffee shop is filled with the sound of her singing, twining her voice around the melody line, giving each of the words more mystery than the lyrics themselves imply. She runs through three verses, and he feels his shoulders tensing and relaxing in cadence with her breath. He’s got to start watching more opera. He’s got to pay attention better to her in this moment, study the rapt expression on her face that tells him she’s barely aware of her surroundings, of the green apron swathed around her. When she stops singing she smiles and Dan is breathless.
“How in hell are you worried about getting into grad school?” That’s probably not the right thing to say, but still the words burst out of him. “That was the most amazing thing I’ve ever heard.”
She smiles, but it’s not a diva’s smile, it’s casual, like anybody could do what she just did.
“Welcome to my family’s Christmas tradition,” she says, handing him his decaf caramel frappuccino.
If it weren’t for the glass front and the counter between them, he would jump her right here. Instead, he smiles and waits for the next song. After all, the store’s still empty.
December 31 (New Year’s Eve)
It’s lucky that her roommate likes to go clubbing, Cristina thinks, smoothing her hand down the sequined black dress she found in Sasha’s closet. Dan had mentioned this Times party like it was no big deal, but late last night she’d Googled it and freaked out. This is the kind of place where real opera stars go, or the leading ladies of Broadway, not Cristina Gonzalez the singer from Starbucks.
Still, Dan’s got his arm around her waist and she’s sipping a glass of champagne and she’s actually gotten some compliments on Sasha’s dress. It’s ten minutes to midnight.
“Are you going to make a New Year’s wish?” she asks him, raising her glass to her lips.
“Is this another Cuban tradition I’m missing?” he says, his hand tracing concentric circles on her back. “I do, however, know who I want to kiss in ten minutes.”
“First kiss at midnight. You’re a lucky guy.” Last night they’d agreed on it as one of those things so corny it’d probably be actually romantic, not to mention if anyone saw them she’d probably get fired. “But honestly, you don’t eat twelve grapes at midnight and make a wish?”
“If there were grapes here we could try it.” He looks around the room, scanning for fruit dramatically, letting out an overdone sigh as he runs his fingers through her hair. “Alas, I think the tradition will have to wait until next year.”
“Next year.” The echo makes her stomach twinge. Next year, next year... Where?
“Listen,” he says, in that special murmur, just loud enough that it cuts over the clink of glass and the murmur of celebrated conversation, “next year wherever. In Miami. LA. I was thinking, Cristina, if you can still stand me next year... Let’s just say your buddy Dan has got a plan.”
“Oh?” Five minutes to midnight and she can see his dimple.
“I’m going to sit in Starbucks and write you letters every single day. And you are going to get sick of the smell of coffee and of my handwriting, and maybe of whatever lame non-journalism letter writing skills I have. You, meanwhile, are going to call me and after we’ve talked about everything we can think of, you’re going to sing me something. Oh, and I’m going to start watching opera. Met Player is pretty magical, you know.” She likes how quickly he lays it out, slurring his words just slightly so the phrases pour out a little faster.
“Even though that needs a lot of work as far as plans go, you know,” she says, stepping towards him so she can lay her hand against him, “I really like it. We can even spend Christmas in New York. As long as we see the tree.”
“As long as we visit Starbucks. And you wear that green scarf.” Two minutes to midnight. She’s wearing her favorite lip gloss, the one Abuela bought her from MAC last Christmas. It tastes like coconut. “Did I ever tell you how much I like that green scarf?”
“It’s not mine, though. It’s Sasha’s, like this dress.” She takes another sip of champagne, enjoying the feeling of the bubbles bursting against the roof of her mouth.
“New Year’s Resolution Number One: Buy Cristina Scarf,” Dan says, just like a headline except it’s a minute to midnight and his arms are around her and they’re all counting down, fifty-six, fifty-five!, and this could actually be okay.
“New Year’s Resolution Number Two: Figure Out Dan’s Starbucks Drink,” she counters, smiling as if she already knows that the new year will turn out perfectly, down to the littlest details.
Five, the room intones, four, three, two, one! Somewhere, a ball of crystal drops and everything is new and the same, familiar and novel and darling. There are Dan’s lips on hers, the shared taste of champagne, grape-wishes between them, fireworks and his tongue running against her teeth. There are a thousand wishes swimming behind her closed eyelids, hundreds of hopes and if-onlys interplaying with everything going on around her, the first seconds of the new year.
She presses her eyes shut tight, splays her fingers against Dan’s back, makes a wish. Somehow or another it’ll be okay.