I had to think it was some inner part of me telling me that if she didn’t go now, I’d never let her go at all.
She opened her mouth a few times like she didn’t know how to say the words. Then she cooled her features and landed on, “Goodbye, Beck.”
“Goodbye, Park.”
We stared at each other a few seconds longer, neither of us knowing what the right thing to do was. Did we hug? Shake hands? Give a whole speech? No one taught us how to say goodbye to the love of our lives at eighteen.
She turned, rounding the end of the trailer to head toward the driver’s side of her truck. She barely made it five steps before my feet started moving.
She must’ve heard my boots crunch the gravel, because she stopped and spun. “Beck, what are you?—”
I swallowed the last part of her sentence with my kiss. One hand wrapped around her elbow while my other snaked into her blonde curls. I breathed in her vanilla scent, basking in that hint of almond I loved. I’d snuck a peek at her body wash and bought my own bottle—not to use, but to smell when I missed her. Maybe that was weird, but there was no hiding how obsessed I was with her.
Her mouth moved with mine like it had so many times before. Our tongues bounced against each other before diving deeper into the kiss. My hand slid from her elbow to her waist, tugging her closer until her stomach was flush with mine. She arched her back, wrapping her arm around the back of my neck while her other hand fisted in my shirt.
We were a cacophony of heavy breathing, hungry kisses, and pained thoughts. I didn’t want to let her go—not now, not ever. But when we finally stopped, we both refused to open our eyes. Our foreheads pressed together, our noses brushing like they had so many times before.
“Now I can say goodbye,” I murmured, utterly breathless.
Our chests rose and fell, bumping against one another’s. The realization that this would be the last time I’dfeel her heart beat against mine was like a bullet passing straight through me.
I shoved away the pain of her leaving, forcing myself to release her. I took one step back, then another. Her lips were puffy, her eyes glassy. Why the fuck were we doing this to ourselves?
“I’ll miss you,” she whispered.
“Every single day.”
With one last look, she got in her truck. I didn’t move as she pulled out of the driveway and onto the road. I stood there for hours, unable to walk away from the spot where I’d last touched her.
I told myself missing her wouldn’t always be this painful.
That one day, I wouldn’t feel the gaping hole in my chest as badly as I did at that moment.
God, was I wrong.
31
PARKER
Growing up, Christmas was rarely special with my parents. In the corner of our living room, my mom would set up the twelve-inch plastic tree she found in a donation box on the side of the road. Maybe it was considered stealing for her to have taken it from in front of a stranger’s house, but at twelve years old, I’d never felt more excited than when she walked in the door holding it.
The lights on it no longer worked—not that they would have plugged it in anyway—but it helped us feel a little more cheerful during the dreary months of winter.
On my fourteenth Christmas, Beckham noticed our house was dark, as always, when he came by to give me a present—a wooden horse he’d carved from a fallen branch near the pond on their property. He’d returned the next night with a small generator in the bed of his truck and dozens of strings of lights. He’d spent hours looping them around scratchy branches, and when hewas done, he’d texted my shattered phone to tell me to come outside.
There were many times I’d thought I’d fallen in love with Beckham as a kid. Like the time he punched a boy at school for making fun of my worn clothes. Or when he picked me up and jumped into the pond and didn’t let me go, even as I squealed and laughed. Or all the nights I spent in his bed beside him, the ones where we just stared at each other and breathed the same air, enjoying each other’s presence.
But the night he lit that tree? My heart never shone brighter.
From that year forward, I went over to the Bronsons’ house for Christmas Eve dinner. Sometimes, I’d spend the night and wake up on Christmas morning to find presents with my name on them stuffed under the eight-foot tree.
This year was no different.
We’d shown up to Beckham’s parents’ house at eight a.m. sharp, per Avery’s request. Though there weren’t as many gifts now that we were all grown, it was still magical walking into that old farmhouse and seeing the Christmas spirit on full display.
“Ugh, finally!” Avery called out before shoving up from the kitchen table at breakneck speed and sprinting over to the tree.
Sage’s mouth popped open as she fought a smile from where she stood at the kitchen counter. “Avery McKinley, that is not polite.”
