Page 135 of My Merry Mistake
“You’ve taught me well,” I say. “I think I’m actually getting the hang of it.”
“Sleep well, Hart,” he says, eyes locked onto mine.
I nod. “You too.”
Once I’m inside, Finn drives off, leaving me standing in my dimly lit house, watching my resolve crumble to pieces around me.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Raya
Over the next week, I do anything I can to stay busy, grateful to have some space away from Finn. I need to think. Sort my feelings. Talk some sense into myself.
So far, I’m not doing a very good job.
It doesn’t help that, thanks to my sisters, I watch every one of the four away games. Or that Finn texts me while they’re traveling, “just to check in.”
It’s hard to forget him when he keeps sending me goofy selfies, or photos of Gray dead asleep on the plane, or a series of questions making sure I’m still taking it easy.
My reasons for staying away from him are thin, and even I know it. Yes, we’re friends, but I’m not an idiot. I feel what’s happening between us.
And it scares me. Because all the things about him that felt so wrong—all the reasons it was easy to keep him in the “just friends” box—are getting harder to focus on.
Distance and space are my friends right now.
I’m not someone who has ever been ruled by my feelings, and I won’t start now. I need to get my head on straight and let logic prevail.
Just like always.
The Sunday after the food tour, I go to family dinner at my parents’ house, which proves a great distraction. We bake and decorate Christmas cookies, and I can’t remember the last time I laughed that hard. It’s nice to laugh.
The next afternoon, I take the cookies to Tasha at the tutoring club, and while I’m there, help Grace get dinner ready. All the kids want to know why Finn didn’t come with me, and when I explain he’s playing hockey out of town, there’s palpable disappointment in the room.
I gather them all together and snap a photo, then send it to him with a text:
Raya
They miss you!
Finn
That’s great, but . . . do you miss me?
I smile and tuck the phone away without responding because once again, it’s not my brain leading the charge.
Every morning, I drink my coffee under the soft glow of the Christmas tree and read. For fun. It’s a quiet hobby, but it suits me, and I’m starting to realize that forcing myself to be productive twenty-four hours a day might not be the best way to “live like it matters.”
I’ve even adopted his family’s saying as my own.
This revelation leads to a harsher one. If I’m really going to live that way, I have to make some changes. Stop volunteering for everything. Stop filling every waking hour with work to avoid having a real life outside of the office—something I once convinced myself I didn’t want. In reality, maybe I’ve just been afraid to admit that I do in case I couldn’t figure out how to make it happen.
Which is why, the day I return to work, after a checkup with Dr. Marshall, who gives me the all clear to return, I bypass my office and go straight to Brian’s. He has a decorated tree in the corner, wrapped gifts underneath, and colorful string lights hanging around the perimeter. A Santa hat tops his desk lamp, with a snowman right next to it.
He looks up from his computer and smiles. “You’re back!”
I nod. “It’s like Santa threw up in here.”
He stands and holds out his hands. “It’s Christmas!”
