Not the whole thing. Just fragments.
His voice cutting through the snow.
His big, reassuring presence, appearing right in front of me.
The look in his eyes when he said my name.
I shut the memory down fast.
“Right,” I tell the dogs, who are now lined up like soldiers waiting for orders. “We’re going to town.”
They wag their tails as if they understand, and I almost feel ready for the day.
An hour later,everyone’s been fed, watered, and emotionally validated, and the dogs have been left at home—screaming betrayal with their eyes. But I’m not risking four hyped-up canines plus a car full of groceries. I’m chaotic, not insane.
The drive down is surprisingly smooth. The snow’s packed solid, the firs are sparkling like they’re auditioning for a holiday commercial, and my death grip on the steering wheel finally loosens.
I wouldn’t say I slept well, but… I slept. The cabin felt safe.
Shame the thing that made me feel safe is also the thing currently turning my head into a blender.
Maple View appears around a bend,and Main Street looks more like a Christmas movie than ever. But this time it doesn’t come with a clench of my stomach.
Instead, my heart warms at the sight of all the twinkling lights, the wreaths hanging in every window, the soft haze of woodsmoke drifting above the roofs. The bakery’s open—cinnamon and coffee scenting the cold—and someone’s set a speaker outside the diner, playing old Bing Crosby tunes.
I let the smile spread across my face. It feels nice to be here. To belong to a morning that isn’t waiting to go wrong.
The general store’s warm and crowded, everyone in bulky coats and good moods. I grab a cart and start filling it with the kind of things I haven’t bought in years—real food, not microwave dinners. A turkey breast, cranberries, potatoes, a box of stuffing mix. A wedge of brie. Crackers. Chocolate. And, because I’m feeling reckless, a bottle of cheap champagne.
Halfway through the aisles, I find myself humming along toJingle Bell Rock.
When I reach the checkout, the cashier, a woman with silver braids, rings up my things and nods toward the window.
“Christmas dinner shopping?” she asks, smiling as she scans the turkey. “Good idea—stores’ll be shut tight tomorrow. And they say there’s a lot more snow coming.”
I glance outside. The blue sky is already disappearing behind a bank of gray.
Storm-light.
Holt warned me about it.
I push that thought aside. “Just getting ahead of it,” I say.
“Smart girl.” She slides the last bag over. “You drive careful on that road.”
I smile. “I always do.”
Outside, I load the car, tucking the grocery bags carefully so the champagne doesn’t roll.
The wind has teeth again, cutting through my coat.
The tree lot beside the store catches my eye—rows and rows of netted firs. I walk over, boots crunching. Up close, they’re beautiful: deep green, full branches, little clumps of snow still clinging. But the raw, cut bases make something twist inside me.
All dressed up for a few weeks—then out on the curb with the trash.
“Do you have any in pots?” I ask a man in a red apron.
He shakes his head. “Sorry, ma’am. Not much call for them here.”
