And somehow, that feels like the bravest wish of all.
Ryder
Three days alone in this inn room and I swear I can still smell her.
Vanilla and old books. The scent clings to the pillow she left in my room which I grabbed before I left. I hate myself for taking it. Hate myself more for pressing my face into it at night when I can't sleep, which is every night now.
The room is nothing. Beige walls, beige carpet, beige curtains that don't quite block the streetlights. Generic art of covered bridges and fall foliage. A bed I don't use and a mini-fridge stocked with water bottles I can't taste. I've stayed in worse. I've stayed in palaces. Doesn't matter. Every place feels the same when you're running.
Physical therapy at dawn in this cramped space. Push-ups between the bed and dresser. Shoulder rotations that pull but don't break. Ice packs from the front desk that I press against joints that don't hurt anymore because the real pain isn't physical. The routine gives me something to do besides replay Christmas on an endless loop. Connor's face when he caught us in the driveway. The kiss I couldn't hide. Lucy's hand dropping from my chest. The sick feeling in my gut when I walked away three hours later.
My phone screen shows sixteen missed calls. Greg, my agent. My sister asking if I'm alive, then getting pissed when I don't respond.
And Lucy. Two texts from yesterday that I've read at least fifty times but can't bring myself to answer.
The first one:Hey. I know the other night was a lot. I just wanted to check in. Hope you're okay.
So gentle. So her. Reaching out even after I walked away.
The second, hours later:I need to know where we stand. Not today, not right now while you're dealing with whatever you're dealing with. But soon. We need to have a real conversation about this. About us. Because I'm not doing this halfway anymore.
I've typed and deleted responses forty-seven times. Every version sounds wrong. Too much or not enough. Excuses when she deserves honesty. Promises I'm not sure I can keep.
So I've said nothing. And my silence is its own answer, isn't it? The coward's way out.
I silence the phone and watch the notifications pile up like evidence of every bridge I'm burning.
The photo album sits on the dresser. Brown leather, worn at the edges where her hands held it.
I haven't opened it since that night. Can't. Because every time I look at those photos I see what I threw away, and the weight of it makes it hard to breathe.
But I grab it anyway. Flip it open with shaking hands because apparently I enjoy torture.
Photos from the past two weeks. Me with the Wright family. Decorating the tree, building snowmen with Maisie, game nights around the dining table. Me at the Christmas market helping Lucy with her booth. At the food bank boxing donations. Candid moments I didn't know she was capturing.
And us. A few photos of us together, carefully mixed in with the family shots. The look on my face in those pictures makes something twist in my chest. Like I'd already decided without admitting it.
She'd been documenting what I was too scared to claim. Proof that I had a home here. Proof that I belonged.
I close the album. Press my palms against my eyes until I see stars.
My shoulder protests when I pull on my jacket. Good. Physical pain is easier than this hollowed-out feeling in my chest. I grab my keys and head out, knee solid when I test it. My body is ready for whatever I ask. My head is a disaster.
Downtown Pine Hollow looks like a Christmas card. Lights strung between streetlamps, wreaths on doors, people ducking in and out of shops carrying bags and wearing smiles. I keep my hood up and head down, just driving. No destination. Just movement because staying still means thinking.
Then I see her truck.
Forest green. Dent in the back bumper from when she backed into a snowbank trying to park. Parked outside the rink with the bed full of boxes.
I slow. Pull into a spot three rows back where I can see but stay hidden.
The side door to the rink opens and Lucy emerges carrying a stack of posters. Natalie's with her, arms full of decorations. They're laughing about something. Setting up for the charity game. The event I helped save. The event I'll have to attend tomorrow and pretend I'm fine.
Lucy looks tired. Even from this distance, I can see the shadows under her eyes, the way her smile doesn't quite reach where itshould. She's wearing jeans and an oversized sweater, hair in a messy bun, and she's still the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
Natalie says something. Lucy shakes her head. Her shoulders curve inward slightly, a posture I've never seen on her. She's always so straight. So strong. So steady.
I did this. Put that exhaustion in her face. Made her shoulders bow.
