Page 76 of Back to December
The kettle hums to life on its own. Figures. Even the magic’s on her side.
Laila made good on her pillow wall threat… or promise. Whichever way she meant it.
There’s a line of pillows that could stop a cavalry charge. It looks like a siege.
Last year, we joked about boundaries and forgetting which side belonged to whom. Tonight, there’s no joking. She’s taking this wall seriously, adjusting and straighteninglike her life depends on it. She’s building a fort because words feel dangerous.
“I like how you staggered the pillows,” I say. “Very architecturally sound.”
Her mouth twitches. “Some of them are load-bearing.”
I sit on the edge of the bed, careful not to shift the mattress too much. If I hadn’t been in this cabin before with Logan, I’d assume it always looked this way. Logan and I crashed here once during the fall festival when the truck broke down—same bed, fewer decorative obstacles. But this room is a near-twin to the one in Sweetheart Springs—same recipe, different purpose.
Across from the bed, Gumdrop slumps against the chair by the hearth—the same gingerbread plush I won for her at Peppermint Pines two years ago. Seeing him here knocks the breath out of me. She brought him. After everything, she still brought him.
The house is doing its part, but in doing so, it’s putting her vulnerability on full display. I can see how much that weekend meant to her simply by sitting here, but I won’t draw attention to it.
And she knows I’m aware of it, judging by the way she tugs her sleeves down until her hands disappear.
For most people, this setup would feel charming. Cozy.
The quilt splayed across the bed is soft, the storm whispers at the windows, and the fire roars in the hearth: all the same recipe from before. But the purpose has changed. Back then, it was meant to draw us closer.
Now it feels like something we have to survive.
I wonder what we’d be doing right now if her mother hadn’t come here in October and blown it all the pieces. It’snot fair. We’d made progress. Sitting here in this familiar echo hurts in all the old places.
Laila lets out a soft sigh, and it physically hurts not to touch her.
“I can sleep on the couch,” I say, shifting to stand. “I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”
“No, I don’t—I don’t want you to do that,” she whispers. “I feel safe with you.”
“Then what’s with the pillow wall, La?” I ask gently.
She shrugs, lips pressed tight.
Message received: when inner walls wobble, she builds outer ones.
I’ve learned to read Laila’s silence like bakers read dough. Mom always says bread needs time, warmth, and space to rise. Too much or too little, and it falls flat. Laila’s the same recipe.
I also know when it’s best to distract her, like in the car with the Christmas CD.
“We can name them, you know. Give them personalities. Maybe act out a little play.”
It’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever said out loud, but if it loosens some of the tension she’s carrying, it’s worth looking like an idiot.
“We will not be doing that.” Then, a beat later. “Although that big one sort of looks like a Trevor.”
“There she is,” I grin.
Her shoulders drop a fraction, and relief slides through me. The music shifts toBaby, It’s Cold Outside—our old off-key duet.
But she doesn’t sing.
“I’m going to change,” she says instead. “Keep an eye on them?”
I chuckle and nod. “I’ll make sure everyone behaves.”
