Runaway Groom (I Do, I Don't 2)

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.