Page 1 of Frozen Promises

‘TIS THE SEASON FOR LETDOWNS

Catalina

I have no business cooking, yet my kitchen smells like a gingerbread man’s asshole after a long day of eating peppermint patties.

I’m no chef, but it’s basically Santa’s Workshop here, and I’m the sexy, chubby elf giving all the other elves something to drool over.

The red Santa apron tied around my waist does little to protect the tiny, green velvet dress hiding underneath.

I’m dressed for aesthetic, not practicality.

I’m attempting to film my annual Christmas Cookie baking video. Santiago, my best friend and personal assistant, centers the camera on the tripod, giving me a thumbs up once I’m in frame. “Wait, where’s your Santa hat? Didn’t you buy a Santa hat?”

I probably did. It’s probably stored away somewhere in my beauty room, collecting dust. While I was shopping yesterday, I found the cutest headband with a sparkly red and green elf hat with a giant pom-pom sewed to the top. I bought two, one for me and one for Elias . . . who is ten minutes late.

He’s going to show up.

He promised.

The small, nagging voice in the back of my mind reminds me he’s made promises before that he broke. Foolishly, I get my hopes up each time, hoping he’d put me before his work for once. He used to put me first, and I think he will again. If he doesn’t…no. I’m not going there yet.

Instead, I focus on the two red bowls of icing sitting on my island. Icing sugar cookies is a two-person job for this video.

Santiago gestures to his watch, noting the time. “Should we call him?” His voice is soft and gentle, like he’s carefully navigating a minefield. One wrong step and I’ll combust.

“I’m sure he’ll be here in ten minutes,” I say, feigning more confidence than I feel.

I’m a natural at putting on an appearance in front of the camera.

As a plus-size blogger that shares parts of her life, I’ve embraced the person my social media followers want me to be.

It’s not fake exactly . . .just a caricature of my true self that I don when filming.

Santiago raises a sculpted brow, knowing I’m full of shit. “Do you want me to step in? People love your gay best friend.”

I groan. “I swear I’m trying to get them to call you by your name.”

Santiago just waves me off. “I don’t care, boo. Most of them are all in good nature. Why don’t we record, and if Elias comes home, he can jump in?”

It’s not a bad idea, so I nod. “Are you camera ready?”

“Girl please, I’m always camera ready. Give me some spiked eggnog, and I’m good to go.”

“We don’t have eggnog.”

“Ugh, fine,” he sighs dramatically and clicks on the camera.

The red light turns on, signaling it’s recording.

Santiago will edit out all the unnecessary shit people don’t want to see.

The man is a genius at editing, making my videos look more professional than I could ever achieve.

Since I’ve hired him, their quality has improved, and I’ve gained nearly a million followers.

It is crazy to think about a million people watching me, Catalina Ayala, a chubby girl from Texas sharing part of her soul.

It’s one of the only places I feel like I can express myself, especially with Elias busy all the time.

Santiago rounds the island, giving me a thumbs up.

I plaster the biggest smile on my face, looking directly into the camera.

“Hey beautiful people,” I say with practiced enthusiasm, my lips curving in a rehearsed smile.

Behind me, the Christmas tree atop my counter glows gold and green, creating a perfectly festive backdrop.

“Today, we’re decorating sugar cookies and spilling a little holiday tea, so grab your cocoa and let’s hang out. ”

I slip effortlessly into my groove, performing for the camera as if it’s second nature, because it is.

Unlike the messy unpredictability of my personal life, my online persona offers a welcome escape—a carefully curated world where I’m in control.

Vlogging isn’t just a job; it’s a passion that I’ve turned into a thriving career.

My Christmas vlogs always draw a big audience, and with Santiago by my side, I know this one will be no exception.

Our chemistry is effortless, an unspoken rhythm that makes every interaction feel natural.

We feed off each other’s energy, turning even the simplest moments into something engaging and worth watching.

Admittedly, our cookie decorating sucks, and we will never be the next Martha Stewart or be hired as Ho-Ho-Ho Elves at Santa’s Pub.

The candy cane I attempted decorating looks more like a bloody fish hook, and Santiago’s snowman looks like a bubble wand curler.

They taste hella good though, so we didn’t completely fuck them up.

“The recipe and all the utensils we used today will be linked in the description below with my affiliate code to get 15 percent off. I’ll be back after Christmas with a huge giveaway, so make sure you are on the lookout.

Bye sexy babes, and make good choices.” I wave at the camera, blowing a kiss before taking another bite of my cookie.

“And that’s a wrap!” Santiago grins, hurrying behind the camera to turn it off. “I’ll get this edited tonight, so we can upload it tomorrow. Sound good?”

“Yes, thank you. And thank you for stepping in.” I glance at the time on the oven and frown.

Elias was supposed to be home an hour ago.

Did he get held up in a meeting with a client?

Part of me wonders if he’s chatting up one of the pretty secretaries at work.

Elias is many things, but a cheater isn’t one of them.

I only know that because of the way he ripped his cousin a new asshole after finding out he cheated on his pregnant girlfriend.

Still, the thought lingers.

“Feel free to use my computer to edit. I’m going to call Elias quickly.”

“No problem. Is it cool if Noah comes over? I told him I’d be working late, and he wanted to have dinner with me while I worked.”

I smile. Noah, Santiago’s husband, is one of the sweetest people I’ve ever met and perfect for my best friend. “Of course. I’m going to step outside and make the call.”

Santiago smiles sympathetically at me and nods. “Okay, feel free to join us when you’re done.”

I nod absentmindedly and step outside onto our covered patio. The cool evening air brushes against my skin as I fish my phone from my pocket. With a sigh, I sink into the plush cushions of the outdoor couch and dial Elias.

The phone rings once . . .twice . . . each unanswered ring stretches the silence, tightening the knot of anticipation in my stomach. It would be typical of him not to answer. As I begin to think he won’t pick up, the call connects on the final ring.

“Catalina,” Elias says. His voice is muffled, like he’s driving with his windows down.

“Where are you?”

“On my way home. I got held up at the office,” he says.

I’ve heard this excuse a thousand times before.

He always gets held up at the office. Forget 9 a.m.-5 p.m.; he's there from the ass crack of dawn to late into the night.

Weekdays, weekends. He's never home. It's like our house is the plague, and he stays far away from it.

But here I am, sitting alone in our 6,400-square-foot mansion every night.

Everything reminds me of him and the life we built together, but he's not here to share it with me.

We used to spend every waking hour together. Our hands couldn’t stop roaming each other’s body, and kisses lasted way into the night. My heart lurches, thinking of everything I miss so desperately in our marriage.

“You missed filming today.” My words are greeted with silence.

Elias curses. “Fuck, carino. That was tonight?”

The question makes me grit my teeth. This man who meticulously schedules everything into his calendar, who would literally rather get run over by a semi-truck than miss a meeting with a client, conveniently forgot about our plans. It’s like a dagger to my heart.

“Yeah, it was, carino,” I snarl, unable to keep the vehemence out of my tone with the term of endearment. “Next time I’ll call your secretary and have her schedule me a meeting. Maybe then you’ll remember.”

“Catalina—”

“Don’t ‘Catalina’ me!” I realize I’m yelling when the neighbor’s dog starts barking as if defending his home from intruders. “I’m so tired of this, Elias! When are you going to show up for me?”

“Show up for you?” Bitter laughter barrels through the phone and grates my nerves.

“You think because I’m not standing right next to you, I’m not showing up?

I’m out here handling things—real things that need me and keep everything else running so you can breathe easy at night.

This isn’t about not caring. It’s about priorities and responsibilities.

Shit doesn’t stop because the holidays are coming. ”

A whirlwind of thoughts blows through my mind, begging to be screamed.

But just as quickly, the fight drains from me.

I’m exhausted from this endless cycle, from always battling for a sliver of his attention.

My throat tightens, and I bite down on the urge to speak because I know if I open my mouth, a sob might slip out.

I refuse to cry for him. I’m too damn angry for tears.

Silence stretches between us. I’m tempted to hang up and ignore him, but his next words catch me off guard.

“Let me make it up to you. Dinner tomorrow? We can go to that steakhouse you like?”

Hope flickers to life, fragile yet persistent, amid the storm raging inside me.

It’s dangerous, probably reckless, but I cling to it because it’s the only thing keeping me afloat.

He did this the last time we argued; he promised me a date, but ended up having a work thing come up.

Still, I want to believe this time will be different.

I need to believe it. “I would like that.” My voice is softer than I intend, laced with uncertainty for our future.

One dinner won’t mend the cracks in our foundation, but it might be a start. It’s a sign he’s willing to try, he sees and hears me, and he wants to fight for us as much as I do. Because I can’t keep holding our relationship together on my own. He needs to prove he wants this.

If nothing changes, if he lets this slip through his fingers, I know the truth I’ve been too afraid to say aloud: our marriage is beyond repair.

And I’m not sure I have the strength to keep treading water much longer.