Page 101 of Back to December
Holden’s warmth is making me groggy, and soon my blinks last entire sections of the movie. The fire snaps quietly; the lights on the tree blur into halos. He shifts beside me, pulling me closer as he strokes his thumb lazily against my palm.
“Should go to bed,” he mumbles.
“This is perfect,” I breathe. “Let’s stay here.”
Love doesn’t burn here; it glows. Steady. Golden.
And I mean it with everything I’ve got. I don’t have to go back. I could stay right here and just keep going.
My eyes slip closed.
Halfway between wakefulness and sleep, Holden’s heartbeat thrums in my ears. I’m not sure when we changed positions, but the comfort of its steady rhythm pulls me into an even deeper sleep.
The kind that feels safe.
And when I open my eyes again, the light has changed.
thirty-six
LAILA
I’m stillin the living room, but all the decor is different.
It’s less cozy. Less lived in. Less mine and Holden’s home.
Worse, it’s quiet. Painfully so.
There’s no fire crackling. To be honest, I’m not sure there’s ever been one in this fireplace before. It’s too pristine for that. No endless movie loop from the movie we fell asleep watching. There’s a tree, but it’s undecorated, and the bulbs are dark and glassy.
And Holden’s heartbeat—the steady comfort I fell asleep to—is gone.
Generic Christmas decorations in neutral colors dot the mantle. All the nostalgic, colorful pieces are gone. The four stockings hanging from holders no longer exist. The furniture still has a rustic touch to it, but all the warmth of the home I fell asleep in is gone.
It feels wrong, like a photo taken in the wrong light. There’s no warmth, no trace of the path I followed here. Just gray where gold should be.
The air smells like clean laundry. Not cinnamon or sugar, no pine or wood smoke, no vanilla or cookies or gumdrops.
Sterile.
“Sebastian?” My voice cracks. “What did you do?”
There’s no answer, but I know. In my heart,I knowthis is another glimpse—but I won’t like this one. I’d like it a lot less if he shows me my own grave, and this is decades in the future.
But I don’t think Sebastian is eventhatmorbid.
My phone buzzes on the coffee table, and I snatch it up, desperate for a clue. The notification is from our sister message thread, and relief pours through me. At least I still have them, in whatever alternate universe this is.
Bridget: Breakfast is almost ready—you said you’d be here at nine.
Bridget: Where are you?
My fingers hover on the screen.Where is here?
Ella: The kids are going to eat without you. Hurry up!
Ella: And don’t tell me you’re lost. That excuse is old. You know exactly how to get home.
Ella: It was once yours, too.
