Lucy’s laugh drifts across the room, warm and sweet and devastating. And I know with absolute certainty that tonight wasn’t the breaking point.
It was the warning.
The next time I get her alone?
There won’t be any holding back.
Chapter Twenty
Ash
Holly’s handwriting is terrible.
I’m talking… catastrophic. Letters shaped like confused worms, backward S’s, an occasional heart dotting an i that absolutely should not be dotted with a heart.
Normally it’s charming.
Tonight it guts me.
I find the letter tucked under her pillow while I’m checking to make sure she’s asleep after the gala. The firehouse was a late night, and she crashed the moment we got home. I tuck her blanket higher, brush her hair away from her forehead, and see the corner of the envelope sticking out addressed to Santa in red crayon, a crooked star next to his name.
She’s forgotten to put it in her stocking like she usually does.
So I slide it out carefully, planning to help her deliver it tomorrow, and then I read it.
My chest squeezes so tight it hurts.
Dear Santa,
Please help Uncle Ash not be lonely. He works so hard. And he gets sad when he thinks I’m not looking.
Please send him someone who can fix his heart. I think Miss Lucy can. She makes him smile for real. Not just his pretend one.
Love, Holly
My knees go weak. I sit on the edge of her bed and just… stare at her handwriting until the words blur. God. This kid. She sees everything. Everything I try to lock down. Everything I tell myself I’m hiding.
Lonely.
Is that what she sees when she looks at me? Maybe she’s right. Maybe she’s always been right.
I fold the letter carefully, sliding it back where I found it. Holly sighs in her sleep, hugging her teddy bear tighter.
My throat tightens.
Miss Lucy can fix him.
I scrub a hand over my face, dragging in a breath. The girl’s six.Six.But somehow she’s the only person on the damn mountain who can cut straight through the armor I’ve built.
And she’s not wrong. Lucy is the only person who’s made me feel alive in months.
Years.
I push up from the bed and head into the living room, needing water, air, anything to keep my brain from spinning itself into a knot.
But before I make it three steps there’s a knock. My heart kicks. I open the door. Lucy is standing on my porch, snowflakes caught in her hair, cheeks flushed from the cold, breath fogging in the air… holding a tiny pair of pink mittens.
She lifts them weakly. “Holly left these in the car.”
