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Read on for an excerpt from
An Ex For Christmas
by Lauren Layne
Available from Loveswept
December 15, Early Friday Afternoon
Remember back when you were a kid, and there was no better feeling than the last day of school before Christmas break?
And then you got older, and thought, “Man, those were the days. I wish I could have that moment of pure joy as an adult.”
Pro tip: Become an elementary school teacher. The euphoria isn’t quite the same as when you were a kid, but it’s darn close.
Ten more minutes. Just ten more minutes, and then it’s nothing but eggnog and Bing Crosby for daaaaaaaays.
“Bye, Ms. Byrne, Merry Christmas!”
“Merry Christmas, Alex.” I ruffle the third-grader’s blond curls. Or at least try to. He’s out the door in a flash of holiday-break ecstasy.
“Happy Hanukkah, Ms. Byrne. And Merry Christmas. And Happy Kwanzaa. And—”
“Thank you so much, Danielle. Enjoy your break, sweetie.”
The brunette bounces out the door after Alex, and the rest of my third-grade class follows suit. Some manage a hyper “Merry Christmas!” or “Happy Hanukkah!” but at least half are too excited about the impending two weeks without school. That combined with the sugar rush from Olivia M’s birthday cupcakes causes most of them to just explode out the door in a blur of bright backpacks and muted uniforms as they dash to waiting nannies and private drivers.
And now you’re thinking, Wait, wait, wait—it’s one of those schools?
Yup. It totally is. I’m the third-grade teacher at Emory Academy, a private prep school located in the Tribeca neighborhood of Manhattan. Most of my students have semi-famous parents. The other half are just plain old-fashioned rich.
But don’t you dare go all reverse snob on me, because kids with silver spoons need good teachers, too. Plus, I like to flatter myself into thinking that my small-town-girl-living-in-the-big-city vibe will make them more worldly.
For example, the other day I explained how I used to get to and from school on this yellow beast called a school bus, and it blew their adorable little minds.
“Ms. Byrne?”
The last kid out my door is Madison Meyers, a sweet if slightly precious girl with gorgeous shiny brown hair that I can’t help but notice is impressively impervious to frizz. She doesn’t appreciate it yet, but just wait until high school. She, unlike yours truly, will realize that she hit the hair lottery.
I resist the urge to touch my own messy blond hair and see just how out of control the curls have gotten, courtesy of today’s persistent drizzle.
“Hey, Madison, what’s up?”
She reaches around and pulls off her faux leather (or maybe not so faux; it’s hard to know in this school) backpack.
Shoving her red sparkly headband farther back into her perfect hair, she bends down and rummages around in her bag until she comes up with what seems to be a wad of shredded paper covered in glitter.
“I made this for you,” she announces, thrusting it at me. “Well, me and Sarah.”
Sarah is Madison’s nanny. Or at least she was—I have to wonder if this particular art project didn’t get her fired. I’ve met Madison’s mother, and Mrs. Meyers doesn’t strike me as the type that would allow glitter in her home.
“Thank you,” I say, carefully lifting the gift. I move slowly, stalling for time until I can see what I’m dealing with.
I give it the tiniest shake and the wad unfurls, along with a shower of silver glitter.
Ohhhhh. “A snowflake! It’s beautiful, Madison.”
“I know.” She shoves again at her headband. “I wasn’t satisfied with the snowflake I made in class on Wednesday, so I wanted to double down on my efforts until I produced something I could be truly proud of.”
I carefully hide my smile. “Well, your hard work paid off. This is going straight on my refrigerator.”
She beams and claps her hands in a matter-of-fact gesture I’ve seen her mother do at parent-teacher conferences. “I’m so pleased. Happy holidays, Ms. Byrne.”
“Happy holidays, Madison.”
One of the perks of working in a private school is we don’t have to tread as carefully around the issue of avoiding religious versus secular holidays. The teachers are encouraged to teach their students about all the December holidays, and to take direction from each individual student in their preferred salutation.
Madison scampers out of the room, and Jackie Reyes sticks her head in. “That the last one?”
“Last one.”
Jackie, a friendly fortysomething coordinator who’s responsible for making sure all the kids go home with the right adult, checks something off her clipboard, then moves to follow Madison out to the pickup area. She backtracks and sticks her head in the door, a wide smile on her face. “Almost there.”
She disappears again, and I glance down at my glitter snowflake with a smile.
It’s not that I don’t love my job. I do. I’ve wanted to be a teacher for as long as I can remember, and I can’t ask for a better teaching environment than Emory. If I were to rate my professional life on a scale of 1 to 10, I’m easily in the 9 range, and could be a 10 if Principal Mercedes would just increase my tech budget the tiniest bit.
My personal life, though?
We’re hovering in the dank 3 region.
Two weeks to focus on me is exactly what I need.
Well, that and the boozy eggnog.
And Christmas lights.
And Michael Bublé’s Christmas album.
And maybe something tall, dark, and handsome to hold my hand while begging to listen to “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” just one more time?
Hey, a girl can dream.
Humming “Let It Snow,” I get to work tidying up my classroom—a surprisingly daunting task, considering I just cleaned up last night and today was only a half day. There’s bright green cupcake frosting on the desks, crushed candy canes on the floor, and endless scraps of construction paper, courtesy of this morning’s holiday-card-making session.
For a second I consider taking down some of the holiday decorations adorning the walls, since class doesn’t resume until January 3, but I just can’t do it. Taking down Christmas decorations before the holidays is just wrong. I’d rather come back in late December to clean up than kill my holiday mojo before it’s even started.
Instead, I tidy up my desk just enough so Principal Mercedes can’t find something to complain about if she checks in later.
I’m locking up the cabinets, my song selection now on to “Deck the Halls,” when a lower alto joins my fa-la-la-la. What it lacks in on-keyness it makes up for in enthusiasm.
I turn and see Jessica Trenton, first-grade teacher and work best friend, hopping up onto my desk.
There’s a pretty gold-wrapped present in her hand, a suitcase by the door. Jessica and her fiancé are both from Chicago and are heading home for the holidays.
“See? I told you your flight wouldn’t be canceled,” I tell her.
“Yeah, I had immense faith in your tea leaves,” she says.
“And yet they were right!” I gesture toward the window. “Rain, but not a snowflake in sight.”
“Fair point. Are you aware that you have glitter on your tits?”
I glance down at my black sweater and gray slacks. Sure enough, Madison’s snowflake has left its mark.
“Third-grade hazards,” I say, swiping pointlessly at the glitter.
“I hear you. I found an open container of Elmer’s in my purse the other day.”
“You carry glue in your purse? Very badass.”
“I didn’t put it there. I don’t know which of the little monsters managed to get it into my bag, but my money’s on Hillary Garrett.”
“The sweet little redhead?”
“You�
�re just saying that because her dad’s hot. She’s beastly.”
“You love the tricky ones. And I thought her dad was gay.”
“He is. Still hot, though.” Jessica waggles her eyebrows. “But on to more important things. Are you going to open your gift now, or are you going to insist on being that weirdo that refuses to open gifts until Christmas morning?”
“I stand by my weirdo policy,” I say, pulling a forgotten jacket off the coatrack. “Opening presents before the actual day lessens the Christmas magic.”
“Or does it merely extend the season?” Jess taunts, picking up the shoebox-sized gift and shaking it enticingly at me.
I purse my lips. It’s not a terrible point. And I could really go for a present right now. . . .
“Let’s ask Magic 8,” I proclaim.
She rolls her eyes but obligingly reaches behind her and pulls open the first drawer of my desk. Her hand emerges with a Magic 8 ball.
“Remind me,” she says. “How many of these do you have? Fifty?”
“Just three.”
“Three too many, Kell. Three too many.”
It’s an old argument, so I don’t bother to point out that it’s not too many—I need one for home and one for work, and the small one fits on my key chain for when I’m out and about. Obviously.
You never know when you’ll need fate’s assistance.
“All right, Magic 8, let’s hear it. Should our girl open her present now, or wait until Christmas morning?”
“Yes-or-no questions,” I remind her, setting the tiny peacoat next to my own so I remember to drop it off at the lost and found on my way out.
“Right, how could I forget all these strict, scientific rules? Should Kelly open her present before I leave for the airport, like a normal best friend?” she asks the Magic 8.
She shakes it, and I wait patiently, already knowing the answer.
Jessica wrinkles her nose at the answer. “No way.”
“Told you.” I pluck the ball out of her hand and place it back in the drawer, locking it. “And in case you’re wondering where your present is, it’s already in the mail. To your parents’ address. Not to be opened until Christmas Day, or Christmas Eve at the very earliest, because I’m nothing if not flexible.”
“Yes, so flexible,” she says, hopping off the desk and handing me the gift.
I set Madison’s snowflake carefully on top of Jessica’s present, then pull on the white J. Crew coat I got on clearance last year.
“You’re sure you don’t want to come home with me?” Jessica pleads as I lock my classroom door. “Erik can get you a ticket using his miles. And my parents are dying to meet you in person.”
I link arms with her. “You’re sweet and I appreciate it, but I promise I’m going to be fine.”
“You’re going to be spending Christmas alone,” Jess says gently. “You. The Christmas nut.”
“I know, but it’s just one year, and I’m actually kind of looking forward to it. For the first time ever, I can do Christmas my way.”
I know it’s going to be a great Christmas, because the Magic 8 Ball, home version, told me so. I don’t tell Jess this, though. She’s mostly tolerant of my superstitious nature, but she has her limits.
And really, don’t feel all bad for me on the Christmas-alone thing. I’m not an orphan, my parents don’t belong to a cult.
It’s like this: My parents, who are pretty much the perfect parents, got married on December 22 thirty years ago. Normally they keep their anniversary pretty low-key, not wanting it to interfere with holiday festivities, but this anniversary is number thirty for them, and I saved up many a meager teacher’s paycheck to send them on their bucket-list trip: a two-week Alaskan cruise over Christmas.
And I’d done the nonrefundable thing so that they couldn’t stay behind out of guilt.
So, yes, technically I’m spending Christmas without my family, but it’s not some sad Dickensian story up in here.
“What time are you leaving?” I ask Jess after we detour to the lost and found to drop off the coat, then step out into the rainy afternoon. The kids are long gone, hopefully off to building gingerbread houses or shopping for the perfect Christmas tree, and the schoolyard feels unnaturally quiet.
Jess pops open her red umbrella and, propping her purse on her roller-bag suitcase, digs around for a cellphone. “I’m getting an Uber from here, then swinging by Erik’s office to pick him up on the way to JFK. And you’re sure you won’t come with?”
“Positive. Besides, my horoscope says I’m due for a brush with bad luck today. I’m pretty sure it was dropping my mascara into the toilet this morning, but I’d be nuts to get on a plane with that sort of forecast.”
Jess gives me a bland look as she pulls up Uber and calls a car. “Hold up. Our birthdays are four days apart. Aren’t you the one that’s always telling me we’re best friends because we’re both . . . Gammas?”
“Geminis. And good point—maybe you should stay here in New York.” I give her a wide grin as I pull my hood up over my head.
“Call me old-fashioned, but Christmas to me means a big, crooked tree in my parents’ living room, and the stocking I made when I was eight hung on the mantel. My apartment can’t fit so much as a fern, much less a fireplace.”
“Then that’s the Christmas I want for you.” I wiggle my fingers and gesture for a hug. “Come, come. Let’s say our goodbyes; your car’s here.”
“Record time, considering it’s raining.”
She lifts her umbrella higher and I duck beneath it to give her a hug. “Merry Christmas, darling.”
She squeezes me. “How much self-control did it take for you not to sing the song?”
In response, I hum the first few notes of Karen Carpenter’s “Merry Christmas, Darling.”
“Thought so. Okay, that’s me,” she says, nodding at a black Honda. “Merry friggin’ Christmas, woman! Do me a favor and get yourself laid, would ya?”
I ignore the last bit. “Merry Christmas! Text me to let me know that your plane didn’t crash,” I call.
I wave after the departing car, and even after my best friend disappears for the next two weeks, I don’t feel even a flicker of sadness.
It’s Christmastime, and maybe it’s because I spend all my days hanging out with the eight- and nine-year-old set, but I feel like I’ve got all the happy vibes of the season flowing through my veins.
And it doesn’t hurt that I’ve got the next two weeks off either.
As I said, Emory Academy’s in Tribeca, a trendy, über-expensive part of Manhattan. My part-time apartment’s in the nearby Financial District, easy walking distance.
But my weekend home, my holiday home . . .
Upstate.
To the train station we go!
As I walk, I check the weather app on my phone, delighted to see that while it’s nothing but rain today, there’s a chance of a snow shower tomorrow. Nothing says Christmas break like snow.
I just miss my train, but there’s a decent-ish voice singing “White Christmas” nearby, and the platform’s not too crowded, so waiting’s not as bad as it could be.
My eye catches on a middle-aged woman who’s set up camp under one of the stairwells. It’s not unusual to see all manner of people under the streets of New York, although this one’s better dressed than most. She’s wearing a blousy red shirt, jeans, and ankle boots, and is sitting cross-legged on a plaid blanket. She’s got twigs of what seem to be fake roses in her hair.
None of that’s the weird part.
What’s weird is that she’s watching me. Intently.
We make awkward eye contact, and I give a quick smile before turning my attention back to my phone.
But I still feel her eyes on me.
Not in an unfriendly way, not in the way that makes me mentally catalog whether or not I saw any cops on my way down here who would hear me if I scream. She doesn’t seem eager to push me onto the train tracks either, and since that’s every New Yorker�
�s secret fear, that’s a plus.
Still, the focus is unsettling. I glance up again, and her eyes lock on mine. Her dark gaze is clear and focused, and I can’t decide if that’s more or less disturbing than if she seemed sort of hazy.
Then she smiles right at me. “Kelly.”
I get immediate goosebumps for reasons that have nothing to do with the winter weather. She knows my name.
“Come.” She beckons. “Come. I see.”
Now you’re thinking, Hell, no. Run!
I should be thinking the same, and on some level, I am, but . . .
There are a couple dozen people around. None are paying attention to me, but it’s not like I’m all alone in a dark alley.
And look, we’ve already established that I believe in fate expressing itself through a Magic 8 ball and horoscopes, and though I haven’t mentioned it yet, I totally avoid black cats, the number thirteen, and walking under ladders.
I also believe that there’s such a thing as sight. I know, because my grandma had it.
Grandma Shirley was one of those delightfully batty old ladies that most people dismiss as quirky, but nobody can deny that she seemed to know stuff. She knew when I’d win my soccer game, and by how many points. She knew when her cat’s litter of kittens would be born, down to the minute. Once she even predicted an earthquake, even though they’re really rare in New York.
She passed away when I was in eleventh grade (she’d predicted the when and how of that too), and though I didn’t inherit her talents, I’ve never stopped believing that some people see and know things that they shouldn’t. I call it the Sight.
I step closer, and the woman grins and beckons me even nearer.
I stop a healthy few feet away. I’m superstitious, not crazy.
The woman leans forward. “You seek love.”
Huh. Color me unimpressed. I mean, don’t most humans seek love? Sure, I’m recently single, and I don’t particularly want to be. And maybe I sometimes try a little too hard to find my forever guy.
But I’m not hearing anything other than generic lucky guesses from this lady.
“Sure,” I say, already starting to back away.
She holds up a hand. “The one you seek? Your forever guy, the love of your life . . .”
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