Page 45 of Back to December
A chill creeps up my arms despite the warm air. It’s not fear. It’s understanding. Every story she’s told me about power, about love as a transaction—trying to teach me to stay emotionally disconnected and focused on business—this is what she wanted me to learn.
This is what she wanted me to learn.
If I hadn’t come back, maybe she would’ve left Ella alone. Maybe happiness only tempts her when she can’t have it.
I glance toward the reception area where fairy lights glimmer in the distance, soft and sure in the dark. Holden’s out there, probably checking the dessert table, laughing, completely unaware of the fault line forming under us.
The thought of her reaching for Holden’s world—forsomething so good and pure—makes me sick. He’d never see it coming.
When I close my eyes, I can see The Magic Crumb in the early morning, light spilling through the front windows. It’s a view I’ve seen a hundred times from the street—Holden with his sleeves rolled up, hands working dough. That quiet world has survived generations of love and labor.
But my mother would see it as currency.
I press a hand to my stomach, as if I can hold down the dread rising inside me.
I won’t let her touch him.
I can’t.
If she thinks there’s nothing between us, maybe she’ll forget him. Maybe he’ll get to keep the peace I keep breaking.
“You deserve better than this,” I whisper to no one. I’m not sure if I mean Ella or Holden… or both. Maybe all of us.
The reception is in full swing now—music and laughter carrying across the farm. I can almost pretend none of this is happening. That if I close my eyes, I’ll open them in a world where love can’t be used against you.
I wish I didn’t know what I have to do.
But I do.
And knowing is the cruelest part.
sixteen
LAILA
The air iscool and still. There’s barely even a breeze.
It’s exactly the night that you’d want for a wedding reception. There’s no danger of tents flying away, unruly decorations, or toppled over easels. It’s the kind of fall night that pretends the world isn’t shifting and begs to be remembered.
Which is great for literally everyone else but me.
Ella and Luke are having a moment under a nearby oak tree, dancing to Holly and Cade’s first dance song. Normally, I’d think something like that was in poor taste, but they’ve earned this. It truly feels like a fairytale on the farm tonight, with golden light spilling from the bulbs strung between trees and the battery-lit candles onto all the rust and terracotta details.
It’s beautiful.
Too beautiful for how heavy my chest feels.
I’ve smiled so much my whole face hurts. Worse, my insides ache. There hasn’t been time to really process what I witnessed, and the pressure from holding it inside hurts.
There should be relief from pulling off this wedding without Holly and Cade being any wiser, and I suppose there is. Despite my mother’s best efforts, we beat her. Love won.
Relief should feel lighter than this. I said it out loud—told them it was her who called the press. There’s no taking that back. I didn’t just cut the cord tonight; I burned the bridge she built to control me.
And even from miles away, she’s not done. She’ll lick her wounds and come back sharper. I saw it in her eyes tonight, the satisfaction of watching me flinch. She doesn’t need to lift a hand to break what I built; she just has to remind me she still can.
I know what that means for Bridget and me. The line we’ve walked for years—between survival and loyalty—is gone.
For a long time, I thought starting over meant losing everything.
