Page 112 of Back to December
Each business owner’s note holds a letter, strung together into a crooked sign that reads:“You celebrated us. Now we celebrate you.”
A crowd gathers behind us, voices rising in unison as they count down to midnight.
Snow drifts lazily from the sky, catching in her eyelashes. She looks like something out of the story she didn’t think she belonged in.
“Hey, La?—”
“What is this?” she asks, tears brimming in her eyes as she turns to face me.
“Your happily ever after.”
“That’s so cheesy,” she laughs through tears.
“But you love it,” I grin, tugging her close. I brush her tears away with my thumbs, slow and careful, like I can hold this second still.
“I do love it.”
“Do you still feel lost, honey?”
She shakes her head, pressing her lips together as she tries not to cry harder. The fairy lights shimmer in her hazel eyes, soft and golden.
“I knew back in high school you were it for me,” I manage, my throat tight. “The absolute chaos to my quiet. You’re my home, La.”
Our foreheads rest together, and for a second, the world hushes.
I take her hand, thumb brushing her pulse. “You once told me you weren’t sure marriage could last. That you were afraid of building something that might crumble.” I smile faintly. “But love’s just another word for rebuilding, isn’t it?” I pull the little velvet pouch from my pocket, its fabric still faintly dusted with flour. “Maybe it’s time these found their way home.”
“You’re mine too,” she whispers, curling a hand around my neck.
“Marry me,” I whisper. “Let’s build that family you keep talking about and?—”
Before I can finish, her lips are on mine.
“Yes,” she breathes between kisses. “As soon as possible. I want to marry you.”
Those words will be etched in my memory forever.
“I love you,” I murmur against her lips.
“I love you too.”
The crowd erupts as fireworks burst overhead, a kaleidoscope of color painting the snow-white world gold. For a second, the gold flares against the dark remind me of her prophecy—the one where she thought she’d end up alone. Guess prophecies can change when you start believing in love instead of fear.
Somewhere in the crowd, I catch a glimpse of Henry, leather journal in one hand and his camera in the other, that familiar knowing smile on his face. I can almost hear his voice already—“Rituals remind us that stories aren’t just told, they’re lived.”
Later, when I see him scribbling notes in that journal, I wonder how he’ll tell this one. Maybe he’ll say it was about finding your way home—about how even the lost can follow a trail of gumdrops and stories back to where they belong.
I think he’d be right.
Her sisters reach us first—laughter, squeals, arms everywhere. Ella’s crying, Bridget’s shouting something about finally, and Laila’s laughing through all of it.
It’s not exactly how I pictured this moment all those years ago when I first fell for Laila Mitchell.
It’s better. Real. Ours.
And I can’t wait to see how ourever afterunfolds.
Somewhere between breadcrumbs and gumdrops, she found her way home—and took me with her.
