Page 81 of Back to December
He props himself on his pillow. “Memories don’t leave just because the story changes.”
“Right.” I flop onto my back and refocus on the ceiling, my throat tightening.
“That’s not what I mean, La,” he whispers.
I turn back toward him, giving myself a regular workout as I rotisserie on this stupid mattress. The air thickens, warm and charged as I meet his eyes. If I were to destroy this pillow wall and seek refuge in his arms to sleep, IknowI’d sleep soundly.
“You’re allowed to feel lost,” he murmurs. “A lot happened back in October.”
“Thank you.”
“I told you before—I’m not going anywhere, Laila.”
He watches me for a beat before he rolls over and tucks the blanket over his shoulder.
Usually, when people use my full name, I’m either in trouble or at work. When Holden uses it, I feel treasured. Seen. Understood. I love the nicknames he gives me, but sometimes, my name sounds like a promise.
“Goodnight, Holden,” I whisper.
“Goodnight, honey,” he murmurs, already drifting to sleep.
Honey. The word wraps like firelight—soft, golden, a little dangerous. Red once burned me; this feels golden.
Outside, the wind howls like ghosts rehearsing old lines, and the coin on the dresser hums faintly, steady as a heartbeat.
I’m in so much trouble.
twenty-nine
HOLDEN
It’s notlike the last time we shared a bed.
I tug the coin Sebastian gave me out of my pajama pant pocket and turn it over and over in the moonlight slanting through the windows. The metal hums faintly—alive, but quieter than it used to be. Maybe it’s waiting for her. Maybe it’s waiting for us.
I’ve got no doubt this coin helped nudge me toward Laila last December—toward honesty and hope for a future between us. For more than one weekend a year.
It found her letters when logic said it shouldn’t. It hummed the night she kissed me under the lights last December—our first snowstorm together—and when I lost her in October, it went cold.
But I wish it could help Laila now. She seems so lost, soscared.
McKenna is right: she’s got to conclude, all on her own, that love doesn’t hurt. I can show her what safe looks like, but she’s got to believe it for herself.
The pillow wall is still in place, a flimsy representative offear. I can’t help but think this is who we are now—split right down the middle.
A line of cotton and stuffing. A line between fear and faith.
October fractured us to pieces.
I’ve spent every day since trying to glue us back together, but she’s still holding pieces to herself. And until she’s willing to share them with me, we can’t be whole again.
I hate it.
There’s an ache in my chest that doesn’t belong here, not when she’s here with me. It’s the kind of ache that usually comes from “I’ll see you next December”.And yet, here it is, stretching out in the dark.
Outside, the wind rushes against the glass like ghosts rehearsing the past—October’s argument, the slammed door, her mother’s voice threading through my nightmares. I hate that those ghosts still haunt her more than they haunt me.
I want to demolish those pillows and pull her close. I want to feel her curl right into me and clutch my shirt like I’m her anchor again. Like this is where she belongs.
