Page 115 of Going Viral for Christmas
Point is, I’m home. That should bring comfort. Familiarity. Safety. But, truthfully, all it’s bringing is a quiet that curls around my ribs like fog, making me restless, and lonely.
Outside my floor-to-ceiling windows, the world is soft and still. Pale blue sky painted with lavender streaks. The tree-covered hillside below is dusted in the last whispers of frost, the lake at the bottom shimmering like it’s been brushed with silver leaf.
There’s a mug in my hand, steam furling into the air. Almond milk latte. Homemade. Overpriced beans and a dash of cinnamon. Exactly how I like it. The tiny indulgence feels similar to control, even if it’s one that can’t patch a hole in your chest.
My phone buzzes from where it’s sitting on the kitchen countertop. I set my mug down and pick it up, moving over to the window seat at my breakfast nook. Victoria.
How are the pages coming?
Translation:I know they’re not coming but give me something to work with.
I told Hope to give you a month. That was two weeks ago.
Clock’s ticking, kid.
I stare at the phone screen, thinking it might magically auto-fill with a brilliant response. No such luck.
So good. So many pages.
Overflowing, honestly.
How many of those pages contain actual words?
Semantics.
If those semantics aren’t swoony and sex-positive and ready to print, I can’t help you. Are you okay?
I don’t reply to that one right away. I don’t know if I am or not. I’m not sure what okay looks like when my entire brain feels wrung out and hung over a wood-burning fireplace.
So I type what I know won’t set off alarm bells and, with my free hand, start rearranging the throw pillows lined up along my nook.
Working through it. I’ll send them soon.
That better not be code for “I’m rearranging my throw pillows again.”
I snatch my hand back before I touch the next pillow, and type back.
Rude.
And no. That’s not what I was doing.
(Anymore.)
Ava…
I got this. Promise.
I need to write. For the deadline. For the people waiting on me.
For me.
And for the ache that’s camped out inside my heart, humming his name.
Soren.
Once I slip my phone into the pocket of my cardigan, I head toward my office. Every surface of my house twinkles. There are not one, but four themed trees—each with its own aesthetic.
The main tree in the living room is what I call “Nostalgia Chic” with mismatched ornaments, family photos, and glittered macaroni frames from elementary school.
