But as I sit alone in my parents’ living room, the charm clutched in my hand, I have to admit the truth—at least to myself. Somewhere along the way, without me noticing or giving permission, Cheyenne has found her way past all my carefully constructed defenses.
And I just pushed her right into the arms of the man who hurt her.
Merry Christmas to me.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Cheyenne
I walk to my car with measured steps, keeping my spine straight and my chin up. The gift bag full of my Christmas presents from the Williamstons dangles from my fingertips, swinging slightly in the cold December air. I refuse to look back at the house. I refuse to let myself wonder if Dylan is watching me leave.
His words keep echoing in my head, each repetition another tiny crack in my chest.“We’re just friends.”
Right. Of course we are.
My car beeps as I unlock it, the sound too cheerful for my current mood. I slide into the driver’s seat and set the gift bag on the passenger side with more care than necessary. Theleather-bound book Dylan gave me—the one with that inscription that made me think maybe, just maybe—stares up at me.
I flip it over so I don’t have to see the cover.
We’re just friends.
I start the engine, the rumble filling the silence as I sit for a moment, hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles turn white. I feel like someone scooped out all my insides and left just enough to keep me functioning. I back out of the driveway without looking at the house, afraid I’ll see Dylan in the window ... afraid I won’t.
The streets are nearly empty on Christmas night. Lights twinkle from houses I pass, families together inside, celebrating.
I drive on autopilot, my mind replaying the entire day like a movie I can’t turn off.
The way Dylan looked at me when I opened his gift. The way his eyes followed me around the room. The almost-conversation we started to have by the tree.
And then: “You’re important to me. As a friend. A really good friend.”
Friend. Friend. Friend.
I should’ve known better. That’s the worst part. I should’ve known that Dylan Williamston—hockey star, Instagram celebrity, notorious player—wouldn’t see me as anything more than his sister’s best friend. The safe option. The girl next door. Not someone to date, just someone to talk to between the models and influencers.
“What did you expect?” I whisper to myself, the words bitter on my tongue. “You’re always the one hoping for more.”
It’s a pattern I can’t seem to break. I fall for emotionally unavailable men, or men who don’t see me, or men who view me as comfortable but not exciting. I make myself smaller, quieter, easier to be around. I convince myself that if I’m just patient enough, understanding enough, they’llfinallysee me.
And they never do.
My phone pings from my pocket—another text from Garrett, no doubt. He’s been messaging all day, each one more desperate than the last.
I ignore it, just like I’ve been ignoring all of them.
But still, my phone pings again. I grip the steering wheel tighter.
The drive home passes in a blur of Christmas lights and empty streets. When I finally pull into my apartment complex, I sit in the car for a long moment, staring at nothing. My phone pings a third time, and something in me snaps.
I pull it out and stare at the screen. Three messages from Garrett.
Garrett:I’m serious about us, Chey. I miss you.
Garrett:Can we talk? I want to makethings right.
Garrett:Please respond. I know you’re reading these texts.
I stare at his name on my screen, remembering how I used to feel when I saw it. The flutter in my stomach, the hope, the endless willingness to compromise. And then the slow, painful realization that it was never going to be enough—thatIwas never going to be enough for him.
