"You know what.Who, actually."
"Ivy." He doesn't phrase it as a question. "You know, you were always different with her. Even in high school."
"What exactly are you implying?"
"Come on." Matt leans back, that knowing big brother look on his face. "With everyone else, you were this total douche—the class clown, the guy who made everything a joke. But with Ivy?" He shakes his head. "Man, you were so soft. Like a completely different person."
"I was not—"
"Remember those mean girls in junior year? The ones who were giving her shit about her blue hair and all her crystal stuff?"
"Anyone would've stood up for her," I mutter, but my cheeks heat.
"Yeah?" Matt's grin turns wicked. "What about learning to dance for prom? Because I distinctly remember you saying dancing was 'for total nerds who peaked in theater club.' But then Ivy mentioned how much she loved it, how she wished someone would ask her to prom . . ." He trails off meaningfully.
I nearly choke on my beer. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Really? So that wasn't you in the kitchen at midnight, counting steps and watching YouTube tutorials?" He laughs at my mortified expression. "The floor creaks, little brother. I heard you practicing every night for weeks."
"Jesus." I cover my face with a hand. "I didn't know anyone knew about that."
"Are you kidding? Mom knew, that's why she forced us to practice together after she found out." His expression softens. "You were painfully obvious. Still are."
I stare at my bottle, a dull weight settling in my chest. "Part of me always thought she'd be there, you know? When I finally grew up and was ready for her."
"And how'd that work out for you?"
"She was always so sure of what she wanted." The words come out rough. "Who she was. While I was just . . . existing. And somewhere along the way, I got so comfortable having her in my life that the thought of risking it . . . of maybe losing her completely if I fucked up the relationship?" I shake my head. "Seemed safer to keep her as a friend."
"And look where you are now."
"Yeah." I laugh, but it's hollow. "I know I'm an idiot. Should've just . . . after the wedding, I shouldn't have pulled back. I could have handled it all better."
Sarah chooses that moment to return, arms full of drinks. She takes one look between us and breaks into a grin. "Oh, thank God, are we finally discussing Ivy? Because I have beendyingto talk about this for months."
I groan. "This is exactly why I made her a forbidden topic when I moved here."
"Hey, I like her," Sarah protests, settling next to Matt. "She's my friend."
"So what's the plan?" he cuts in, pulling her closer. "How are you going to win her back?"
What follows is possibly the most ridiculous brainstorming session of my life. Matt suggests everything, from skywriting, to recreating scenes from eighties romance movies. Sarah keeps bringing up grand gestures involving fairy lights and flash mobs.
And me? I'm laughing. Because somehow, without me noticing, I'd built walls around more than just my feelings for Ivy. I shut out family, connection, the chance to be known by people who love me even when I'm being an idiot.
I dumped everything on her, because letting her carry it was safer than opening up to anyone else. Admitting I needed more than just her? That was the hardest part.
The Hallow's End townhall is a Christmas disaster zone, and I'm living for every chaotic second of it. Garlands droop from century-old beams, someone's gone rogue with the tinsel, and at least three different decorating committees have clearly refused to coordinate their color schemes. HALLOW'S END CHRISTMAS 2025, in Margaret's precise handwriting is the only thing that doesn't look like it was arranged by festive elves.
My boots click against the wooden floors as I claim my strategic spot: third row, perfectly positioned to volunteer for everything except impromptu caroling demonstrations. Because yes, I love this town, but there are limits to my holiday spirit, and watching Bernie from the hardware store massacre ‘Silent Night' is definitely one of them.
Life's been good lately. Busy, in that satisfying way. I hosted Friendsgiving last week, where James stayed past dessert. He's working at that garage in Brookside now, and even though healing isn'texactly straightforward, having Daphne back has given him an anchor.
"Perfect timing!" Margaret calls from where she's arranging chairs, her silver hair catching the light from strings of multicolored bulbs someone's already strung across the windows. "I was hoping you'd be here early. We need to discuss the gingerbread house competition rules after that incident last year."
I laugh, remembering the great structurally-unsound-candy-mansion disaster. "Don't worry, I've already drafted guidelines about proper foundation-to-frosting ratios. And load-bearing gumdrops are now mandatory."
The hall crowds with the usual suspects—business owners and volunteers. The familiar buzz of small-town politics and holiday planning fills the air. This is my element.
