From the corner of my eye, I catch Tessa looking up, hair falling into her face. Her smile falters for a second, just enough to tell me she notices something’s off. Her questioning eyes linger on me before she looks away, pretending not to.
I breathe in slowly, count to five, and let it out through my nose. The air feels thick. Too hot.
I tell myself he’s just being him, stirring things up because that’s what Evan does. Whatever they had, whateverhehad, is long gone. That she’s not his to talk about. Not anymore.
But I can feel it fraying inside me, piece by piece. Every word, every laugh, every second of pretending I’m fine pulls tighter.
Standing there with my hands jammed in my pockets and my jaw clenched so hard it hurts, all I can think about is how much longer I have before I snap.
Chapter Twelve
Tessa
Dinner drags on forever.
Every laugh, every scrape of silverware, every bit of small talk blurs together until it’s just noise. I smile when I should and even manage to laugh at a few of Evan’s jokes. But the whole time, my pulse pounds so loudly in my ears that it drowns out everything else.
Because the whole time, I can feel him.
Clay’s not beside me. Not touching me. He barely even looks my way, but he’s there. He always is. It’s like his presence fills the room, making it hard to relax or focus.
Earlier, I caught him deep in conversation with Evan. The two were standing near the tree. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but I didn’t need to in order to know what it was about.Me.The way Clay’s jaw was locked, his hands flexing like he was hanging on by a thread, and the way the two kept eyeing me when they didn’t think I was paying attention.
Whatever Evan said got under Clay’s skin. I keep telling myself to play it cool, to act normal. This thing between us isn’t real. It’ll fade if we both ignore it and pretend it’s nothing serious. But every time his gaze flicks toward me, my stomach twists, and I know I’m full of shit.
By the time dessert hits the table, I’m ready to snap. I need to step out before I do something that gives us both away.
When Mom sighs and says, “We’re running low on milk, and I’ll need it for tomorrow,” I latch onto it like a lifeline.
“I’ll go,” I blurt, already out of my chair.
Nobody questions it. Why would they? It’s Christmas Eve, and the store’s only a few minutes away.
I grab my coat, mumbling something about being right back, and slip out before anyone can offer to come with me.
The cold hits me the second I step outside. Sharp enough to make my eyes water. My breath fogs in the air as I make my way down the driveway, boots crunching over the snow.
Mom let me borrow her car, and it’s been months since I’ve driven anywhere beyond a quick errand. At school, I walk everywhere or bum rides from my roommate. Still, it feels kind of good to slide behind the wheel alone again, even if my hands are shaking a little.
Each step away from that house makes my pulse climb. Not from nerves, but because I know exactly what I’m about to do.
The drive into town is quiet. The roads are nearly empty, a few cars parked outside the diner and the coffee shop, their windows glowing softly in the dark. Christmas lights hang from the lampposts, but half of them are burned out. It’s all so familiar, the kind of thing that usually makes me feel at home.
Tonight, it just makes me restless.
I pull into the square and park. My fingers tighten around the keys. For a second, I think about just grabbing the milk and going back. That would be the safe thing to do.
But the truth is, I’m not only going for milk. I have something in mind that I want to do for Clay. Something to remind him of what we shared snowed in back at the cabin.
And maybe because I’m just so damn tired of playing it safe.
I grab my purse and head downtown, the cold biting at my cheeks as I walk the quiet street. The square looks like something out of a postcard—brick buildings with fogged windows, Christmas lights wrapped around lampposts, and a faint sound of Christmas music playing somewhere nearby.
Most of the shops are closed for the night, but the little corner grocery next to the pharmacy is still open. It’s small with only two aisles, and the shelves are crammed with last-minuteessentials and Christmas candy. I grab a gallon of milk from one of the nearly empty coolers, grateful they still have what Mom asked for.
Once I pay, I tuck the bag under my arm and step back into the cold. My breath fogs as I pass the coffee shop, the smell of roasted beans and vanilla syrup trailing me.
That’s when I spot the boutique between the pharmacy and the café. Warm light spills across the sidewalk, drawing me in. I hesitate for a second before pushing open the door. A bell jingles, and I’m hit with heat and the scent of perfume and cedar candles.
