Page 12 of Back to December
Everywhere I turn, I can see her in my mind: the way she leaned on the bleachers when she talked to me after pep rallies, the echo of her laugh bouncing off the walls. I’m a student again, my heart hammering in my chest as she tucks her hair behind her ear and agrees to be my Homecoming date.
But the memory that haunts me the most? It’s one that doesn’t even have to do with fall or Homecoming or ourearly days of dating. It’s from a wintry sleigh ride through evergreens last December.
We took our first trip together outside of the immediate area and pretended to be newlyweds when a winter storm ruined our plans and we got snowed in at a bed-and-breakfast in Sweetheart Springs. I don’t like faking things, but the only room left was the honeymoon suite. But somewhere between the town’s infamous gingerbread lattes and assumptions, our lives changed.
“Sometimes it feels like our weekends are perfect versions of what life could be like. Three days of magic and then we disappear back into our lives.”
“Like a highlight reel?” Laila asks. “When people only show their clean house or how well everything looks without all the mess.”
I nod.“Yes. Exactly like that. I don’t like our relationship feeling that way. I want to stop pretending, Laila. We could be more than that.”
She closes her eyes, letting the words sit. That’s what Laila needs when she gets new information. I’m fine with that, so long as she understands that I’m not asking for forever. At least not yet. She’s not ready.
I’m followingthe hunch thatthis weekend shouldn’t be squandered. We’re never alone like this, and yes, maybe I’m caught up in this whole fake honeymoon nonsense. But Laila’s walls are slowly coming down. There are things I need to say to her while they are.
It’s hard not to spiral in the quiet, though. There’s no sound but the horse hooves clomping and crunching, the sleigh slicing through the fresh snow, and soft bells jingling from the horses. It’s all very magical.
I don’t think she will, but I’m scared she’s going to tell me shedoesn’t want that. That she’s fine with what we’re doing. I don’t think I can live like that anymore, but I can’t imagine a life without Laila in it. And where will that leave us?
She opens her eyes again, watching me intently.
“What if pretending is the only way we don’t ruin what we have? I don’t want to lose that.”
My heart stumbles and stutters.She wants more, too.
“Why does it have to ruin it, though?” Her words push me harder. “All I’m asking for is to let it get messy and real. I want to weather it all, not just enjoy the best moments. Not anymore.”
Her breathing shifts to a little faster than before.
She thinks I don’t see how hard she works to keep our time as close to perfect as she can. Or the worry that creeps in when she thinks I’m not looking. When we agreed to one weekend a year, she said it was because it was too hard to do much else, and when we were young, I think that was true. Travel is expensive.
But as time wore on, I think she was scared to let her mother touch what we have. We were ripped apart in high school, and I think that left a lasting imprint on both of us.
I’m a grownup now. If push came to shove, I’d do whatever it took to protect Laila and what we have. I just don’t know how to show her that.
Right now, though?
I just wantreal.
Back in the car, I dug the rings we bought at the market out of the bag she stuffed them in. She doesn’t need to know that I fully intend to put these on her hand one day, forever. For now, they can just represent an agreement that we’ll give this thing a real shot. The first step in breaking this yearly cycle we have so that we can move forward.
She’s lost in her own thoughts, so I dig them out of my pocket.
This is it.
She’s either going to panic and tell me I’m asking for too much, or she’ll see this for what it is. A chance to see who we are when no one we know is watching. No barriers, no filters.
Just us.
“Laila.”
She turns to me, and her eyes immediately home in on the rings in the palm of my glove. Her eyes round and her perfectly groomed eyebrows curve upward.
“What are you doing?” she whispers.
In my head, this felt a lot less emotionally heavy, but suddenly it feels like I’m asking for a lot more than transparency.
“I want to ask you a question.”
