Strawberry Shortcake

I’ve always loved the days between Christmas and New Year’s.

As a kid, it meant time off from school, sledding at the park, and playing with whatever new toys had taken over the living room floor. Now, it’s something quieter. A pause between the chaos of the holidays and the resolutions of the year ahead. The decorations are still up, but the pressure is gone.

I’ve never been one to take time off during this stretch. This week, work feels manageable. Almost peaceful.

A few weeks ago, I was promoted to Vice President of Human Resources for ZG&E, a global professional services firm based in midtown Manhattan. I’m in the office today, December 30th, and it’s unusually quiet. All of my direct reports are on PTO, and the only thing on my desk is a stack of paperwork tied to a few sexual harassment claims from the company holiday party last week. Apparently, open bars and office parties still don’t mix.

This has been the year of Lanie. In addition to the promotion, my boyfriend of three years proposed while we were on vacation in Tahiti. I’m still getting used to the weight of the ring on my hand, a flawless diamond that catches the light every time I move. The kind of ring people notice, then ask to see again.

Christmas this year was everything it was supposed to be. Christmas Eve at my mother’s house with all of my extended family, loud and familiar. Christmas Day at Blake’s uncle’s, where I was introduced, again and again, as his fiancée. I retold the engagement story more times than I could count. It felt good to be celebrated.

Today I’m heading out of work a little early. I have a Pilates class and afterward I’m going to swing by Linden & Rye, a bakery a few blocks from the studio. They have the best gluten-free chocolate chip cookies, thin at the edges and soft in the middle. I’m picking some up for New Year’s Eve.

Blake and I are hosting a small party at the apartment with a few of our closest friends. Nothing formal. Just good food, fine wine, and an easy kind of celebration.

***

I step into Linden & Rye before the holiday rush, shaking the cold from my coat as the door closes behind me. It smells like butter and sugar and something faintly citrus. The place isn’t new. The floors are worn, the counter nicked at the edges, a chalkboard menu written by hand. Behind the glass, trays of cookies sit in neat rows, no two exactly alike. A few people wait quietly for their orders while others sip espressos and cappuccinos on stools overlooking the glow of Midtown Manhattan. It’s a small, family-owned spot, holding its ground in the middle of one of the biggest, busiest cities in the world.

When it’s my turn, I don’t hesitate. I ask for two dozen gluten-free chocolate chip cookies and add an oat milk latte to go. The woman behind the counter nods and disappears toward the back. I step aside to make room for the next person in line, cradling the warmth of the cup in my hands while I wait.

“Lanie,” I hear my name behind me. It doesn’t register at first. I assume it’s meant for someone else, or that I’ve misheard it altogether. When I turn, for a second I think I’m wrong. That I’ve mistaken him for someone else.

It’s John.

I haven’t seen him or heard from him in nearly fifteen years. He looks older than I remember, altered in ways that feel both obvious and hard to put into words. Time has worked on him steadily. For a moment, I’m aware only of the distance between who he was the last time I saw him and who is standing in front of me now.

He is still tall, still nineteen years older than me, the proportions familiar enough to be disorienting. But the changes are unmistakable. His hair has gone completely gray. Where he was always clean-shaven before, there is now white stubble along his jaw, dark bags beneath his eyes. He was once physically fit, solid in a way that made you feel steadied just standing near him. Now he’s thinner than I remember, almost frail.

“John,” I say, after a beat. “What are you doing here?”

He smiles, a small, careful grin. “It’s really good to see you,” he says. “You look great. You look like you’re doing well.”

“Thank you,” I say. “What brings you into the city?”

John glances down at his hands for a moment, then back up. “Mass,” he says. “St. Agnes. Over on East Forty-Third.” He shrugs slightly. “It’s quiet. Peaceful.”

“Since when are you so holy?” I ask, lightly, with a brief smile. “I went to midnight Mass after mom’s on Christmas Eve. St. Patrick’s Cathedral.” I pause. “The mayor was there. Martin Scorsese was sitting a few rows away.”

John smiles faintly, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, then nods toward the pastry case. “And I came here too,” he says. “For a strawberry shortcake.” His voice softens. “I remember that used to be your favorite.”

“I’m gluten-free now,” I say.

John shifts his weight, glancing toward the counter and then back at me. “So,” he says, lightly, as if testing the word. “While we’re waiting… what’s new with you?”

His eyes drop, to my hand wrapped around the coffee cup. The ring catches the light. He looks back up, a small smile forming. “Looks like there’s been some good news.”

“Yes,” I say. “Blake.” I glance down at the ring again, then back up. “He’s a lawyer too. Intellectual property.” I pause, “and I was recently promoted.”

I take a sip of my coffee, then add, “What about you? Are you still doing trial work?”

There’s a beat before I continue. “And Julie,” I say, keeping my voice even. “Was that her name?”

“I retired a few months ago,” he says. “Early.” He hesitates, then adds, “I do some side work now. Mostly mediation. And I sit on a few nonprofit boards. It helps pass the time.” After a brief pause, he continues, “Julie and I were living together in Westchester, but that ended a couple of years ago.”

He lets the words settle, like that’s all there is to say about it. Then he keeps talking, filling the quiet. He tells me he moved to New Jersey not long after, somewhere smaller, quieter. He mentions a dog he adopted, a rescue.

I nod in the right places. I stay facing him. But I’m not really there anymore.

Instead, I’m back in it. I see him leaving. I remember how certain it felt, the way he talked about starting over, like you could step into a new life and slam the door shut behind you. I remember the stillness of me, standing there while everything else shifted.

And then there are the smaller moments that followed. My phone buzzing. His name lighting up the screen. Letting it stop. Deleting messages without reading them twice. Later, the knock at the door and the shape of his shadow on the other side, and me staying perfectly quiet until it went away. Words I threw at him, sharp enough that I can still hear the sound of my own voice, even if I can’t remember every harsh word I said.

No second chances. That was my rule. I built a life around it. I kept it intact.

The memory doesn’t arrive whole. It comes in pieces, jagged and unfinished, stripped down to what remains. Standing here with him now, I can feel those pieces press together again, close enough to blur. And I realize, without meaning to, how much work it has taken all these years not to think about him at all.

“Lanie,” he says quietly. “I miss you. I’m sorry, I…”

“Order for Lanie.”

The voice cuts cleanly through the space between us. I step forward before he can finish, grateful for the interruption. “Right here.”

“That’ll be forty-one eighteen,” the woman behind the counter says.

John reaches for his wallet. “Please,” he says. “Let me-”

“I’ve got it,” I snap, already pressing my phone to the reader. The payment goes through with a soft chime, final and indisputable.

I grab my bag and step to the side. When I turn back, I catch John’s eyes. They’ve always been blue, deep and steady, but now they seem lighter than I remember, as if some of the color has drained out of them. They’re wet. He blinks, wipes at one quickly, and looks away.

He gestures toward the cookies, steadying himself. “New Year’s party?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say. “We’re entertaining.” I hesitate, then add, “Some of Blake’s friends from college. Cousin Meri and her husband, Edwin too.”

I nod toward the box in his hands. “And the shortcake? Are you going somewhere for New Year’s Eve?”

“No,” he says. “That’s just for dinner. Maybe breakfast and lunch too.” He gives a slight shrug, a half-grin. “My holidays are pretty low-key these days.”

My phone vibrates in my pocket. It’s Blake. I glance down at the screen, then back up. “One second,” I say to John, already stepping aside.

Blake asks if I can stop at the store on the way home. He’s cooking dinner and he’s out of paprika. Of course, I say. We talk briefly about our day, exchange I love yous, and hang up.

When I turn back, John is still there, hands folded around the bakery box. “It was nice catching up,” I say. “But I really have to get home.”

“Look,” he says, lowering his voice. “I know things are complicated. I know you have your own life now.” He pauses, then lifts the box slightly toward me. “But please. Take this too. For your party.”

I hesitate, then nod. I take the shortcake from him and add it to my bag.

“I wrote my number here,” he says.

I glance down at the white bakery box, the string neatly tied, his handwriting careful on the lid.

“Call me anytime,” he says. “If you ever feel uneasy in the city. If things get difficult with Blake. Or if you just need someone to talk to.” He swallows, then adds, softer, “I’m always here to listen. When and if you’re ever ready.”

He lets the words sit between us, offered, not demanded.

“Okay,” I say.

He extends his hand. For half a beat, I consider a hug. Instead, I take it. His hand is bonier and colder than I remember, the grip careful, almost tentative. We hold on a second longer than necessary, our eyes meeting, both of us blinking against the same sudden shine. Then I let go.

“Happy New Year, John,” I say.

I grab a napkin and a fork from the counter and walk to the small table along the window, watching John step out onto Madison Avenue. I sit, set the bag at my feet, and loosen the string around the bakery box. I lift the lid and scrape a bit of whipped cream from the top, catching one of the strawberries with the fork. Outside, he moves slowly, more carefully than before. There’s a limp I don’t remember, a hitch in his step that wasn’t always there. From behind the glass, he looks smaller somehow, diminished by distance and motion. I watch until he disappears into the crowd, and I wonder how much time he has left.

The fork pauses in my hand and a vivid memory arrives without asking.

My eighth birthday. Strawberry shortcake on the table, whipped cream piled high and strawberries slipping down the sides. Just the three of us in the kitchen. Mom leans against the counter, smiling, letting it be our moment.

I lean forward to blow out the candles and catch my sleeve in the frosting. A smear of white streaks across my cheek. Dad laughs, soft and surprised.

“Hey,” he says, reaching for a napkin. “Hold still.”

I don’t. I dip my fingers into the cake and dab a bit onto the tip of his nose instead. He freezes for a second, eyebrows raised, then grins.

“Oh, you did not,” he says.

“John, you better get the birthday girl,” Mom says, laughing, as Dad scoops up a bigger chunk of cream.

I run. Bare feet on the tile, laughing so hard I can barely breathe. He follows, slower than he could be, letting me think I have a chance. He catches me by the waist and lifts me off the ground, frosting and all, my laughter echoing off the cabinets.

“Okay, okay-you got me,” I say, breathless, as he smudges a bit of icing onto my mouth and nose.

He sets me down and wipes my face clean with his thumb.

I look up at him, cheeks aching, heart racing.

Dad.