I looked up. “Huh?”
Gina wiggled her eyebrows. “It’ll look great. Especially for Brenden.”
I rolled my eyes, but she caught my wrist and tugged me toward her bed.
“Sit. You’ve been weird all day.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’ve been … I don’t know. Extra quiet.” She studied me like she could see the guilt forming a second skin beneath mine. “And you’ve been picking at your fingernails. You only do that when you’re stressed or trying to lie to me.”
“I’m just tired,” I said. “You know how I am in a new bed.”
“You sure that’s it?” Her voice softened, the teasing gone.
For a flicker of a moment, I wanted to tell her everything. Lay it all out. Confess the emotional knots tied up inside me that connected between Josh, and Brenden, and everything I couldn’t seem to make sense of.
Would it fix anything though? Would it release the weight or just ruin it all? Would I lose Gina too?
“Positive,” I finally said, folding the sweater neatly across my lap.
“You’ve always been there for me. I just want to return the favor.”
“I’m good, Gi. Really.”
She gave me a look I knew too well. “Why do I feel like you’re lying to me?”
“I’m not.”
“Promise?”
My pulse tapped against my throat like a metronome.
Slowly, I nodded. “Promise.”
“Okay.” Her voice lightened again, giving me the out I had so clearly asked for. “Now put that on. I’ll fix your hair, and we’ll eat too many cookies, drink sangria, and pretend we don’t make terrible decisions until the new year starts.”
I smiled faintly. She grinned back, already shimmying into her tartan skirt and holiday tights, looking like the cover of a vintage department store catalog.
Downstairs, the party was already in full swing.
The scent of cinnamon and cider hung in the air. Mrs. Hutton buzzed from room to room like a snowflake on a mission, collecting wine bottles and delivering compliments. Mr. Hutton grunted his hellos in between checking the thermostat and accepting cookies he clearly didn’t want, but took anyway out of good manners.
I just tried to keep my hands warm inside the sleeves of my sweater and avoid eye contact with the front door.
“Brielle! Honey, how are you?”
Mrs. Jacobson from next door threw her arms around me. I got a faint whiff of Chanel No. 5 and peppermint schnapps.
I gave a polite smile.
Mr. Hutton, who had been lingering nearby, finally leaned in, voice low. “You all right, kid?”
“Yes. Thanks again for letting me come back for the holiday.”
He gave me a look, one I couldn’t quite read, then cleared his throat. “Don’t thank me. You’ve always been here. Like one of the family.”
My stomach tightened.
