Evan
My speech that I thought I memorized is gone. Every word of it.
Three days of rehearsal, the entire drive here, even while Jocelyn interviewed romance authors about perfect New Year's Eve kisses at the bookstore—I'd been running through what I'd say. Pictured Holly the entire time they discussed countdown kisses and midnight moments.
Now she's here and I have nothing.
“Hi,” I finally manage.
“Hi. Your coat's buttoned wrong,” she says.
I glance down. She's right. Off by one button, the whole thing pulling strange. “I left the bookstore in a hurry.”
“Why?”
Her cheeks and nose match the pink in her scarf now, all made rosy by the December cold.
“You asked me to be here.”
We start walking. Neither reaching for the other. My hand keeps twitching toward her, muscle memory demanding what my brain won't allow yet.
“I started to drive back on Tuesday,” she says. “To find you. To apologize. Got halfway before I turned around.”
“Why?”
“I lost my nerve.” She stops walking. We’ve almost reached the town square, the Wish Tree visible ahead. “I'd been so awful to you. Accused you of—” She shakes her head. “I didn't know how to fix what I'd broken.”
“You didn't break anything.”
“I did. You were trying to explain and I just ... shut down. Shut you out.” She turns to me. “I couldn't figure out what to say that would be enough.”
“Holly—”
“Then Mrs. Kowalski told me about the scholarship fund.”
She keeps touching things as we walk—her scarf, her coat pocket, the edge of her sleeve. Her hands need something to do that isn't reaching for me. I recognize it because mine are doing the same thing.
“You did that while I was being horrible to you. While I wasn't answering your calls.”
“You weren't horrible. You were hurt.”
“It's too much. The endowment, the guest artists?—”
“It's exactly enough. For what that studio means. For what you've given them.”
“You did this not knowing if we'd ever speak again.” She takes a breath. “You did it anyway.”
We reach the Wish Tree. There's a bench nearby, and we both head for it.
We are both quiet until we sit.
“This is weird,” I say.
“Which part?”
“That the person I’ve most been wanting to talk to about all this ... is you.”
“I know what you mean,” she says.
