Page 198 of Going Viral for Christmas

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Love,

S

Thirty-Eight

SOREN

I flew home straight after reading exactly sixty-five letters aloud to ShelfSpace.

Sixty. Five.

One a week. Every damn week. For over a year. Plus a few more over the past few weeks.

They weren’t for me. They weren’t for publicity.

They were for her.

MyAva.

Every single one.

So even if Ava doesn’t see the stream today, tomorrow, or ever–if it gets buried in noise or drowned by the next scandal—it doesn’t matter…

It’s out there.

Like me.

Still waiting.

Still hers.

Christmas Eve is upon us. My house is still. Lonely. Lit by twinkle lights I’ve had up since last year. Not because I’m festive. Because I never got around to taking them down. They’ve dulled over time, flickering, trying to die quietly. They know joy doesn’t live here anymore.

The fireplace crackles, the vodka and tonic in my hand is barelytouched, and the view out my windows is objectively gorgeous. Snow, evergreens, the Seattle skyline in the distance. It’s a goddamn postcard.

And yet?

Also a painting I can’t step into. Because none of it means anything. Not without her.

I don’t even realize I’m crying until a tear plinks into the glass and makes the saddest little ripple in the universe.

I wipe it away. It didn’t happen. (It did.)

Knock. Knock.

The sound startles me. No one knocks on my door. My neighbors text or throw pinecones. My manager FaceTimes before showing up. And Matthew always barges in as if he pays rent.

Knock. Knock.

My glass hits the table with a thud when I set it down. My feet are moving before my brain even catches up. And when I open that door, I nearly black out.

Ava.

A deep crimson coat hugs her body like she’s Christmas incarnate. Snowflakes cling to her lashes. Her cheeks are flushed. Her lips are pink and perfect.

She’s real.

She’s here.

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