She flinches. “Is that all this was to you? Good sex?”
No. It was everything. It was feeling whole for the first time in my life. But I can't tell her that.
“Does it matter? You're leaving either way.”
"Because you're pushing me out the door!”
I slam my hand on the counter, making her jump. “I won't be the asshole who ruins your life because I'm selfish enough to want to keep you.”
“That's my choice to make.”
“You’re not thinking clearly. You’ll be back in the city soon, grateful you didn't throw everything away for some holiday fling. Get your coat, Clara. Roads won't stay clear forever.”
She stares at me for a long moment, then nods.
The drive to her car is silent. Her rental is buried but intact. I dig it out while she stands hugging herself, Comet trying to comfort her by leaning against her legs.
When the car is clear, she turns to me one last time. “I know you think you're protecting me. But you're not. You're just afraid.”
She's right. I'm scared. Scared of how much I already love her.
“Goodbye, Clara.”
She looks at me for a long moment, then gets in her car. I watch her drive away, taking my fucking heart with her.
Comet whines, pawing at the snow where she stood.
“I know, boy,” I tell him. “I know.”
Chapter Seven
CLARA
After I get the photos of the overlook, I drive back to town, edit until my eyes are sore, and send everything by deadline. Blair calls after an hour.
“They're technically perfect,” she says, and I hear the but coming. “But they're missing something. Where's the magic, Clara? The warmth?”
The warmth is ten miles back up the mountain, in a cabin where I left my heart.
“I'll redo them tomorrow?—”
“Fix these by morning, Clara. Find the magic.”
I sit in my room at the inn, staring at my laptop screen. She's right. The photos are perfect and empty, like I've extracted all the life from them. I scroll through my camera roll and freeze.
The candids. The ones I took of Beau.
Him by firelight, whittling with those careful hands. Comet in his antlers, snow on his nose. The view from Beau's kitchen window at sunrise. His hands holding a mug of coffee. The sparkling Christmas tree with its handmade ornaments.
These are the photos Blair wants. This is the real deal.
My phone rings. Mom, calling from Portugal.
“Clara! We haven't heard from you. Are you okay?”
“Mom, I…” I look at the photos of Beau, of the life I glimpsed for four days. “I don't know.”
“You sound different. Are you okay?”
