Page 66 of Back to December
“Two to-go?” She asks, already moving.
“Please,” I say.
We move to the end of the bar near the little jar of gumdrops and the tip bell and a hand-lettered sign: GOOD THINGS TAKE TIME. I’m not sure when she added it, and that bothers me—it shows how distracted I’ve been the last couple of months.
Laila bounces on her feet, the little puff on her beanie joining her rhythm. It’s like she’s ready to run or ready to stay and hasn’t decided which takes more courage. Gingerbread men line the pastry case instead of pumpkins. Thebulletin board of town flyers boasts The Gingerbread Trail instead of Autumn Enchantment and Homecoming. Through the window, the square looks like a snow globe now, framed in real snow instead of fake orange leaves.
She’s here and also somewhere else.
I hate that I don’t feel like I can just tuck her close like I usually do, thatourrhythm is so out of sync.
Quinn slides two cups across, then follows with a tiny paper bag.
“Sugar cookies. It was supposed to be a housewarming for your first weekend back upstairs, but I guess it’s just a ‘welcome back and enjoy Sam’s place’ for now.” She laughs.
“Thanks,” Laila says, her voice soft.
Quinn flashes her a bright smile and turns to the next order. No questions. The town protects its own, Laila included. It still makes my chest ache in a good way.
We collect our items and step back into the cold, breath pluming. Across the street, my bakery windows glow warm, and I feel that tug in my ribs that saysgo home, fold dough, fix the things that can be fixed with time and heat.
I don’t move.
“You want to stop in?” I ask. “Say hi to McKenna?”
“Not today,” she says, and the words are gentle, not sharp. “I need a minute before I go anywhere that feels like home.”
“Okay.” I mean it. I also store away the fact that “home” was the bakery first in her mind. It’s a small thing. It’s everything.
We drift past Fables and Folklore, the little bookstore that smells like cedar and paper, past the Treasure Trove Trading Company. The town is quiet, the way towns get right before the lights come on, expectant. Her hand goesdeeper into her coat pocket. Something in her shoulders changes, like a decision clicked into place.
“Holden?” she asks, stopping under a strand of lights strung between buildings. Snow glistens on the bulbs like sugar crystals.
“Yeah?”
“I need to give you something.”
My pulse kicks once and then settles. “Okay.”
She pulls out the coin—the same coin I slipped into her bag two months ago when I realized I couldn’t make magic for us, but maybe I could nudge it. She holds it in her palm like she’s weighing it.
“I think this belongs with you,” she says.
I don’t reach for it. “You sure?”
Her laugh is a breath. “No. Yes. I don’t know.” She looks straight at me. “I told myself it helped—how the letters always found me. You remembered things no one else did. I used to read them and think, maybe he still sees me.” She swallows hard. “But I think I kept the coin because it was easier to believe in magic than admit I wasn’t ready to be found. You sent pages. I sent crumbs. Then I stopped, and the coin stopped working. That wasn’t the coin. That was me.”
Somewhere in my chest, something loosens and something tightens at the same time.
Truth does that. I can work with the truth.
“You don’t owe me an explanation,” I say, steady. “You don’t owe me anything.”
“I know.” She curls her fingers once around the coin before setting it on my glove. The metal’s cold enough to sting. “I need to stand on my own two feet before I stand next to you again. If it’s really magic, it’ll find its wayhome. Maybe that’s with you. Maybe one day it’s with me.”
“For what it’s worth,” I say quietly, sliding the coin into my pocket, “I kept writing. After the last one. Didn’t know if they’d still find you.”
Her breath fogs the air. “They did. Every single one. Maybe not because of the magic—maybe because you never stopped believing there was still a way to reach me.”
