My pulse still races from the confrontation, from the kiss before it, from Lucy's hands in my hair and her body pressed against mine and the taste of her I can't shake. My jacket still carries her perfume—vanilla and something warmer—and I should take it off but I don't.
The buzz of my phone makes me check it. Connor:Don't come back tomorrow.
Then another text, this one from Emma:Call me when you're ready to talk.
Nothing from Lucy.
I check my email without thinking. There's one from Greg with the subject line "Boston timeline." I don't open it. Can't open it. Not tonight.
Instead, I lie back on the stiff hotel comforter and watch the ceiling fan turn. I've ruined Christmas. I've hurt Lucy. I've proven Connor right. And worst of all, I did what I always do—I chose safety over risk. Distance over intimacy. Running away over staying.
The thought stops me cold. When did Lucy become the person I think about first thing in the morning and last thing at night? When did her happiness become more important than my own? When did the thought of leaving her become worse than any Chicago crowd or career setback?
I grab my phone, pull up her contact. My thumb hovers over the call button. What would I even say? That I'm sorry? That I panicked? That Connor's words hit every insecurity I have and instead of fighting through them, I ran?
I put it down.
The room is too quiet. Too empty. Too far from where I want to be, which is back in that driveway with my hand at Lucy's spine, kissing her like Connor never interrupted. Or better yet, in her room with the door locked and her body warm against mine, the way it was before everything went to hell.
I close my eyes and see her face when I said I needed space. The way her expression shuttered. The way she walked away without looking back, her shoulders rigid with hurt I put there.
I've been alone plenty of times in my life. After Dad died. During the worst of my depression. Through every winter in Boston when the ice felt like my only friend. But I've never felt as lonely as I do right now, in this beige hotel room on Christmas night, knowing that the best thing in my life is five miles away believing I chose leaving over her.
Because maybe I did. Maybe Connor was right. Maybe I am halfway out the door, just waiting for the excuse to finish the exit.
My phone sits silent on the nightstand. Outside, the first light of dawn starts to creep around the curtains. Somewhere, families are waking up to new Christmas presents and coffee and that lingering Christmas morning magic. And I'm here, alone with my jacket that smells like her and my mouth that still remembers the shape of hers.
I think about Lucy sleeping across the hall from Connor, not sleeping at all. I think about Emma and Jim trying to salvage some kind of Christmas morning. I think about Connor, vindicated and furious and right about me all along.
The ceiling fan keeps turning. The sky keeps lightening. And I stay where I am, paralyzed by the same thing that brought me here in the first place. The worry that I'm not enough. That I'llhurt her worse later if I don't end it now. That Connor's right and Lucy deserves someone who can stay.
Someone who isn't me.
I grab the phone one more time. Open a new message to Lucy. Type:I'm sorry.
Delete it.
Type:I was wrong to leave.
Delete that too.
In the end, I send nothing. Because what's the point? The damage is done. Christmas is ruined. And I've proven what kind of man I am—the kind who runs when it matters most.
The fan keeps turning. The light keeps growing. And I lie there, alone, with nothing but my jacket that smells like vanilla and the memory of her hands in my hair and the taste of her I can't forget.
Lucy
The house smells like cinnamon and pine, but all I can taste is ash.
I've been awake since four this morning, lying in my childhood bed and staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars I stuck to the ceiling when I was twelve. They've faded over the years, barely visible even in the dark, but I know exactly where each one is. I used to make wishes on them. Used to believe that wanting something hard enough could make it real.
I don't know what I believe anymore.
My phone sits on the nightstand, screen dark. I've checked it seven thousand times since last night. No new messages. No missed calls. Nothing from Ryder since he left.
Since he chose Connor over me. Since he said he needed space and walked away without looking back.
The rest of me keeps replaying every moment, searching for the exact second when I became too much. When he realized what Connor already knew. That I'm the kind of person people leave.
