Page 71 of Holly Ever After

Do I want something more?

That thought would have been laughable a week ago, but now? Now I’m not so sure, and he sees it in my eyes. His head falls between his shoulders before he kneels on the bed and takes my face in his hands.

The sting of tears prickles the corners of my eyes, but I force them back. I won't cry. Not here, not in front of him.

“You know me. I don't do…” He struggles for words. “Whatever you think this is,” he says, and even though his voice is icy, there's a catch, a little break that betrays him.

I let out a bitter laugh. Sean doesn't do relationships, doesn't do the morning after. For as long as I’ve known him, he’s had one serious relationship, and he admitted last night that he didn’t even love her. Not really. Was I really stupid enough to think that maybe, just maybe, I'd be the exception?

“I'm not what you want,” he adds, still avoiding my gaze. “I'll get bored. Move on. It's what I do.”

“You're really selling yourself here.” The acid in my words cover up the crumbling facade of my bravado.

“I'm trying to be honest with you,” he says, finally meeting my eyes.

“Honesty, at this point, seems like a slap in the face, don't you think?”

“What do you want me to say?” His voice rises, losing his own facade of cool detachment.

“I don't know. Maybe something that doesn't make me feel like a whore or that all of this was a mistake.”

“Don’t ever, and I mean ever, call yourself a whore. And this wasn't a mistake,” he says softly, contradicting everything he just told me.

“Then what was it? Because right now, it feels like it was just a lapse in judgment. For both of us.”

His eyes search mine, and for a moment, I think I see a glimmer of something more, something real. But then he looks away, putting that insurmountable distance between us again.

“Maybe it was,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. “Or maybe it was inevitable. I don't know.”

“You don't know,” I echo, the words thick and bitter in my mouth. “Seems to be the theme here.”

He opens his mouth as if to say something else, but then closes it, nodding slightly as if agreeing with my last statement.

I finally break away from his touch, my skin still tingling where his hands had been.

“You're right,” I say, my voice shaky but resolute. “You're not what I want. Because what I want is someone who knows what they want.”

With that, I slip out of the bed, gather my clothes, and leave the room, each step feeling like a mile. I don't look back. I can't. Because if I do, I might just see something in his eyes that makes me want to stay. And that's the last thing I need right now.

Twenty-Eight

Iwalk into Jackie's apartment, the scent of cinnamon and vanilla hitting me immediately. The twinkling lights from her Christmas tree catch my eye, and I can't help but laugh. It's the most pathetic excuse for a Christmas tree I've ever seen. Bare branches with the occasional sparse needle, drooping under the weight of mismatched ornaments.

“Jackie, your tree looks as miserable as I feel,” I announce as I kick off my boots and hang my coat on the rack by the door.

She chuckles from the kitchen where she's pouring two mugs of hot cocoa. “Don’t insult Harold. He's been with me for ten years, and I just can't seem to part with the fucker.”

I take a seat on her comfy sofa, glancing again at Harold. “Ten years? Are you sure it's not a twig you just dressed up?”

“Harold has sentimental value,” she defends, handing me a steaming mug before sitting next to me. “So, what's got you looking like you want to join Harold in the sad Christmas corner?”

I take a sip of cocoa, relishing its warmth before delving into what's been bothering me. “Sean and I… um… we…” I struggle to find the right words, but Jackie has enough for both of us.

“You had sex? Fucked? Boned? He threw his sausage up your alley?”

“Jesus.”

“HA!” She throws her head back. “I knew it.”

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