Page 105 of Back to December
“Of course not. You did what you thought was best. Your mother is an overconfident narcissist who inflicted a considerable amount of damage on the three of you over the years. It was a knee-jerk reaction to trauma, Laila. No one can fault you for that.” His eyes linger on Holden. “He hasn’t. Yet.”
“Tell me I can change it,” I beg.
This is genuinely worse than seeing my grave. Worse than thinking I caused Ella’s predicament with Holly’s wedding, worse than being afraid my mother could somehow extend her villainous reach to Holden or his family.
“Of course you can.” He nods.
Snow begins to fall again—soft, steady. But this time, the edges shimmer gold. Color bleeds back into my world, and with it, the sound of his laugh. Blurred, like I’m underwater. But I don’t miss it.
“Don’t waste this,” Sebastian says. “Start a new chapter before one starts without you.”
The world blurs white.
thirty-seven
HOLDEN
The worldoutside blurs to white, and time seems to follow.
Tree branches bend under the weight, and I can’t see the driveway anymore, let alone the road. I don’t think we’ve ever seen this much snow in our area of Texas before. We’ll probably be here for a while since the town isn’t equipped for this weather.
Hopefully, the power holds so we stay warm.
I’ve been up for hours, fooled once into thinking Laila rolled into me—only to hit the pillow wall. I briefly considered tossing Trevor the pillow into the fire, but even I know that’s excessive.
I’m cracking under the pretense of quiet steadiness when I just want Laila to hear me when I tell her I love her. That she deserves me.
Patience isn’t for the weak-hearted. It’s for the stubborn—the ones who still believe love’s worth waiting for.
I tried reading, but all I could find were Rosalyn’s romance novels, and I have zero desire to read about someone’s happily ever after when mine is blocked by pillows. There’s probably a worn path in these hand-carved wood floors from all the pacing I’ve done.
When I left the bed, she was mumbling something about mistletoe.
I didn’t want to think about who might be in her dreams.
When I can’t stand it anymore, I grab my phone and call the bakery. No one answers, so I try McKenna. The signal flickers briefly before the FaceTime screen loads.
“Is your inner alarm a bread timer? You could’ve slept in,” she says. Her curls are wild, her cheeks are flushed, and flour covers half her hoodie.
“I don’t know what it is about you and flour, but I’m not cleaning whatever mess you made,” I tell her. “What are you doing at the bakery?”
“It got too bad to see to drive to Mom and Dad’s, so I crashed at your place. Imagine my surprise when you weren’t here! Where are you?”
The camera jostles, and Logan appears, way too close to the screen.
“Yeah, where are you?” he echoes. “Laila is unaccounted for, too. Did you guys finally kiss and make up?”
He manages two kissing noises before McKenna smacks him with an oven mitt.
She frowns. “Would you shut up and grow up?”
“Thank you,” I tell her.
“I just think he’s being immature.” Her eyebrow lifts. “Logan’s lack of tact notwithstanding—are you two together?”
“Define together?” I ask. “We are under the same roof, inLogan’s rental.”
Surprise paints both their faces, and then they’re both on the move, rearranging and jostling the camera to the point it makes me motion sick. The result leaves me feeling like a guest on a talk show.
