I'd gone alone. Left at intermission—the grief was too sharp.
Further in, a pressed flower. I don't remember where it came from. A corner of a page is dog-eared at a photo of the Royal Ballet's production. Elsbeth's favorite.
I pick up my phone. Open our message thread one more time.
My unsent words stare back at me: Please just tell me how to?—
I finish the sentence now: Please just tell me how to give you the space you need, while also making sure you know I'm here when you're ready.
But I don’t send it.
I lock my phone. Set it on the coffee table.
The dog-eared page is still open in my lap. The Royal Ballet's production.
I pick up the remote, pull up the streaming service on the TV. Search for it. Find the 2009 recording—not the one we watched together, of course, but close enough.
Press play.
The overture begins. That familiar swell of music that still makes my chest feel like it might overflow.
I lean back against the couch, the book still open beside me, Elsbeth's handwriting visible in the margin.
By the time the party scene starts, my eyes are already closing.
For the first time in four days, I sleep through the night.
Holly
The sugar cookies need borders.
I pipe white icing around each edge—snowflakes, trees, bells—filling the bakery's glass case with December. My hands move automatically, steady and sure even when the rest of me isn't.
“Those are beautiful, sweetheart,” Mom says, wiping down the counter behind me.
“Mmm.”
She doesn't ask why I've been here for days. Doesn't ask why I'm staying in my old room instead of going back to the city. Doesn't ask about the photo or Evan or any of it.
The Bennett family specialty: giving each other space until we're ready to talk.
The door chimes. Mrs. Crawford bustles in, already unwrapping her scarf.
“Holly! I didn't know you were still in town. How wonderful.” She leans closer, eyes bright with hunger for news. “I saw you in that photo online. With that handsome young man at the theater! How romantic.”
I add borders to another snowflake. “Just helping out with the festival, Mrs. Crawford.”
“But you two looked so?—”
“What can we get you today, Mrs. Crawford?” Mom intercepts smoothly, and I could kiss her.
“Oh, the usual. And maybe two of those snowflake cookies for my grandchildren.”
I box them carefully, hand them over, and smile until my face hurts.
By noon, I've decorated forty-seven cookies and answered variations of the same question eleven times.
Marie asked yesterday if Evan is coming back for the rest of the festival this weekend, and to see her final show.
