Page 50 of Back to December
She nudges my shoulder gently. “Now figure out how to tell her that.”
I huff out a laugh that doesn’t quite land. “Feels more like foolish,” I admit. “She says she has to fix herself first, rebuild, all that. I get it. But I don’t know how to just… do nothing.”
McKenna hops down from the counter and steps closer. “But Holden—you’re notdoing nothing. You’re waiting. And it’s not the kind of waiting that comes with waiting for next year to come; it’s the kind that comes with waiting for her to find her way out of the woods and back to you.”
I stare at the ceiling. “It doesn’t feel like that, though, Kenna. It feels like she’s just…gone.”
She tilts her head, soft but firm. “She’s spent her whole life either running or shrinking herself to fit her mother’s expectations. You think she won’t notice the person who’s letting her figure out who she is? Who’s giving her the space she needs?”
That hits deeper than I expect.
“She’ll find her way back,” McKenna continues. “Just keep doing exactly what you’re doing. Bake, laugh—keep building her recovery space. My dear brother, she just took a flying leap with a bungee cord, andyouare her airbag. Just keep reminding her of that.”
I glance toward the bakery window. The porch light outside glows faintly against the morning gray, still on from last night.
“She didn’t really say she’d be back,” I whisper. “Not out loud.”
But I felt it in the way she kissed me, her touch.
“Then trust her to follow the path she lights herself,” McKenna says. “And make sure you’ve got a backup in case one of hers snuffs out.”
When she walks back out the door, the bell rings once, clear and soft.
I stand there for a long moment, staring at the window, the hum of the bakery wrapping around me like a heartbeat.
Then I flip the porch light switch off and back on again. A ritual, I guess. A promise renewed.
The day passes in a blur of orders, deliveries, and distractions that don’t work. By the time the sun dips behind the oak trees, I’m officially done for done.
My last two batches of pumpkin-gingerbread people forThe Storybook Cafe burned, and there’s no sense in hoping for a different result when my mind is elsewhere.
I turn the sign on the door to “CLOSED” and hop in my truck. I can still smell Laila everywhere, even though I live my life surrounded by pumpkin spice. She wears a scent this time of year that doesn’t quite match the one in the bakery, burned into my memory.
I’m halfway to Ever After Farm before I even notice that’s where I’m heading.
Luke’s truck is parked near the barn, and Ella is on a ladder, untangling a string of lights that hung between trees last night. They both glance my way when my truck door closes. Luke at leasttriesto look normal, but Ella drops the lights and immediately climbs down the ladder.
“Is everything okay?” she asks.
I don’t think much of it because after last night, it will probably be a fair question for the next week. Especially for Ella.
“You look like a man with a lot on his mind,” Luke says, hooking a hand around Ella’s waist. Protective, exactly the way I’d be with Laila.
There’s no sense in beating around the bush, so I don’t sugarcoat it. “Laila’s gone.”
Ella’s face softens. “I heard. But only once she was on the road. She knew I’d have tried to talk her out of it if she told me before.”
Which is exactly why she left my apartment before she knew I’d be up for the day. I still haven’t decided if that makes it feel better or worse.
“Last night was pretty heavy stuff,” Luke says.
“I don’t blame her.” My eyes go between the two of them. “She asked for time and space, and I know she needsit, but it’s hard. I don’t—” I swallow. “I just don’t know if that means distance or goodbye.”
Silence settles between us for a long moment. The farm has a gentle hum tonight, nothing like last night. It’s peaceful, like what’s done is done, and the only way forwardisforward.
“That’s not why I came by, though. I wanted to ask about the enchanted letters.”
They exchange a look.
