Page 121 of Wild Then Wed
His attention drops back down to his skates, and I can see his jaw working, like he’s still trying to logic his way into balance.
“Hey,” I say, tugging his hands gently until his eyes lift again.
“What?”
“Stop thinking so hard. Just look at me.”
His brows knit, but he does. Slowly. Cautiously.
“You’ll get the hang of it,” I say. “But you’re trying too hard. When you stop thinking about doing it right, your body will catch up eventually.”
His mouth ticks up just barely.
“So just keep looking at me. And tell me why you hate the holidays.”
He sighs—long and low, one of those breaths you don’t mean to let out but it comes anyway. His arms shift with the exhale, and for a second he wobbles.
I tighten my grip on his hands automatically. “Careful.”
He nods once. Then finally says, “It’s just…a lot.”
I don’t say anything. Just pull him a little further.
“The music. The lights. The expectations.” His jaw works. “You’re supposed tofeela certain way, right? Like everything’s supposed to be merry and magical and perfect. And if it’s not, it feels worse somehow. Like you’re messing it up for everybody else.”
I nod slowly, guiding him in a wide arc near the edge of the rink. His hands are still tucked in mine, the weight of them familiar now. Heavy, but not in a bad way.
“It’s not just about the holiday,” he adds. “It’s everything around it. The lead-up. The noise. The pressure to be…cheerful. Put together. Even if the whole year kicked the shit out of you.”
My stomach pulls tight at that. Not because he said it, but because I’ve felt it too.
“And I used to like it,” he says, quieter now. “I really did.”
I glance up at him. His expression’s still guarded, but softer than before. Maybe the effort to hold it all in is finally wearing him out.
We keep moving, slow and clunky, but moving. And the thing is—he doesn’t seem to notice that he’s doing it. That his steps are starting to follow mine more smoothly, his body adjusting to the balance without thinking too much about it.
“When you’re a kid, the holidays are this big, shiny thing,” he says. “You don’t question it. You think it’s always gonna feel like magic because you don’t know any better.”
He keeps his eyes on the ice, but he’s still following my lead. Still holding on.
“But then you get older. And you start noticing the empty chairs. The weird tension in the room. The way everyone’s trying so hard to make it feel normal when it isn’t.”
He pauses for a second, like he might leave it there. Then, quietly—almost more to himself than to me—he says, “It’s just…harder now. That’s all.”
My hands shift slightly in his, but I don’t let go. I get it. I get it more than I want to admit. I glance toward the tree line past the rink, the faint glow of Main Street lights flickering beyond it.
“Sometimes I feel alone during the holidays,” I say. “I don’t want to. I try not to. But it’s there.”
He glances at me.
“I used to love it,” I go on. “The ice skating, the tree, the lights. My dad and I—we always made it a thing. We had all these dumb little traditions. He’d sneak cinnamon into everything and then act like it wasn’t on purpose. We used to try to out-decorate Loretta, which, you know, is impossible.”
Sawyer’s mouth ticks up slightly. But he doesn’t interrupt.
“And now…” I shrug. “Everyone kind of has someone. Boone has Lark. Ridge has his messed-up will-they-won’t-they with Miller. Mom has Loretta. Even Sage has Elvis, who—granted—is useless, but he still matters to her.”
I shake my head. “I don’t know. It just feels like I’m standing in the middle of all these little pairs. Like I’m part of the whole thing, but not reallyinit.”
