Page 22 of Back to December
But then my mom got her fingers into it, and it became… less.
Less interesting. Less fun. Less… everything.
Walking into Holden’s bakery a few days ago was the first time inmonths thatsomething felt normal. I can usually go longer stretches before my world goes topsy-turvy, but ever since last December, nothing feels like it’s enough.
I’m not sure how it happened, but I’m balancing a bigger workload than ever.
It could be because I’m chasing the dopamine hit I get every time I post on my secret account, and people love it. All the top gurus scream about what trends to chase and what viewers want, but in my experience, they’re only half right.
Yes, people want to feel angry, sad, or happy. It all drives views. But there’s a shift happening. People are tired of volatility; they want comfort. They’re reaching for nostalgia—something warm, safe, familiar. A simpler time when they could just exist.
A life without filters.
It’s ironic that the very thing Holden asked me for in Sweetheart Springs—to stop pretending and embrace our reality—is exactly what I’m trying to do with this new business.
My vibe for this account is a work in progress. I don’t want it to feel like what I do for Gilded Vows or what I do on my regular account. The end goal isn’t more followers or money or sales.
I simply want to share what makes me happy.
The “sweet” Holden always asks me about.
Maybe that’s a story about a family with a Tex-Mex food truck and some of the best street corn you’ve ever had in your life. Maybe it’s a photo of a fall-flavored coffee with clever foam art.
Truthfully, I think the bottom line is that choosing to experience a fake honeymoon with Holden changed me on a fundamental level.
I’ve been straddling both worlds ever since, and I don’t think I can do it anymore.
But I don’t know how to make the shift.
I don’t know what my purpose is, or how to find it. Idothink I know what I should name my account, though:Sweet Things.
My iPad signals an incoming video call, so I tuck an earbud in my ear and press ‘accept’. Henry Gilmore’s face fills the screen.
“I was thinking,” he says by way of hello.
“You do that a lot.”
Henry is a folklore professor turned accidental mentor. I ended up in his inbox after binge-watching several of his videos on small-town myths and the way they shape people who visit those places. Somehow, we became fast friends.
He’s the one person I can brainstorm with—from a business standpoint—without feeling managed or like he’s expecting something from me.
I chuckle at his rumpled appearance and the stack of papers covering his workspace. The man is always knee-deep in something interesting.
“I was thinking about our conversation—finding a focus for your account. You don’t think you have one, but guess what, Buttercup? You do.”
I shift in my booth, half-dreading his insight. Henry is safely unattached to the idea of love, fascinated only by the stories it creates. But his way of seeing patterns—in myth, in people—always hits too close to home.
Holden and I have a pattern of our own, but it's shifting. And I don’t know what that means.
“And what do you think that is?” I ask.
He smacks his hand on a stack of papers, and some rogue Post-its go flying. “Modern folklore.”
“I’m sorry, what now?”
“Every small town has its rituals, Laila. They disguise them as festivals—fall, Christmas, etc. Enchanted Hollow has wishing wells and enchanted mailboxes. You already know this, but people don’t actuallywanttrends, Laila. They want meaning disguised as something pretty.”
I lift my coffee, pausing halfway to my mouth. “Meaning disguised asaesthetics. That’s sort of brilliant. You should do a lecture on that.”
