Transcription
My stilettos click on the polished bamboo floor of my office, a sharp counterpoint to the silent desperation radiating from my monitor. The projections are stark. We're 5% down. 5%. With only 9 days left in the month, in the quarter, in the year, 5% might as well be 50.
My jaw tightens. I lean forward, the silk of my blouse whispering against the sharp tailoring of my blazer. I'm wearing the red sold heels today, the ones that add 4 inches of pure intimidation, paired with a mini skirt that's all business because that's what I'm all about. I look up from the numbers, my gaze sweeping over the open-plan office visible through my glass wall. My team, my resources, my assets, and my gaze lands, as it sometimes does, on Khloe Mason. She's our junior graphic designer, and for a fleeting, unprofessional moment, I register that she's, well, cute in that messy bun, soft cardigan kind of way. Her desk is covered in little sketches and a framed picture of a kid. It's all very quaint.
Then she pulls out her phone. A flash of pure, cold irritation goes through me. I push back from my desk, the chair gliding silently. She's checking her phone while my company is 5% in the red. The audacity.
"I want everyone in the main conference room. 5 minutes." I snap at my assistant as I sweep past her desk. I don't wait for a reply. I stride through the office, the staccato click of my heels announcing my displeasure. Heads snap up, keyboards clatter. That's better. I pass the rows of desks, the air crackling with nervous energy. I reach the end of the hall where the frosted glass doors lead to the lobby, and I'm stopped by a sound. A cheerful, horribly grating sound. A group of carolers, decked out in red scarves and matching hats, are singing "Joy to the World." Their voices echo in the sterile, high-ceilinged lobby. I look them over, my expression flat. "Not another Christmas carol," I sigh, pushing through the conference room doors.
My team files in, their faces a mix of exhaustion and dread. They know this look. They know this meeting. "Sit," I say, and they scramble. I stand at the head of the long granite table. "I'm looking at our end-of-month projections," I begin, my voice clipped. "And they are not good." I let the silence hang, heavy and uncomfortable. "We are 5% shy of our goal. 5% in what is meant to be our strongest quarter." I rest my hands on the table, leaning in. "I don't need to remind you that the economy is challenging. Our competitors are not taking the week off. Our clients are not filled with holiday cheer. They are looking at their own bottom lines. And if we want to prevail, if we want to survive, we need to give it our all. That means all hands, all week." A collective, stifled groan.
Someone in the back, one of the coders, dares to speak. "But Miss Vance, what about Christmas bonuses?" I fix him with a look that could freeze water. "Bonuses," I say, my voice dangerously soft. "Are paid when the monthly goals are met. It's really that simple. Hit the target, get the reward. Miss it." I let the threat hang now. "If there are no more questions, get back to work." They file out, a defeated herd. I gather my tablet, my mind already on the three reports I need to eviscerate tonight.
"Miss Vance." I turn. It's Khloe Mason standing in the doorway, wringing her hands. She's still standing there, waiting. "Don't you have work to do, Miss Mason?" I ask, my patience gone. "Yes, of course. I just... I wanted to talk to you in private." I let my eyes travel over her. She's wearing a soft, worn-looking sweater, jeans, and flat boots. She is cute. The flush on her cheeks, the slight tremble of her lower lip. It's a pity.
"Really? You're talking to me now?" I say, right? "Well," she takes a deep breath. "It's about the holiday schedule. You see, my daughter, Mia, she's sick. Just a bad cough, but the doctor's worried about it. And we just moved here, so I don't have any family to look after her. And she's rambling. An elaborate story, just as I thought. So, I was hoping I could have Christmas Eve and Christmas Day off to be with her. She's only four."
I look at her. Really look at her. The desperation is rolling off her in waves. It's unprofessional. "Ms. Mason," I say, tapping my pen against my tablet. "You are an adult. You are, of course, free to take those days off. You are capable of making your own decisions." A slow smile of pure relief spreads across her face. "Oh, thank you, Ms. Vance. Thank you."
"So," I cut her off. "And I," I continue, my voice like ice, "need to make business decisions. I need a team that is dedicated to hitting our goals. If you're not here, I will have to find someone who is." Her face crumples. The light in her eyes, the hope, it just dies. It's fascinating, in a clinical way. "I... I understand," she whispers. Her shoulders slump. She doesn't even look at me as she turns and walks away. I watch her go, that brief, annoying twinge of something flickering in my gut. I dismiss it. It's just indigestion.
I work until 11 p.m. The office is silent, a tomb of productivity. I ride the elevator down, walk through the empty lobby, and out into the cold, uncaring city. My apartment is just as I like it. Clean lines, no clutter, no people, just glass and steel, and a view that cost a fortune. I go straight to the master bathroom, a sanctuary of marble and chrome. I turn the heavy, minimalist hardware, and steam soon begins to rise from the freestanding tub. While it fills, I walk to the kitchen, my heels clicking on the tile. I open the wine fridge, select a deep cabernet, and pour a generous glass. Back in the bathroom, I shed the day's armor: the sharp blazer, the silk blouse, the tight skirt. I unhook my bra and let it fall, finally unconstrained. I step into the scalding water and sink down until it reaches my chin. I take a sip of wine. It's dry and complex. Outside the floor-to-ceiling window, the city glitters, oblivious. I close my eyes, trying to let the water soak away the tension in my shoulders, trying to erase the 5% deficit from my brain. I finish the wine, the glass leaving a ring of condensation on the marble edge. The water is cooling. I get out, wrap myself in a ridiculously plush robe, and finally go to bed. The sheets are cold.
I wake up, and my first thought is cold. A bone-deep, invasive cold that the plush, ridiculously high thread-count duvet can't touch. My alarm clock glows. 1:00 a.m. I've been asleep for maybe an hour. My robe is a damp heap on the floor. I must have kicked the blankets off. Shivering, I swing my legs out of bed. My bare feet hit the freezing marble floor, and I pad toward the smart home panel in the hall to crank the thermostat. This apartment is big and impossible to keep warm. As I reach the hallway, I see it. A soft, warm light spilling from the master bathroom. I sigh. I must have left it on after my bath. Sloppy. I hate being sloppy.
I turn toward the bathroom, my hand already outstretched, ready to shut it off. And I stop dead. There's someone in there. A woman. She's standing in front of the vanity, her back to me. She's changing. She's pulling a simple white cotton shirt over her head. And I get a flash of a smooth, toned back. My heart seizes. My first instinct is security. Panic. 911. How did someone get in here? My penthouse is supposed to be impenetrable. She finishes pulling the shirt down. It hangs loosely on her frame, and then she turns. My breath hitches. It's not a stranger. It's... No, it can't be.
"Hello, Emily," she says. My heart stops, then pounds so hard I think it might crack a rib. "You can't be real," I manage. My voice sounds strangled. "I drank too much wine. This is... This is a stress dream or a stroke. I'm having a stroke." Still rationalizing everything I see. Anya tilts her head, and God, even that gesture is achingly familiar. "Some things never change." She extends her hand toward me. It's translucent, shimmering like heat waves off summer pavement. I can see the outline of my duvet through her fingers. "What the heck?" I breathe. "Language, Emily." But she's grinning now, and it hurts to look at. "Come on. We don't have all night." "I'm not going anywhere with a hallucination." "You're not hallucinating. You're being haunted. There's a difference." She stands, and I notice she's not quite touching the floor. She's hovering just slightly. "I'm the Ghost of Christmas Past. Your past, specifically. And we have some things you need to see."
"Anna, take my hand." M. The nickname lands, bringing back all sorts of memories and pains. No one has called me that in years. I look at her translucent hand, then at her face. Those dark eyes are serious now. Against every logical instinct I possess, I reach out. Her hand is cold but solid. The moment our fingers touch, my bathroom dissolves. The cold air is gone, replaced by the scent of pine needles and my mom's Christmas cookies. I hear my dad's laugh, a deep, booming sound that I haven't heard in person in over a year. We're in my childhood home. It's chaotic, messy, and screaming red and green. I'm 16, sitting on the shag carpeted living room floor, my parents on the sofa, beaming. And then, my younger self is saying, her voice bright and full of a naivete that makes me wince, "I'm going to apply for the accelerated program at Wharton, and I'll be able to intern by sophomore year, which means I'll be on the fast track for an analyst position before I'm 22." My mom, who looks so much younger, just laughs and looks at my dad. "She's got it all planned, doesn't she?" "That's our Emily," my dad says, his voice thick with a pride that hits me like a physical blow. "She's going to take over the world." I'm watching them, my 26-year-old self, and a deep, painful crack forms in my chest. They were so proud. I... I forgot this. I forgot how happy they were. How happy I was, wrapped up in my ambition.
"You were so full of life," Anna's voice says beside me. I turn, and she's watching me, not the scene. The memory fades, the warmth and pine scent dissolving. We're in a lecture hall, university. I'm 18, sitting in the back row of Art History 2011, completely out of my element. I'm a business major. I'm only taking this class for the humanities credit. And there, at the front of the room, is Anna. She's giving a presentation on Renaissance art, her hands moving as she talks, her eyes bright with passion. She's wearing a flannel shirt rolled to her elbows and has about six different rings on her fingers. She's brilliant, magnetic. I watch 18-year-old me try to take notes and fail completely because I can't stop staring. After class, I watch as Anna corners my younger self by the door. "You were staring," Anna says. "19-year-old me, cocky and trying to hide being flustered. You were worth staring at," I say, in unison with my younger self, and the complete loss of words I felt in that moment with her. Anna grins, delighted. "Buy me coffee, and maybe I'll let you do it again." "You were so insufferably confident," I say to ghost Ana. She raises an eyebrow. "Pot meet kettle."
The memories come faster now. A montage of falling in love. Late-night study sessions in the library that always ended with us making out in the stacks, dancing in her tiny apartment to music from her record player. Both of us terrible dancers, but not caring. Her painting me. The only time I remember truly relaxing, sitting still for hours just to watch her work. We're in her bed, tangled together. "You're going to change the world, Em," she says softly. "We're going to change it together." She traces my face, fingers trailing along my jaw. "Promise me something." "Anything." "Promise me you won't lose yourself in the climb. Don't let ambition eat the parts of you that are real." I kiss her slow and deep. "I promise you'll keep me grounded. You'll remind me." Present me's chest feels like it's being crushed in a vice. Ghost Anna's hand finds mine again, squeezes, and the scene melts.
We're at a cafe. The cheap wooden table is sticky. I'm 20 again, but I'm wearing my first ever blazer. My hair is pulled back in a severe bun. Anna is across from me, her eyes red, a tear tracing a path through the foundation on her cheek. "I don't understand," she's saying, her voice thick with tears. "It's just an internship. It's for the summer." "It's not just an internship, Anya," my younger self says, and I hate the sound of her voice. "It's my future. It's Bain. I don't have time for this." "This," she chokes out. "For us." "I'm sorry," my younger self says, and she sounds bored. I'm watching the devastation break across her face. I'm watching myself stand up, put $5 on the table for her coffee, and walk out the door without looking back. The woman, whose body I know better than my own, is weeping into her hands, and I'm the one who did it to her.
We're back in my bedroom. Ghost Anna releases my hand, and I stumble back against my headboard. "It wasn't," I say, my voice breaking. "None of it was worth it." Anna's face softens. "You always were a slow learner." "Are you?" I swallow hard. "Are you happy wherever you are?" She's quiet for a moment, and something in her expression makes my stomach drop. "I'm dead." M. The words are a punch to the gut. "What?" "Quick, at least," she says it matter-of-factly, but I can see the old pain there. "But yes, I was happy. I saw the world. All of it. I fell in love again a few times. Actually, I painted until the day I died. I had a life full of beauty and messiness and joy." "I can't breathe." "I didn't know." "I... [clears throat] never..." "You blocked my number after graduation, deleted my social media, cut me out completely." She's not accusing, just stating facts. "I tried to reach out a few times in the first year. After that, I let you go." "Anna, you could have been happy, too." "M, you chose this emptiness. But here's the thing." She floats closer. "You still can choose differently. It's not too late." She's starting to fade, her form becoming more transparent. "Wait." I reach for her, but my hand passes through. "The next one's much more fun than me," she says. And I can hear the smile in her voice. "Try to flirt less obviously." "Yeah." "Anya, I never stopped." But she's gone. I'm alone in my bedroom, the words dying on my lips.
I'm still staring at the spot where Anna disappeared when my bedroom explodes with warmth and golden light. It's not gradual. One second I'm in the cold and dark, and the next I'm surrounded by what feels like concentrated sunshine, brighter than a tanning booth. "Well, hello there, gorgeous." The voice is warm honey and bells and laughter all at once. I spin around, floating, actually floating, feet a good 6 inches off my floor, is the most absurdly beautiful woman I've ever seen. And I've seen a lot of beautiful women in my time. She has curves that make my mouth go dry, long blonde hair that falls in waves past her waist, and it seems to have its own light source, glowing gold at the edges. She's wearing a flowing ice-blue dress that manages to be both ethereal and obscenely attractive. Cut low enough that I have to actively stop myself from staring at her chest. I fail. I stare. She notices. "I'm literally dead," she says, grinning. She winks, and I feel heat flood my face. "I wasn't. I didn't." "Oh, sweetie." She floats closer, and up close, she's even more devastating. Blue eyes, full lips curved in amusement. "Anna wasn't kidding. You really do stare." "You talked to Anna?" "Ghost girl talk. Very exclusive club." She links her arm through mine, and despite being dead and translucent, she's warm and solid. "I'm Holly, Ghost of Christmas Present, and you're Emily Vance, and we have a busy night ahead of us." "I'm not going anywhere else." "Anna, I know, honey. I know." Holly's voice gentles. "But we have important things to see, and please," she waves a hand at me, head to toe, "loosen up. That tension cannot be good for your shoulders."
Before I can protest, the bedroom dissolves around us. The sterile gray of my bedroom is gone, replaced by loud music, the smell of stale beer, and bad fluorescent lighting. We're in a bar. A dive bar packed with people. "What is this?" I hiss, trying to pull my hand from hers. "Just watch," Holly says, squeezing my fingers. I see them. My team. They're huddled around a table in the back, pitchers of beer in the middle, doing shots. "A toast," my head of marketing, Mark, slurs, raising his glass. "To the queen of cold. May her 5% never be met." They all laugh, a bitter, angry sound. Then Sarah from finance stands up unsteadily. She puts her hands on her hips, juts one out, and adopts my exact posture. "These goals are non-negotiable," she mimics, her voice a perfect, nasal imitation of mine. "If you're not dedicated, I'll have to find someone who is." The table explodes in laughter. They're mocking me openly. They're celebrating in secret, fueled by their hatred of me. I always thought their fear meant respect. This... This is not respect. This is pure, unadulterated loathing.
The scene shifts. The bar noise fades, replaced by the sound of a rattling wind and a child's cough. We're outside on a dark, narrow street. We're standing in front of a rundown brick walk-up. "This is..." I start. "Khloe Mason's apartment," Holly finishes, her voice losing some of its cheer. She leads me forward, not to the door, but through it. We're inside. The cold is immediate. It's poorly heated. I can see my own breath. The apartment is tiny, just two small rooms, but it's clean. Patches of crayon-drawn pictures are taped to the walls. In the main room, Khloe is on the floor on a thin rug with Mia. Mia coughs, a dry, racking sound that scrapes at my nerves. "Look, Mommy," Mia says, her voice small. She breathes on the cold window pane, her breath a small fog, and draws a smiley face with her finger. Chloe forces a smile and does the same, drawing a heart. They have fun, just for a minute, their fingers tracing patterns in the condensation. Then the moment breaks. Chloe sighs, a sound of bone-deep exhaustion, and kisses Mia's head. "Go play with your doll, sweetie. Mommy has to... Mommy has to work." She gets back to her laptop, which is sitting on a small, wobbly card table, and I see the screen. It's a job site. She's scrolling through listings for junior graphic designers. Her face pale, her eyes red from crying. She's terrified I'm going to fire her. I feel something... a little bad. I don't want to fire her. She's good at her job. But I learned early on, back when I was an intern, that you have to be tough. If you show weakness, if you're nice, people will walk all over you. They'll take and take, and you'll be left with nothing.
"Is... Is Mia going to be okay?" I ask, my voice sounding hollow in the small room. Holly, standing next to me, just shakes her head. The smile is gone. "She will be," she says, her voice flat. "If Chloe can afford the medicine and pay the heating bill, which on her current salary, with inflation being what it is, it's looking pretty rough." "I didn't know," I whisper. "You never asked," Holly's voice is gentle but firm. "About anyone? You never ask about their lives, their families, their struggles. They're just resources to you. Assets." I watch Chloe cry silently at her kitchen table and I want to reach out, want to apologize, want to do something. "Come on," Holly says. "One more thing."
Chloe and Mia are decorating cookies at the kitchen table. Both of them covered in flour and laughing. Mia is healthy here, rosy-cheeked and giggling as she makes a cookie with way too much frosting. There's a knock at the door. Chloe opens it, and my entire team is standing there with bags of food and wrapped presents. "We couldn't let you spend Christmas alone," Sarah says, and they pile in, bringing the cold air and warmth and noise. They celebrate together, eating and laughing and exchanging small gifts. It's beautiful. It's everything I've never had. "This is what tonight could have been," Holly says. "If you'd shown an ounce of humanity. If you'd thought about anyone besides yourself and your bottom line." I watch the happy scene. Watch Khloe smiling. Really smiling, open and genuine, and I feel hollow. "She's beautiful when she smiles," I say without thinking. Holly's face lights up like Christmas morning. "Ooh, interesting. Very, very interesting." I realize what I've said. "I didn't... I meant professionally. She's a good employee." "Uh-huh. Sure." Holly is grinning now, practically vibrating with delight. "I'm serious." "I just..."
A sudden chill fills my apartment. We're back in my bedroom. Holly's entire face transforms with excitement. "Oh, she's early." "Kylie? Who?" I start to ask, but the lights go out. Everything goes dark except for a pale, eerie blue glow emanating from the corner of my room. "Holly," a voice says from the darkness. It's low, sultry, carefully controlled. "I'm working." "I know." Holly squeals. "Actually squeals. But you're here. I've been looking forward to this all night." The blue glow intensifies, and a figure materializes from the shadows. She's tall and slender with straight black hair that falls to her waist like a dark waterfall. Her makeup is dramatic: smoky eyes, dark lips, and she's wearing something between a Victorian morning dress and modern goth fashion. All black lace and velvet and drama. She should be terrifying. She's clearly trying to be terrifying. But Holly is floating toward her with all the subtlety of a golden retriever seeing its favorite person. "Kylie. Hi. You look amazing. Is that a new dress?" The mysterious figure, Kylie, apparently tries to maintain her ominous aura. "Holly, I'm in the middle of a haunting." "You're always working." Holly is right next to her now, blatantly checking her out. "When are you going to let me take you out?" Well, metaphorically, since we're dead. But still. I'm staring at this surreal interaction, my brain struggling to process. "What is happening?" I say flatly. Kylie turns to me, and I can see her gathering her dignity, trying to be ominous and terrifying. "I am the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come." "Your hair is so soft," Holly interrupts, actually touching Kylie's hair. "What conditioner do you use? Even dead, it's perfect." Kylie, this supposedly terrifying harbinger of future doom, blushes. Actually blushes. "Holly, please. The mortal is watching." "She has a name, Holly says, still playing with Kylie's hair. It's Emily. M. Isn't Kylie stunning?" They both look at me expectantly. "Yes," I say, because honestly, she is. Kylie covers her face with her hands. "I'm supposed to be terrifying." "You're adorable," Holly. "Cuz I am an omen of death and consequence." Despite watching my team mock me, despite seeing Khloe's pain, I almost laugh. Kylie takes a deep breath, clearly trying to regain her composure. Holly is still holding her hand. "Emily Vance," Kylie says, her voice dropping into that ominous register again. "You must come with me to witness what will be if you continue on your current path." "Do I have a choice?" "No." "Great." Holly gives Kylie's hand a squeeze. "Don't be too scary, okay? She's had a rough night." "That's literally my job." "I know, but..." Kylie silences her with a look, but I can see the fondness in it. Then she turns to me, and her expression goes cold and remote. "Take my hand," she commands. I look at Holly. "Are you coming?" "Wouldn't miss it." She's still beaming at Kylie. I take Kylie's hand, and my bedroom dissolves into darkness.
We're in my office, but it's different. Newer furniture, different art on the walls. The view outside shows construction that isn't there yet. I'm at my desk. Future me. I look harder, somehow. Sharper edges. My hair is pulled back so tightly it must hurt. I'm wearing all black, and there's no warmth in my expression at all. "Where's our new designer?" Future me snaps at someone I don't recognize. "Still settling in, Ms. Vance, learning our systems." "Is she as fast as Chloe was?" "Not yet. But then she needs to be faster. We don't have time for a learning curve. The only curve I want to see is that of our gross income going up." The name lands like a punch to my chest. Chloe. I look around the office wildly. "Where is she? Where's Chloe?" Kylie's expression is unreadable. "She found a position at a smaller firm. Better hours, less bonus, but she gets to tuck Mia in every night." "But she's... she's talented." "She is happy." Holly says softly. "She chose happiness over money. Novel concept, I know. Look at me, all big brain tonight." I watch my future self work. Cold and efficient and completely alone. She doesn't look up from her computer for hours. No one comes to her with questions. No one stops by to chat. The glass walls of my office might as well be a prison. "When is this?" I ask. "One year from now," Kylie says. "Only one year. And I've already lost her."
The scene shifts before I can process it. 10 years later, a lavish party. Champagne and caviar and people in designer clothes. Everyone is congratulating me, shaking my hand. I'm 50 years old, and I've just sold my company for an obscene amount of money. I should be celebrating. I've won. I've achieved everything I set out to achieve. But future me stands alone in a room full of people, nursing a drink, looking at nothing. Then I see her, Chloe. She's here as a guest, invited by someone else. She's successful in her own right. I can tell by the way she carries herself, the confidence in her smile. Her hair is shorter, stylish. She's wearing a beautiful dress, and she's holding hands with a woman, tall, elegant, with warm brown skin and kind eyes. They're both wearing wedding rings. Future me sees them. For just a moment, something cracks in that carefully controlled expression. Something that might be regret or longing or loss. Chloe's eyes meet mine across the room. For a second, I think she might come over. Then her expression hardens. She steers her wife in the opposite direction, and I watch as they disappear into the crowd. "I'm left alone." "She never forgave you," Kylie says quietly. "She built a good life, a happy life, but she never forgot how you made her feel." Holly is still crying now, clutching Kylie's arm. "This is worse than that Victorian orphan haunting I did that one time." Kylie strokes her hair absently, and I realize this is just routine for them. This tenderness, this care. "Can we?" My voice cracks. "Is there more?" "Another," Kylie says. "The final act." I don't want to see it, but I nod anyway.
A hospital room, sterile, white. The beeping of machines is the only sound. Future me is in the bed. I'm old, mid-60s, though I look older. I'm dying. I can tell by the way the nurses move around me, by the doctor's expression. "Ms. Vance," the doctor says gently. "Is there anyone we should call? Family? Friends?" Future me laughs, and it's the saddest sound I've ever heard. "There's no one to call." The doctor's face falls. "I'm sorry." "Don't be. I did this to myself." I watch myself die alone. No hand to hold. No one to say goodbye to. No one to tell that I'm scared. That I have regrets. That I wish I'd done everything differently. The machines flatline. The doctor calls the time of death. A nurse pulls a sheet over my face. That's it. That's my ending. Holly is full-on weeping now. Her face buried in Kylie's shoulder. Kylie is holding her tight, one hand cupping the back of her head. And I can see wetness on her cheeks, too. "The final vision," Kylie says, her voice rough. A cemetery. Rain falling. The grass is overgrown in places. Neglected. My gravestone is modest. Emily Vance, 1999 to 2063. Founder and CEO. No beloved mother, no loving partner, no grieving friends, just my name and my title. The sum total of my existence reduced to a job. There are no flowers, nowhere from visiting hands. The grass around it is undisturbed. Then a figure approaches. A woman in her 40s holding an umbrella. It takes me a moment to recognize her. Mia, Khloe's daughter, all grown up. She stands at my grave for a moment, looking down at the stone. "My mom told me about you once," she says to the gravestone. "She said you taught her what kind of person she never wanted to be, what kind of boss she'd never become. She built her whole company on the opposite of everything you stood for." Mia pauses, then adds, "So, I guess thank you for being a cautionary tale, for showing her exactly what not to do." She leaves. That's it. That's the only person who comes. And she came to thank me for being a warning.
We're back in my apartment. I fall to my knees on my bedroom floor. And I don't care that it's dramatic or weak or unprofessional. "No." I gasp. "No, I don't want this. I don't want any of this." Kylie kneels beside me. Actually kneels, not floating, and her hand on my shoulder is steady. "The future is not set, but this is the path you're on." "How do I change it?" I look up at her, desperate. "Please tell me how to change it." "You know what you need to do." "I have to make it right." The words tumble out. "Chloe, my team, my mother, all of it. I have to... I have to be better. I have to be human again." Holly brightens immediately, floating over. "Oh, thank God. I was so worried you'd be stubborn about it." "Some people see their lonely death and they're still like, 'But my quarterly profits.'" "Holly," Kylie says, but she's almost smiling. "Sorry, I'm just relieved." Holly beams at me. "That's our girl. Character growth. We love to see it." I'm still on my knees, shaking, but I manage. "What happens now?" Kylie stands, offering me her hand. "Now you wake up and you make different choices." I take her hand, let her pull me up. "Will I remember this?" "Every moment," she says. "That's the point." Holly floats over to Kylie, linking their arms together. "So, since she's going to fix everything and become a better person and probably get a cute girlfriend, Holly, you could let me show you that haunted library I mentioned. You know, the one with the paranormal romance section and all those dark corners, perfect for..." "I should return to my duties," Kylie says. "Your duties can wait an hour. You've been working non-stop for like three centuries." "Two centuries still. You deserve a break." Holly takes both of Kylie's hands. "Come on, just 1 hour. We can float through the stacks. You can tell me about all the depressing Victorian ghosts. I can flirt shamelessly." "You're already flirting shamelessly." "Then I can flirt even more shamelessly." Kylie looks at her for a long moment, then so quietly I almost miss it. "1 hour." Holly actually squeals, throwing her arms around Kylie's neck. "Yes! Best night ever. Well, except for Emily's emotional devastation and trauma. But she's going to fix that." Holly grins at me. "Good luck, Emily. Vance. Be less of a disaster. We're rooting for you." Kylie inclines her head. "May you find redemption and happiness." "And maybe get laid," Holly adds. "You seem tense. Very, very tense." "Holly, what?" "I'm just saying." They start to fade. Holly pulling Kylie close. "Now, about that library. Do you think they have a romance section? Because I have some ideas." "You're incorrigible." "You like it?" "Unfortunately, I do." Their voices echo as they disappear. Holly's laughter mixing with Kylie's exasperated but fond responses. Then they're gone, and I'm alone in my bedroom.
A sliver of light cuts across my face. My eyes crack open. The first thing I feel isn't cold or dread. It's the rough texture of the carpet on my cheek. I'm on the floor, tangled in my sheets, which I must have dragged with me when I passed out. My body aches, a deep, bone-bruised soreness from my encounter with Kylie. My head throbs, but as my eyes focus, I realize it's morning. Real, actual morning light is streaming through my floor-to-ceiling windows. I sit up, my hair a wild, tangled mess, my throat raw. I'm alive. I'm in my own bed, or on my own floor. It's real. It's over. A laugh bubbles up in my throat. It's a harsh, rusty sound. I'm free. The clock on the wall reads 6:03 a.m., and the date, December 24th, Christmas Eve. It's Christmas Eve. A manic, giddy energy floods my system, more potent than a triple espresso. I'm not too late. I haven't missed it.
I scramble to my feet, grabbing my phone. My hands are shaking. I dial my assistant, Sarah, the one who did the impression of me at the bar. She picks up on the third ring, her voice groggy and confused. "Miss Vance, it's... it's 6:00 in the morning. Is something wrong with the servers?" "Sarah!" I shout, my voice cracking with an enthusiasm that must be terrifying to her. "Sarah, what day is it?" "It's Christmas Eve, ma'am." "It's Christmas Eve," I confirm, laughing. I'm already in the bathroom turning on the shower, my phone balanced precariously on the sink. "Listen to me. I need you to send a companywide email right now. An email at 6 on Christmas Eve." "Yes, the most important email." "Tell everyone. Tell them the office is closed for the rest of the week." "What? But Miss Vance, the goals?" "Forget the goals. Screw the 5%." I yell, stripping off my clothes and stepping into the scalding water. "Tell them it's a paid holiday. The whole week paid." "Ma'am, I don't..." "And bonuses, Sarah. Bonuses. Everyone's getting a Christmas bonus. Double it." I stick my head under the water, letting the heat wash away the last of the graveyard's chill. I pop back out, sputtering. "No, wait. Triple it. Triple everyone's bonus and tell them... tell them I'm sorry. And... and Merry Christmas." I hang up before she can say another word, dropping the phone onto the bathmat. I shower in record time. Not my usual methodical routine, but a frantic, joyful scrub. I'm giggling. Me, giggling. I run to my closet, past the rows of identical black, gray, and navy blazers. I grab the first soft thing I can find. A pair of jeans I haven't worn in years and a cashmere sweater the color of oatmeal. I pull on flat boots. No stilettos. Not today. I grab my keys, my wallet, and I'm out the door. The city is just waking up.
I get to the mall as the stores are opening. I run, literally run, through the entrance. My first thought, my old Emily thought, is to go to the electronics store. A tablet, a smartphone. What does a 4-year-old want? Then I stop. Holly's voice. Chloe's face. She's a kid, not a small adult. I pivot and head straight into the toy store. It's an explosion of color and noise. I'm overwhelmed. I have no idea what I'm doing. I grab a shopping cart. I see a display for something called L.O.L. Surprise. I don't get it. They look like weird, angry bunnies. But the sign says "all the rage." So I grab five. I go through the aisles like a woman possessed. A giant fluffy unicorn. Blocks, a doll that cries, a doctor's kit, a bright red tricycle. I keep piling things into the cart, my confusion warring with a new, fierce determination to get this right. By the time I get to the register, I have two full carts. The cashier looks at me like I'm insane. I don't care. "Last-minute gifts?" the cashier asks as she rings up the items. I nod, pulling out my card. "A last-minute change of heart."
Next, the grocery store. Not the organic market I usually have deliver my kale and quinoa. A real, sprawling supermarket. I grab the biggest cart. The list in my head is a jumble of Holly's visions and my mother's old recipes. A turkey, the biggest one they have, a ham, bags of cranberries, potatoes, onions, pre-made pie crusts, flour, sugar, butter, so much butter, hot chocolate, marshmallows, a bottle of sparkling cider for Mia, and a very, very good bottle of champagne for Chloe and me. I fill the cart until it's overflowing. It's a feast. It's perfect. After I somehow manage to get everything back to my apartment, loading it onto a bellman's cart I strong-arm from my doorman, I leave the groceries in the entryway. I load the unwrapped, chaotic pile of toys into the back of my Rivian, and then I drive. My hands are gripping the wheel, shaking. This is harder than any IPO. This is harder than facing down a board of angry investors. I'm driving to her apartment, the one from the vision, the rundown brick walk-up. I park, my sleek black car looking absurd on the grimy street. I just sit there for a full minute, my heart trying to escape my chest. What am I doing? What if she slams the door in my face? I deserve it. I get out. I walk up the cracked, icy steps. I find her apartment. 3B. The paint on the door is peeling. I can hear a faint cough from inside. I raise my hand. I knock. The sound is loud in the quiet, cold hallway. I hear shuffling. The door opens. Just a crack, held by a chain. Khloe's eye peers out, wide and terrified. "Who is...?" Her eyes land on me. The terror intensifies. She fumbles with the chain and opens the door. She's in a worn-out flannel robe, her hair in a messy bun, her face pale. She looks exhausted and scared. "Miss Vance," she whispers, her voice hoarse. She's instinctively backing away, putting her body between me and the small room. "Chloe." My voice comes out as a croak. All my confidence, all my giddy energy, it's gone. I'm just me, and I'm terrified. "I... I'm so sorry," I stammer, "to bother you at home on Christmas Eve. Are... are you firing me?" she whispers, her eyes filling with tears. "Because I swear, Miss Vance, I was going to come in. I just... Mia's cough was so bad last night." "And no," I say too loudly. "No, Chloe. God, no. I'm not. I'm not firing you." I'm rambling. I can't stop. "I'm the one who should be fired from... from life. I was a horrible, awful person. I'm a monster. What I said to you, it was unforgivable." She's just staring at me, her mouth open, a tear spilling onto her cheek. "You are an amazing employee," I continue, my words tumbling over each other. "You're talented and you're dedicated and you're... you're a better mother than I am... anything. And I am so, so sorry." I'm crying now. Crying in front of an employee in a cold hallway. Pathetic. "I... I brought these," I say, gesturing vaguely behind me. "For Mia, they're in the car. It's a lot. I... I didn't know what she liked. So, I... I got a lot." "You bought my daughter gifts?" she asks, her voice a small squeak of confusion. "And this." I reach into my coat pocket. I pull out an envelope. It's the one from my desk. The one I'd stuffed with cash from my emergency safe before I left. "And a check. It's... It's your bonus. The triple bonus from the company. But this," I point to the thick stack of hundreds, "this is just from me. A personal Christmas bonus for being... for putting up with me. Please take it. Pay the heating bill. Buy me medicine. Whatever you need." She just stares at the envelope, then at me. She doesn't take it. I'm failing. This is all wrong. "And food," I say, desperation making my voice high. "I bought food. Uh, a feast. Just a ridiculous amount of food. And... and I'm all alone. My apartment is... it's just me and I have all this food for a turkey. And... and..." I take a deep, shuddering breath. "I know this is insane, Chloe. I know I'm the last person on Earth you want to see, but I... I can't be alone today. And... and I found out you and Mia would be, too." I finally meet her eyes. "Would you and Mia... would you do me the incredible, undeserved honor of having Christmas Eve dinner with me?" Chloe is speechless. She looks from my face to the envelope and back. She's so quiet. I can hear Mia cough again from inside. That sound. It steals my resolve, but at the same time, I realize the impression I'm making. Like I'm trying to buy goodwill when you can't put a price on a real human connection. "Please," I whisper. "I don't... I don't want to be that person anymore. The one on the headstone. Please help me." She looks at me for a long, agonizing moment. Her eyes scan my face, searching for something. The trick, the catch. And then slowly she nods. "Okay," she whispers. "Okay, Ms. Vance." "Emily," I choke out. "Please call me Emily." She nods again. "Okay, Emily, just let me get us dressed."
An hour later, my sterile, cold apartment is invaded. It's chaos. There's a giant, half-unwrapped tricycle in my minimalist entryway. There are brightly colored and very sharp plastic toys scattered on my white silk rug. And Mia, she's a whirlwind. She's not the shy, coughing child from the vision. She's a bright, loud, giggling force of nature. "Wow, you're rich," she squeals, pressing her hands against the window. "I can see everything." "Mia, don't," Chloe chides, but she's smiling. A small, shy smile. "It's okay," I say. And I mean it. She's right. And then the cooking. I'm in the kitchen, which has every high-end appliance known to man. And I have no idea how to cook a turkey. I've never cooked a turkey. I've never used the oven for anything other than reheating delivery pizza. "It... it has a bag of parts inside it," I say, holding up the bag of giblets with two fingers. My face a mask of horror. Chloe laughs. A real, actual laugh. It's the most beautiful sound I've ever heard. "Here," she says, walking over and gently taking the bird from me. "You wash the potatoes. I'll handle the parts." We cook together, or rather, she cooks, and I follow her instructions clumsily. We bump into each other in the kitchen. We laugh. I'm clumsy. I'm a mess. My apartment, which has never heard anything louder than a financial news broadcast, is filled with the sound of Mia's squeals and the sizzle of turkey. We eat. Mia opens her presents, and her squeals of delight are so pure, so full of unadulterated joy that they crack open that last, final icy part of my heart. After dinner, after Mia has eaten her weight in pumpkin pie and whipped cream, she finally crashes. She crawls onto my ridiculously expensive sofa, clutches the giant fluffy unicorn, and falls asleep, her mouth falling open. A tiny, perfect bubble of drool forms at the corner of her lips and threatens to spill onto the pristine leather. I freeze. My hands clench into fists. "Not on the couch," I think. My voice a silent scream in my head. "Not on the... not on the $2,000 leather couch." Chloe gives me a questioning look. "Emily." I force myself to unclench my hands. I look at Mia's peaceful sleeping face. She's just a child, I tell myself, forcing the panic down. It's just a couch. And the words, to my own surprise, feel true. The apartment goes quiet. It's a new quiet. Not an empty, sterile silence, but a warm, content, breathing silence. Chloe and I sit on the rug, a few feet apart, staring at the gas fireplace I finally figured out how to turn on. We're drinking champagne. "Thank you," she says, her voice soft. "For all of this. I... I still don't understand." "You don't have to," I say, staring into the flames. "I'm the one who needs to thank you. You... You and Mia, you saved my life tonight." "We just had dinner." "No," I say, turning to her. "You did more than that." I take a breath and I tell her not about the spirits. I tell her the truth. "I've been so alone," I whisper. And the admission hangs in the air, real and heavy. "I built my whole life around earnings, around numbers and goals. I thought if I just won, I'd be happy. But I was just empty and cold." She's listening, her eyes fixed on my face. "I was a monster," I say. "You're not a monster," she says softly. "You're just sad." "I was," I agree. "I don't... I don't want to be anymore." I look at her, at her soft, kind face, the flush of champagne on her cheeks. "You're not the woman I thought you were," she says, her voice barely a whisper. "You're not cold at all." "I'm not," I reply, my voice as quiet as hers. "Not anymore." The space between us is buzzing. I lean in just an inch. She doesn't pull away. She doesn't move at all. She just watches me, her lips slightly parted. I lean in the rest of the way and kiss her. I'm shy. Her lips are soft, and they taste like champagne and pumpkin pie. She sighs. A small, trembling sound, and her hand comes up to my cheek. Her fingers are warm. She kisses me back. The kiss deepens. It's sweet. Then there's a tingling. When we pull apart, we're both panting, looking at each other like we just climbed a mountain. "Wow," she whispers. "Yeah," I breathe. We don't say anything else. She looks at Mia, sleeping peacefully on the sofa. I look at her. "We should," she starts. "Stay," I say. "Please." "It's the couches." "Well,"
She's already asleep, and I don't want you to go. She smiles, a slow, beautiful smile that lights up her whole face. Okay.
She gets up and picks up the heavy cashmere throw from my armchair. She drapes it over Mia. Then she comes back, sits on the sofa, and pats the cushion next to her. I sit down, and slowly I lay my head in her lap. Her hand, so small and warm, immediately goes to my hair, stroking it. "Get some sleep, Emily," she whispers. I close my eyes. My head is in the lap of a beautiful woman. A child is sleeping peacefully nearby. For the first time in a long while, I'm not cold. I'm not alone.
It's New Year's Eve, a week after Christmas, and I hardly recognize my own apartment. And I mean that in the best possible way. The sterile, cold mausoleum of glass and steel I used to call home is gone. In its place is well, its home. There's a giant fluffy unicorn slumped against the wall in the entryway. A half-finished drawing of I think a cat dragon is taped to the window. There's a pair of tiny bright pink sneakers by the door. My spare room, which for 6 years I'd used as storage, is now Mia's room. It's painted a soft, buttery yellow. The place feels a lot better than it used to.
It's messy and loud. I'm going to get you, I yell, my voice bouncing off the walls. I'm on all fours, my jeans digging into my knees, my hair a mess. Mia shrieks, a sound of pure, high-pitched joy, and takes off, her stockinged feet skidding on the hardwood floor. No, you're the slow monster. I'm the slow monster. I'm the fastest monster. I lunge, grabbing her around her tiny, giggling waist. I lift her into the air and she screams with laughter. Gotcha! I roar. No, no, no. She laughs, kicking her legs. It tickles. Mommy, help. The monster's got me. I'm still working on my parental skills. My main strategy seems to be unleash the beast and chase her until one of us collapses, usually me.
"All right, you two," Chloe says, her voice a warm, amused counterpoint to our chaos. She's leaning against the kitchen counter, a glass of wine in her hand, a soft, indulgent smile on her face. She's wearing one of my cashmere sweaters and a pair of yoga pants, and she has never looked more beautiful. Take it easy, Emily. You're going to rile her up right before bed. But she called me a slow monster, I protest, still holding Mia aloft. You are slow, Mia insists, booping me on the nose. Okay, okay, monster. Khloe laughs. Put the princess down. It's almost 10:00 and we're letting her stay up for the countdown. She needs to pace herself. You heard your mother," I say to Mia, lowering her to the floor. She immediately scrambles off the play with her new art set. I stand up, my knees cracking. "Dang, I'm getting old." "You're 26, Emily," Khloe says, rolling her eyes, but the smile doesn't leave her face.
I stop, my attention fixed on her. the apartment, the new warmth, Mia's laughter. It's all because of her. I walk over, my steps sure and quiet. I stand in front of her, and the playful energy in the room shifts, coiling into something softer, deeper, and just for us. "Hi," I say softly. "Hi," she whispers back, her eyes sparkling. I put my hands on her waist, pulling her close. Thank you, I murmur. For what? For all of this. For not letting me be the slow monster. You're not a monster at all, she says, her hands coming up to rest on my shoulders. I lean in and kiss her. It's a slow, deep kiss. It's not the tentative question from Christmas Eve. It's a statement. It tastes like her wine and my certainty. It's a promise.
Oh. Mia sings from the living room. Mommy and Emily are kissing. We pull apart, both of us laughing. Mia is peeking over the back of the sofa, rolling her eyes with all the dramatic flare a four-year-old can muster. So gross. You're just jealous, I call back, winking at her. Nuh-uh, she yells and goes back to her drawing. She's something, I say, resting my forehead against Khloe's. She is, Khloe agrees, her voice full of love. And she loves you. Well, I say, I love her, too. And I love you. I love you, too.
We spend the next few hours in a state of happy domestic bliss. We make popcorn. We watch the New Year's Eve specials on TV. And Mia, despite her best efforts, falls asleep on my lap at 11:30 p.m., her small body finally succumbing to exhaustion. "We're almost there," I whisper to Chloe, stroking Mia's fine hair. "She tried," Khloe says, smiling.
At 11:58 p.m., we're standing by the giant window. Mia still asleep in my arms, her warmth a heavy, wonderful weight. Chloe stands beside me, her arm around my waist, her head on my shoulder. We're watching the snow fall over the city. The TV in the background is running the countdown. 10. What a week, Kloe whispers. It's been the best week of my life, I reply. Mine too. 7 6 5 I shift Mia gently, settling her more comfortably on my hip. Four 3 two I turn to Chloe. Her eyes are full of tears and she's smiling. A brilliant, beautiful smile. One. Happy New Year, Emily. Happy new year, Chloe. I lean in and kiss her, a deep loving kiss as the sound of fireworks and cheering erupts from the city below. Mia stirs awake by the fireworks and I set her down. I pull back, but only just. I look into her eyes. My heart is hammering, but it's not from fear. It's from certainty. that same terrifying wonderful certainty. "This is fast," I say, my voice trembling. "And it's insane, and I don't care." With a slightly clumsy, completely ungraceful movement, I get down on one knee. Khloe's hands fly to her mouth. "Emily, what are you?" "Khloe Mason," I say, looking up at her. the love of my life. You and Mia, you completely changed my life in one week. You saved me. You taught me how to feel, how to love. You made my house a home. Oh, Emily, she whispers, tears now streaming down her face. I know it's only been a year, but I have never been more sure of anything in my entire life. I don't want to spend another second of it without you. Will you marry me? Will you be my family? She's crying and laughing and nodding all at the same time. It is insane. She chokes out. Then she looks at Mia, who is stirring, woken by the noise. Mia blinks, rubbing her eyes, and looks down at me on the floor. Chloe smiles, wiping her tears. What do you think, Mia? Should I marry Emily? Mia's face, blurry with sleep, breaks into a grin so wide it threatens to split her face. Yes. She squeals, suddenly wide awake. Totally get married. Then I can have two mommies. Can we? Can we, mommy? Please. Yes, Khloe says, looking back at me, her eyes the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Yes, Emily. I surge up, still holding Mia, and kiss Chloe again. It's a messy, chaotic threeperson kiss full of tears and laughter. I've never felt happier. I'm on top of the world.
An hour later, the apartment is quiet again. I've tucked Mia into her bed in her new yellow room. "Tell me a story," she'd mumbled, her eyes already half closed. "A story? Okay. I sat on the edge of her bed, the unicorn-shaped nightlight casting a warm glow. Once upon a time, there was a a queen, and she lived in a big, tall glass and steel castle, but it was very cold, and she was all alone. "Like you," Mia murmured. My throat tightened. "Yeah, a lot like me." And she was she was a slow monster queen. and she was very very sad even if she didn't know it. But then one day she met a beautiful kind woman and her daughter, a very brave, very smart princess. That's me, Mia whispered, smiling. "That's you." And they came to her castle and they brought warmth and laughter. And they taught the slow, sad queen how to play and how to love. And the queen was never ever cold again. The end. Mia was fast asleep, a peaceful, content smile on her face. I kissed her forehead and quietly closed the door.
I joined Chloe on the sofa. She's poured two more glasses of champagne. She hands one to me, her expression a little sheepish. So, she says, her voice light, but I can hear the nerves. getting married. That was quick. I take her hand, lacing my fingers with hers. I bring it to my lips and kiss her knuckles. Yes. I say it was. And if you have any doubts, if this is too fast, we can wait. We can be engaged for a year, 5 years. I just I needed you to know. She shakes her head, her eyes soft. No doubts, not not real ones. It's just I never thought this could happen to me. This is all I want, I say, my voice thick. You, Mia. This is the only goal that matters. We sip our champagne, the silence comfortable, content. But underneath it, something else is stirring. the same powerful current that's been building between us since that first tentative kiss. I feel like, she says softly, setting her glass down. I set mine down, too. I turn to her. I brush a stray strand of hair from her face. A slow, knowing smile spreads across her face. I lean in and kiss her. The talking, for now, is over. The kiss is deep, languid, full of all the things we've just promised each other. My hands, which have signed milliondoll contracts, which have chased a 4-year-old, now find a new perfect purpose. I let my hands wander, tracing the delicate line of her collarbone sliding up her body, feeling the warmth of her skin under the soft cashmere. I kiss her neck and she lets out a soft shuddering sigh, her head tilting back. Emily, she breathes. Our passion which has been simmering under the surface of our new chaotic family life finally takes over. Her hands are in my hair, pulling me closer. My mouth is on hers, hungry. We're fumbling with each other's clothes. a mess of cashmere and cotton. "I'm in love with every inch of you," I whisper, kissing the soft skin of her shoulder, my lips trailing lower, tasting her. I nibble at her earlobe, and she moans, a soft sound that goes straight to my core. "Emily, I" She gasps, her fingers digging into my shoulders. She pauses, her body tensing for just a second. Wait, she whispers, her eyes darting toward the hallway. Mia, do you think will she hear us? I smile, a slow, confident smile. I kiss her forehead. She's fast asleep, I whisper, my voice full of certainty. She's dreaming of cat dragons and her two mommies. She's not going anywhere. relief and something else. A dark delicious desire floods her features. "Good," she whispers. "We have a lock," I murmur against her lips. She laughs. A throaty wonderful sound. "You're terrible. I'm all yours," I reply. And we go wild. Sugar high. Watching you bake got me feeling so nice. They say candy's bad for your health, but baby, I just can't help myself for you.