I can’t leave things like this.
I run a hand through my hair, a nervous habit I’ve never been able to break. I take a deep breath and step into the room. The floorboard creaks under my foot, and Cheyenne’s head snaps up, her hazel eyes meeting mine.
For a moment, neither of us speaks.
“Hey,” I finally say, my voice sounding strange to my own ears.
“Hey,” she replies softly. Her fingers pause on the bracelet, then drop to her lap.
“Mind if I join you?” I indicate the empty spot beside her on the couch.
She shrugs, which isn’t exactly the enthusiastic welcome I was hoping for, but it’s not necessarily a rejection either.
I’ll take it.
I cross the room, hyperaware of every step, and lower myself onto the couch, leaving enough space between us that she won’t feel crowded.
“So,” I begin. “Good Christmas?”
Really? That’s what I’m going with?
“Yeah,” she says, her eyes fixed on the Christmas tree instead of me. “Your family always makes it special. Tell your mom thanks again for the scarf.”
“I will.” I clear my throat, searching for the right words. “Listen, Chey, about earlier—”
“It’s fine,” she cuts me off, still not looking at me. “You don’t have to explain anything.”
“But I do,” I insist. “What I said at breakfast—I didn’t mean it. Not in the way it came out.”
Now she does look at me, her expression guarded. “Then how did you mean it?”
I swallow hard. Here it is. The moment.
Just tell her how you feel.
“I panicked,” I admit. “Everyone was staring at us, and my dad was making jokes, and it just ... I didn’t want to put you on the spot like that. Not in front of everyone. Not when I wasn’t sure what you were thinking. About us.”
She watches me, her expression softening slightly. “And what about us?”
“I don’t know. That’s the thing. I don’t know what this is,” I say honestly. “But I’ve been trying to figure out how to say this all day. I gave you that bracelet because I wanted you to have something meaningful, not just some generic Christmas gift. And the book ... I remembered you gushing over it when we walked by that window display, and I thought if I wrote—”
A sharp ping interrupts me.
Cheyenne’s phone lights up on the cushion between us, and I can’t help but glance down at the screen. The name “Garrett” appears above a message preview:
Garrett:I’m serious about us, Chey. I miss you. Can we talk? I want to—
The rest disappears from the preview, but it’s enough. My stomach drops like I’ve just taken a blindside hit on the ice.
Garrett wants her back?
Cheyenne grabs the phone quickly, but not before I’ve seen enough. Her cheeks flush pink, and she stuffs the device into her pocket without looking at the message.
“Sorry,” she murmurs. “I should’ve put my phone on silent.”
“No, it’s—it’s fine.” I hear myself backpedaling even as my mind races.
Garrett’s texting her? Today? Has he been texting her all day? Is that why she seemed distracted? Are they getting back together?
