Love in the Time of Holliday

A cozy, heartwarming love story set in Holliday Farms, Zionsville—perfect for turning your living room into a Netflix-worthy romantic escape.

The treadmill was screaming past 7 mph as Monica flew through her HIIT progression.

Run hard x 1 minute, walk x 90 secs, repeat—it seemed easy on paper.

Her AirPods blasted a Taylor Swift song, and shockingly, she realized she was her own anti-hero.

The gym at the clubhouse was packed, but she felt as free and invisible as she had in a long while. It’d been a full year since everything turned sideways.

IVF and her fifth miscarriage.

Blue, unworn baby shoes for sale—wasn’t that one of Hemingway’s plots?

New Year’s Eve 2023, the night Marc broke her heart by saying he wasn’t in love with her anymore.

The epitome of a failed marriage.

The divorce was quick and painless. Monica kept their six-bedroom house at Holliday Farms, plus half of his retirement accounts. He walked away with his family’s money and their summer house on Florida’s 30A. She still worked as a dermatologist, so money wasn’t an issue—“Medicine’s new ‘It job,’” as the WSJ had called it.

The loneliness of Valentine’s Day had been weighing on her, but meeting new friends at the ladies’ golf clinic and starting a book club with them helped her feel better.

After she finished her last HITT progression, she grabbed a towel and headed down for a swim. A black swimsuit, a pink cap, and bright blue goggles were all she wore.

First lap. Easy.

Second lap. Fun.

The chlorine ripples cleansed her sad memories, and she suddenly realized she’d been swimming for about thirty minutes.

Not bad for a thirty-six-year-old cat mom, she thought.

Monica then turned around and realized she was no longer alone. Another man was in the pool with a toddler, who was happily splashing around, gripping a brightly colored noodle. It was a cute, blonde boy of about two years of age with intense blue eyes that looked just like his daddy.

“Great swim,” the man said.

“What did you say?” she replied, inching closer to them.

“I said, great swim there. You smoked it.”

“Thanks, I was a swimmer in college. It felt good to be out there.”

“D-I?” he asked, the kid now holding him by the neck, on a Spider-Man’s puddle jumper that made him look, well, like a cute little spider.

“Yeah,” she answered, anticipating the obvious question.

“Where at?”

“Notre Dame, but I won nothing. I was always last on the team.”

“Well, if you got a scholarship, that’s still a win in my book.”

“Good point,” she said with a chuckle. “That’s precisely what my folks said—they were thrilled to save all that money.”

She took off her goggles, suddenly aware of her pink cap. His blue eyes were intense, almost magnetic. Suddenly, she realized she was gaping.

I need to close my mouth and head out, she thought.

“My wife used to be a swimmer back in college.”

“Really? Where?”

“She did nursing at Marion University, D-III. Here in Indy.”

“Yes, I’ve heard it’s a great nursing school. Does she still swim a lot? I need a swimming partner.”

Almost immediately, his face softened, his smile fading into something sadder and painful. He let the kid go off his arms, and he just stood there. It was “that pause”—the one that gave the vibes of something awful about to be shared.

“Not any longer. She passed eight months ago from leukemia,” he said, his eyes filling with tears as the boy swam happily, blissfully unaware of their conversation.

“I’m so sorry—I had no clue. I’m such an idiot.”

“No, you aren’t. It was me who brought it up. We’re doing well, though—me and Toby, here. By the way, my name is Gabriel, but I go by Gabe.”

“Nice to meet you, Gabe and Mr. Toby. My name is Monica,” she said with a full smile.

“Likewise.”

Silence followed.

Then she did something she’d never done. Maybe it was the winter chill, the snow outside, or Valentine’s fast approaching. The truth was, she was tired of feeling sorry for herself. It was time to stop being part of the problem.

“Well, if you aren’t terribly busy this weekend, I have an empty house and no one to have dinner with. It would be my pleasure to have you both over on Saturday.”

“That’s too nice. We are, as a matter of fact, always free. Are you sure?”

“Positive. I’ll cook something delicious, I promise!”

“Wow, a D-I swimmer and also a chef? What’s on the menu?” Gabe asked.

“Dino nuggets and chocolate milk for Mr. Toby. Lamb Bolognese pappardelle, and a bottle of red wine for the single adults,” she said, making it certain this was past a friendly invite.

There was immediately a brief pause. Her heart rate climbed, sweat now mixed with pool water dripping down her face. Had she blown it? Was it too soon for him to be back at dating? But then she saw a flirting smile.

“That goes perfectly with a nice bottle of Barolo. I’ll take care of the wine for the night. Would 4:30 p.m. work for you? Toby here isn’t much of a party animal,” he said, now holding him back in his arms.

“4:30 p.m. is perfect!”

Three years later, she would watch their five-year-old son play baseball at Lions Park next to Gabe. After all, Taylor Swift was terribly wrong. Monica was never the real problem. She was always someone else’s mommy hero waiting to happen.

This short story was originally published on Stroll Holliday Farms Magazine (February 2025 issue).