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I delete the horrible ones. The desperate and pleading ones. I can’t bear to read them again.

I don’t recognize that girl. And I refuse to be her again, despite my tears and deep soul ache. I’m still living my life, even if he’s not by my side—right now.

Last week, he responded for the very first time. There’s hope. And I choose to hold onto that with both hands.

Me: Merry Christmas, Jonathan. xoxo

I’ve always hated Christmas. Hell, I hate every holiday that required my family to gather together. There was no celebrating, not really. The day was filled with nothing but tension and anticipation. Tensely waiting for the pressure of expectation to become too much for Hal Reeves. Anticipating the moment he needed someone to take it out on. And I made the perfect punching bag.

Need to take out stress?

Sucker-punch your son as soon as he enters the room. Blindside him with a slap upside the head. Slam him against the wall and spray spit in his face as you scream at him, making sure he knows how absolutely worthless he is. Good times.

Merry fucking Christmas.

My favorite part of the holiday? Visiting my lawyer’s office. Messed up, I know. But it was where I’d get to see the tree Sadie decorated with all of the handmade ornaments she crafted over the years. A grade school picture framed in a felt star. Pipe cleaner snowmen and reindeer.

It became our tree when we moved in together our senior year of college. I wonder if she decorated it this year. I know I ruined Christmas for her too.

As if she can sense me and my thoughts, my phone vibrates, lighting up with Sadie’s name.

Sadie: Merry Christmas, Jonathan. xoxo

I shouldn’t have texted her back last week. It was a mistake. She’s holding onto the tiniest slice of hope. For what? She made her choice. And I made mine. There’s no do-overs. This isn’t a kickball game at summer camp. We don’t get to pretend the last year didn’t happen.

It can’t be erased like a text I don’t want to read. Or a bruise that heals with time. It’s permanent.

Hope doesn’t exist here.

Why do you insist on torturing yourself?” Danika asks when we meet for coffee in the hospital cafeteria.

“I’m not,” I argue weakly. “I need to go shopping for New Year’s, and they have the cutest dress stores. Besides, coastal Connecticut is so cute during the holidays.”

“If you insist on driving nearly two hours to go shopping, you might as well go to the city. We know why you’re going there. Are you planning to stand outside his apartment so you can just happen to bump into him again?”

“Am not,” I argue like a five-year-old.

“Tell me this.” Danika crosses her arms and quirks a brow. “Where are you going for New Year’s that you need this dress?”

I open my mouth. Then close it. Crap. She knows I don’t have New Year’s plans.

She grabs my hand. “I know you miss him. I do. But don’t you think it’s time you—”

“If you say move on, I will scream. Literally scream at the top of my lungs in the middle of this cafeteria.”

She knows I will too. So she chooses her next words carefully. “Isn’t it time you had some fun? Let’s go out for New Year’s. We’ll wear ridiculous outfits with so many sequins we’ll look like we should be dropped in Times Square. We’ll dance. Sing at the top of our lungs. Hell, bring Collin if you need a security blanket.”

I press my mouth into a smile. I love her for this. And maybe she’s right. I can’t keep waiting on someone who doesn’t want to be found.

I’m lying. Of course, I’ll keep waiting on him.

But I can still live my life. I can still have fun. Isn’t that what I told myself over Christmas? That I wouldn’t wallow and shrink into that shadow-self? I have to try.

“Okay. Let’s do it. Just you and me.”

“No Collin?”

“He can sit this one out.”