Page 18 of Back to December
And then, life as we knew it changed forever.
I felt the storm brewing then, just like I do now.
My life feels like one detour after another; one storm after another. Some metaphorical, some real. First, it was my mother, then the snowstorm that detoured us to Sweetheart Springs. They both changed my life irrevocably with Holden.
“You’re safe with me,” Holden murmurs into my hair. “I’ve got you.”
I know he believes the words. And I want to believe he’s capable of doing exactly what he says. My mother has a history of leaving a destructive wake behind her, though, and I’m just not sure he knows what he’s up against.
This time, I’m not sure I am either.
six
HOLDEN
Laila usually isn’t sofree with her touch. It takes time for her to warm up, so it’s hard to tamp down the concern rising in my chest.
She walked into the bakery looking like sunshine, but I could see the clouds in her eyes. I still can. It’s all over her face. Like she’s a walking filter, hiding her weariness from the world. We promised we’d stop pretending, but in this case, I’m not sure she even realizes she’s doing it.
“Ella needed me, so I came,” she murmurs.
I can tell she’s been running on fumes. Maybe it’s because she’s with me, but her body sags against mine, carrying the weight of whatever her mother piled on top of her this time. Life here never seems like it’s reached its full potential until she’s here. Like when you add sea salt to a chocolate chip cookie to elevate the flavor profile. She’s the missing ingredient this town doesn’t realize it’s craving.
I move to step away, but her grip tightens, cementing me in place.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
She tips her head back enough to give me a half smile. “The short answer is…sort of.”
That’s Laila-speak forno.
I raise an eyebrow. “That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the best I’ve got at the moment.”
“Okay,” I say.
There’s no sense in pushing Laila, because she’ll either tell me what’s going on or she won’t. Pushing will only make her draw into herself further. So I’ll give her the one thing I know she can use right now: a soft place to land.
I reach for her hand, my thumb sliding across the scar on her thumb that she got in high school. It’s the one autumn I spent on the farm with all of them—only because we all went on a field trip—and there was a pumpkin cutting contest. She was determined to win, and she was cutting into the rind all wrong. Her hand slipped.
Now I can’t stop touching the reminder of that moment, thinking of all the ways our lives are intertwined. This scar is proof that Laila is both soft and stubborn—and my heart belonged to her before she ever knew it.
The flash in her eyes when she told me to mind my own business might’ve been the first flicker of love for me—she was, and still is, a challenge I want to protect.
“Movie?” I offer.
She nods, and that’s all it takes.
We slip into a rhythm that feels more like a memory than a routine. After all, we usually only do this once a year. I wait so she can slip her impossible heels off her feet, then lead her to the couch so she can do her favorite thing in her world. Eat junk food and watch rubbish.
I tug a blanket she gave me off the back of the couch,then fluff it so it lies across her. Her eyes lift to mine, sad little saucers of green and brown.
She tries to apologize for existing. “Your workday isn’t over?—”
“Don’t do that,” I murmur. I brace my hand on the arm of the couch and lean into her. “Let me take care of you tonight.”
She chews her lip, which is how I know the fight is with herself and not with me. “I don’t know how to let you.”
