She hesitates, then nods. “People talk.”
“And what do you think?” I ask, my tone sharper than I intended.
Sophia’s jaw tightens. “I think people have no right to judge what they don’t understand.”
Her words hit me hard, and for a moment, I don’t know what to say. There’s something raw and fierce in her voice. It makes me wonder how much she knows about judgment—about surviving it.
Betty reappears then, her presence breaking whatever fragile connection we’d managed to form. “Ray, would you like some coffee before you go?” It’s a polite way of saying I’ve overstayed my welcome.
“No, thank you,” I say, pointing a thumb toward the door. “I should get going anyway. The nanny’s probably wondering where I am.”
Sophia sighs, running a hand through her hair. Her eyes darken with sadness, maybe, or regret. “I should probably finish this,” she says, nodding toward the gingerbread house.
She turns slightly, her hand still resting on the counter. Her lips part like she’s about to say something, but then she closes them again.
I take it as my cue to leave. I give Betty a nod of thanks and head for the door. I can feel Sophia’s gaze on my back, heavy and lingering. It takes everything in me not to look back.
Outside, the freezing air bites at my skin, sharp and relentless, but it doesn’t quell the feeling that I’ve left something unfinished behind. As I stroll down the street, the bitter cold slows my pounding heart, and I glance back at the house. Its warm glow spills onto the snow like the beacon of a fucking lighthouse against the dark. Sophia’s silhouette lingers in the kitchen window, her head bent as she works on the gingerbread house. There’s a heaviness in my chest, a pull I don’t understand. But I shake it off, forcing my feet to keep moving. I don’t belong in that warmth, in Sophia’s world. My place is somewhere darker, colder, and far away from her kind of light.
And no matter how much I might want to change that; I know it’s not going to happen. So, as I walk away, the image of her stays seared into my mind. For the first time in years, I let myself feel the ache of wanting something I can’t have. It’s sharp, deep, and impossible to ignore.
7
SOPHIA
Iwake up to the faint hum of voices downstairs, mingling with the rich aroma of coffee and cinnamon. It’s Cassidy’s wedding day, and the house is buzzing with an energy that’s both chaotic and joyful. My chest tightens as I swing my legs over the side of the bed. I’ve never been much for weddings—too many memories, too many ghosts—but this one’s different. This one’s for my sister.
The last two days have been extremely hectic with the last-minute preparations. This morning goes the same way—a blur of makeup brushes, curling irons, and laughter. Cassidy looks radiant, her brown curls cascading over her shoulders, a soft halo of baby’s breath woven into her hair. Her eyes sparkle with a mixture of excitement and nerves, and her smile is as bright as the snow-covered peaks outside. “Soph, do you think Mark will cry?” she asks, her voice trembling with an edge of vulnerability.
I smirk, smoothing a wrinkle from her ivory dress. “If he doesn’t, I’ll pinch him hard enough to make sure he does.”
Her laughter is music, a balm to the tension curling in my stomach. It’s not the ceremony or the reception I’m dreading—it’s him. Ray.
The ceremony is perfect. Cassidy and Mark exchange vows under a wooden arch adorned with pine branches and white roses. The backdrop of Mammoth Lakes is almost too picture-perfect; the jagged mountains are framed by a sky so blue that it looks like a painting. I sit in the front row beside my parents—Betty, graceful and poised as ever in her navy dress, and John, his silver hair catching the sunlight as he fights back tears.
Ben leans in to whisper in my ear, “Cass has a knack for causing trouble. You think Mark’s flawless brown hair will last long?”
I snicker, biting back a laugh at my brother’s joke. Mark Robbins is a handsome man. His dark suit fits him impeccably, accentuating his broad shoulders and lean frame. There’s an ease to him, a natural charm in the way he moves, and when Cassidy walks toward him, his expression softens into something unguarded and real. He’s a good man. The kind of man who knows how to make my sister happy, even if his polished demeanor makes him seem too perfect at times.
The reception is held in a glass-walled ballroom that glows like a lantern as the sun sets. Fairy lights strung across the ceiling twinkle above us. The tables, adorned with evergreen sprigs, white candles, and shimmering gold accents, seat the three hundred guests. When the daughter of the town’s favorite, though retired, mayor marries a beloved local doctor, such a crowd is expected.
I take a sip of champagne, the bubbles tickling my throat as I watch Cassidy and Mark share their first dance. Their happiness is contagious, but it doesn’t fill the hollow ache in my chest.
Ray’s here. Somewhere. I’ve caught glimpses of him throughout the day—a flash of his strong profile as he stood at the edge of the ceremony, the way the sunlight glinted off his auburn, tousled hair. Now, he’s across the room, leaning against a column with that quiet intensity that draws eyes without effort. He looks like he belongs in a different world, his sharp jawline and brooding presence a stark contrast to the light and warmth around us.
“Ready for your turn?” a deep voice pulls me from my thoughts. Mark stands beside me, his hand extended. Up close, his confidence is disarming, but there’s a playfulness in his eyes that puts me at ease. “Bride’s orders. No sitting out this dance.”
I laugh despite myself and take his hand. Mark leads me to the dance floor, and as we sway to the soft strains of a piano, he keeps the conversation light, cracking jokes about his disastrous attempts at learning the waltz for the reception. His charm is easy to see now, as is the way he makes Cassidy laugh and puts everyone around him at ease.
“You’re a good dancer,” I admit, trying to focus on the moment instead of the weight in my chest.
He grins. “Cassidy would disagree. She says I have two left feet.”
“With her ballet training, she thinks everyone has two left feet.”
“True,” he concedes, spinning me lightly. “But don’t tell her I said that.”
I smile, but my gaze drifts over his shoulder, drawn like a magnet. There he is—Ray. He’s dancing with Cassidy now, his strong hand resting gently on her waist, his other hand clasping hers. There’s a tension in his posture, a restraint that makes my pulse quicken. He’s not just a man; he’s a storm barely held in check. And when his dark eyes lift and meet mine, it feels like the air’s been sucked out of the room.
