Page 23 of Back to December
“Who says you haven’t inspired one?” He smiles. “Folklore is narrative—it’s lessons dressed up as a story. Take Hansel and Gretel—ignore the starvation bit—but the heart of it is about surviving what tries to destroy you.” He moves some papers around and absently rubs at a spot above his eyebrow, leaving behind a smear of black ink.
“Henry, you’ve got a?—”
“The story has changed a couple of times, but the overall lesson is clear. It’s about parental abandonment. These kids survive a witch. The point, despite how morbid the different versions are, is that they overcome adversity.”
I take another sip of my drink and nod. “Are you tryingto tell me that pumpkin-spice reels are metaphorical breadcrumbs, Henry?”
“Exactly. You’re showing people how to find home again. We’ve talked about the shift you’ve noticed—well, you’re pandering to it in a pretty cool way, if you ask me.”
My chest tightens. He can’t know how much that means to me. Not really.
But when the call ends, I catch my reflection in the darkened window—me, in Holden’s hoodie, in my hometown—and I realize maybe I’ve already started finding my way home again. I just haven’t admitted it yet.
eight
LAILA
I’m usually a night owl,but with everything I’m juggling, I’m burning the candle at both ends. Annie and I both found a time we both had free—nothing short of miraculous, honestly—and I head toward Ever After Farm while the sun is still rising in the sky.
Silence is probably my least favorite thing in the world, so I turn on background music. It’s too early for something loud, and I completely slept through my first alarm, so I missed grabbing coffee on the way out the door.
Holden came home late last night after all his Homecoming duties. I skipped going because it’s more than my heart is prepared to handle—present-day pressure is enough withoutphysicallywandering down memory lane. And then I stayed up with Ella in her room at the bed-and-breakfast, working on fake Holly wedding details.
The only way I could squeeze a few minutes in with Holden all day yesterday was to head to his apartment at a ridiculously late hour. And we were both too tired to talkmuch. We turned on a movie and fell asleep tangled up together on his couch.
I’ve grown so used to texts and video calls and our face-to-face time being so rare that every day since we passed the day three mark has been like opening up an extra present on Christmas morning. We’ve neverhadthis much time together.
I’m greedy for it. And I never imagined that we’d still be doing—whatever we’re doing—years later.
The first time Holden and I really had a conversation beyond mumbled words or a food order at The Magic Crumb, I was around fourteen.
My stepdad, Ella’s father, had only been gone a few months, and it hit me harder than I expected. After all, he’d only been part of my life for around three years. In that short time frame, he’d taught me all kinds of things about the farm and life. We used to sit on the porch and shuck pecans from the trees in a small cluster orchard in a back pasture. He told me all sorts of stories that I wish I’d paid more attention to.
I remember staring at the blackboard menu that hangs on the back wall for entirely too long, and Holden never pushed. He quietly watched me with a steady, but soft gaze. I recognize that gaze now as one that means he’s feeling me out.
Even back then, he knew to give me space.
My friends didn’t notice the sea of grief I was lost in. Ella would’ve related and probably welcomed someone to cry with—but I didn’t feel like I had the right to be so upset. He wasn’t my father, and she’d lostbothof her parents.
Who was I to be upset?
But Holden said none of those things. In fact, he asked if I wanted to sneak out the back door and go have a coffee with him somewhere else.
I don’t know what made me say yes.
It could’ve been the way his crooked smile tugged at my heartstrings. I think it was probably the fact that he knew what I needed without me having to put my feelings into words. That’s always been difficult for me.
It could’ve also been that he wasn’t like any of the other boys at school. They barely knew my name, let alone what I enjoyed. But on that cloudy Thursday afternoon in early September, Holden sat at a table at Once Upon a Brew with me, and he listened.
He absorbed every word, like he was cataloguing notes to save for later. Like heknewthat eventually we’d become something more than friends. I’m so grateful he was my best friend before we took the next step.
That Once Upon a Pumpkin latte turned into morning walks through the park. Holden was always up early working at the bakery, so I’d go into town so we could chat. It was a pleasant distraction from everything else going on in my life—the way Bridget and I felt fractured because she was never as close to Ella’s dad as I was. Or the chasm between Ella and me. Our slumber parties in our rooms or under the stars were gone. My mother locked herself in her office, doing who knows what.
His family was ahead of the curve on the farm stand trend that’s so popular now. They had one on the outskirts of town so people could go visit it and collect delicious baked goods without having to come all the way into town. I loved to stop by and take pictures of his food with a note,then leave the photo somewhere for him to find, like a baked good treasure hunt.
We’ve always balanced each other—his quiet to my chaos, his steady to my restless.
I don’t know how it works other than that it does. We do.
