Chapter 1
Nikki
ChristmasEvelookslikea glitter bomb exploded on my car. Honestly, it feels personal.
Snow hits the windshield in glittering clumps while the wipers squeal across the glass like they are filing a complaint. The heater wheezes. My little hatchback groans up the mountain road like it wants to quit and roll back to civilization.
I lean closer to the windshield, because apparently that is my survival plan today.
“Congratulations, Nikki,” I mutter. “You are officially the leading lady in a very questionable holiday special.”
The kind where the heartbroken heroine escapes to the woods, finds a cabin, and probably meets either a soulmate or a serial killer. My luck is fifty-fifty at this point.
My suitcase rides shotgun, puffed up so much the zipper is giving me attitude. A roll of ribbon sticks out of the side. One ofmy fuzzy socks is caught in the teeth. My cookie tin rattles in the footwell every time I hit a bump.
Everything smells like cinnamon and vanilla.
It smelled amazing this morning too, when I stillthoughttoday had a chance.
I woke up early, bright and hopeful like a sucker. Holiday pajamas. Hair a mess. Music playing while I rolled gingerbread dough and pretended I lived in one of those cozy videos influencers post for fun.
Flour on the counter. Flour on my cheek. Cookie cutters scattered everywhere. Presents for my parents lined neatly by the door. Shiny paper. Tiny silver stars. The whole scene looked like joy.
I really believed we would have a moment. Maybe decorate the tree. Maybe drink cocoa. Maybe try to act like a family.
I did not need magic. I just wanted bare minimum connection.
Instead I got Instagram.
I wince at the memory and the windshield fogs with my breath. Snow thickens outside. Trees look sugared and perfect. I can't enjoy any of it.
I still see that first story whenever I blink.
Mom’s profile picture at the top of the feed. I tapped it without thinking, expecting a cheesy photo of their living room or one of her artfully staged cocoa mugs.
Nope.
She was at the airport. Hair perfect. Brand new tropical print luggage. A cocktail already in her hand. She smiled into the camera like she was auditioning for a vacation commercial.
“Can you believe we pulled this off last minute?” she said, full of excitement. “Christmas on the beach.”
Dad laughed somewhere behind her. Plane announcements echoed overhead. People rushed past with neck pillows.
I stared at the timestamp.
Postedthree minutes ago.
My stomach dropped. I checked my phone. No call. No text. Nothing.
Maybe it was old. Maybe she posted a memory.
Then she posted another clip. The gate number behind her showed today’s date. A flight to somewhere warm. Somewhere far from me.
Because I am apparently on easy mode for emotional damage, I called.
She answered on the second ring, airy and distracted. “Sweetheart, can this wait” she said, like I had called to ask about the weather and not the fact that she was fleeing the state.
“Are you at the airport?” I asked. I heard how thin my voice sounded.
