CHAPTER 2: Boxing Day Regrets

SLOANE

The Target returns line on December 26th is where hope goes to die.

I’m standing in it now, clutching a fondue set I will never use, watching my life tick away one agonizing minute at a time. The line stretches from Customer Service all the way back to Housewares. At least ten people ahead of me, every one of them holding gifts that prove someone doesn’t really know them.

The woman in front of me has three identical blenders. The guy behind me smells like he slept in his car.

Overhead, the speakers are still blasting "All I Want for Christmas Is You" for the millionth time. The employees look like they’ve survived a hostage situation. Red vests wrinkled, name tags crooked, eyes completely dead.

A kid two spots ahead is having a full meltdown. He’s on the floor, kicking and screaming about a candy bar. His mother just stares at the ceiling like she’s praying for the roof to collapse.

I understand that prayer.

The fondue set is getting heavier by the second. White ceramic pot, six tiny forks, a tea light. Aunt Susan handed it over yesterday with a sloppy grin and drunk Santas on the wrapping paper.

"For your next dinner party," she’d said, like I’m the kind of person who throws dinner parties. Like I have six friends who want to gather around melted cheese and small talk.

I eat cereal over the sink and call it a balanced meal.

The line creeps forward. The blender woman is now arguing with the cashier about not having a receipt. The cashier looks one deep breath away from tears.

I check my phone. Two o’clock. I’ve been here forty-five minutes.

Someone bumps into me from behind.

"Sorry," he mutters. The word is soaked in an Australian accent.

I start to turn, already armed with the glare I’ve perfected over years of city living. The one that says back off.

The glare dies before it leaves my face.

He’s tall. Really tall. Sandy blond hair that looks like he just rolled out of bed and somehow made it work. Blue eyes with actual laugh crinkles at the corners, the kind you earn from years in the sun.

He’s holding the ugliest Christmas sweater on the planet. Bright red. Giant kangaroo across the chest wearing a Santa hat and sunglasses.

I stare at it longer than is polite.

"Nice sweater," I finally say.

He looks down at it, then back at me, and grins. "Gift from my mum. She thinks I need reminding where I’m from."

"Australia?"

"That obvious?"

"The accent helps. Also, that kangaroo should be arrested."

He laughs. It’s a good laugh. Real. The kind that starts in his chest.

"What about you?" He nods at the fondue set. "Opening a Swiss restaurant?"

"Gift from my aunt. She drinks too much and has a serious HomeGoods problem."

"Dangerous combo."

"You have no idea."

We shuffle forward together. The screaming kid is still screaming.

"So," he says, lowering his voice like we’re already conspirators. "Rough Christmas?"

I snort. "Understatement of the year."

"Same. My mum’s friend tried to set me up with her daughter. At the table. While the daughter’s boyfriend was in the kitchen getting more wine."

"That’s next-level savage."

"Your turn."

I shouldn’t tell a complete stranger this. But his face is open and easy and I’m tired of carrying it alone.

"My mother ambushed me with a dentist. He spent the entire night explaining tooth enamel."

"Enamel."

"Start to finish. The man is passionate about dental hygiene."

He shakes his head, still smiling. "I think you win."

"The dentist was perfectly nice."

"But?"

"But I’d rather eat glass than sit through another family dinner where I’m the broken thing everyone’s trying to fix."

The words come out sharper than I meant. Something flickers across his face. Recognition.

"Yeah," he says quietly. "I know that feeling."

We reach the front at last. The cashier’s name tag says BRENDA. She waves me forward like a woman who has given up on joy.

I slide the fondue set across. "No receipt. Gift."

She doesn’t even blink. Scans, types, prints. "Store credit okay?"

"Perfect."

Twelve dollars and ninety-nine cents. I can buy half a pack of socks.

I step aside. The Australian moves up and hands over the sweater.

"No receipt either," he says.

Brenda processes it. Nineteen dollars credit. Aunt Susan paid too much.

Outside, the cold hits like a slap. Chicago in late December doesn’t play.

I shove my hands in my pockets and head for the parking lot. My car is parked somewhere in the Arctic tundra section.

"Hey." He catches up in three long strides. "This is going to sound insane, but do you want to get coffee?"

I stop walking. Turn. He’s serious.

"You’re asking a stranger you met in a returns line to coffee. In a Target parking lot."

"Guilty. You should probably say no. That’s how true-crime podcasts start. But you look like you need to vent to someone who isn’t related to you. And I need to vent to someone who isn’t my mother."

He has a point. And he feels safe. Temporary.

"Okay," I say.

He blinks. "Really?"

"Yeah. But I’m driving myself. And if you’re a serial killer, I scream very loud."

"Fair." He holds out his hand. "Jackson."

"Sloane."

His hand is warm. Calloused. He shakes like he means it.

"There’s a diner two blocks from here," he says. "Mel’s. You know it?"

I know it. Greasy spoons and terrible coffee. Perfect.

"I’ll meet you there."

We split toward our cars. Mine is a four-year-old Honda that’s seen better days. His is a silver Subaru with a tiny dent in the bumper.

I sit in my car for a second, heat blasting. My phone buzzes.

Mom: Did you return the fondue set? Susan will ask.

I ignore it, put the car in reverse, and follow Jackson’s Subaru out of the lot.

He signals at every turn. Drives exactly the speed limit. It’s annoyingly endearing.

Five minutes later we’re parked side by side at Mel’s Diner. The neon sign flickers like it’s on life support. Half the letters are burned out. It reads “M L 'S IN R.”

We walk in together.

Something small and electric shifts in my chest.

I have no idea why I feel like nothing will ever be the same again.