We sit with that for a moment. The relief of just being able to talk to each other again.
“I think I'm in an unhealthy relationship with my phone,” I say. “I was checking it every five minutes. At my mother's on Christmas, I kept thinking—I should just leave it in the car. Or upstairs somewhere. Stop torturing myself.” I pause. “But then I'd think: what if you called? What if you needed to talk, and I wasn't there?”
“You were trying to give me space.”
“You asked for it. I was trying to respect that.” I look at her. “Even though every morning I'd wake up and think 'I could just send one text.' But you needed space. So I didn't.”
“I kept checking my phone too,” she admits. “Constantly. And every time there was nothing from you,” she stops. “I asked for space but I didn't really want it. I wanted you to text me anyway.”
Neither of us speaks for a beat.
“We're idiots,” I say.
She laughs despite everything. “Complete idiots.”
“I was miserable. But more than that, I hated knowing that you felt hurt. I wanted so badly to fix it, because I—” I stop. Try again. “I care about you.”
The words aren't big enough for what I mean.
“What I mean is, this week has made me realize how much I?—”
I'm searching for words I can't find.
“I want to tell you my wish,” she says, nodding toward the tree. “From before.”
I look at her, grateful for the interruption.
“You go first,” she says.
I take a breath. “I wished to stop feeling like a guest in my own life.”
She waits. I can see she knows I want to say more.
“You helped me with that, Holly,” I say. “You reconnected me with what I'd hidden away. I thought my parents wanted me to be a replica of my father—the same college and business school, the same CEO, the same controlled person. That's what was expected.”
I look at my hands, flexing them once. “But at the gala, when I talked about the foundation evolving ... I wasn't afraid. I talked about honoring the spirit of his vision while changing how we do it. Meeting new needs. Reaching more people. Doing it my way.”
“That's what your father would have wanted.”
“I know that now. Doing it my way—that honors his legacy better than being a copy of him ever could.” I turn to her. “You helped me see that. And it's more than just work, it's life. You helped me find the person I thought I'd lost. The dance, the joy, the person I want to be. Whatever happens next, that matters. You gave me that.”
Her eyes glisten with unshed tears. “I knew you weren't really a grump. I knew it right away.”
“You did?”
“The peppermint mocha argument gave you away. Nobody gets that worked up about something unless they care deeply about everything.” She smiles. “I'm glad you know it now too.”
“Your turn,” I say. “What did you wish for?”
“I wished for this to be real. Not an arrangement. Not pretend.” She meets my eyes. “Real.”
I study her face for a long moment. “Are you sure that's what you want?”
“I've been asking myself that all week,” she admits. “I kept thinking—how could someone like you be interested in someone like me? I'm finding my footing in your world, but it still feels like imposter syndrome. Like I'm waiting for someone to realize I don't belong there.”
I can't stand hearing her doubt herself like this.
“You belong everywhere you choose to be,” I tell her. “And if anyone in my world makes you feel otherwise, they're the ones who don't belong.”
