Page 83 of Back to December
Part of me doesn’t care. I’ve missed this quiet intimacy of belonging to someone. But there’s a bigger part of my brain that can’t ignore that this isn’t real.
This has to be a dream. An overly realistic, “I took too much melatonin before bed” kind of dream. It always gives me weird dreams, anyway, and that’s why I rarely take it.
I squeeze my eyes shut and count to ten Mississippily.
One Mississippi. Two Mississippi.
When I open them again, it’s clear that this isveryreal. All of it. The warm golden light, the weight of Holden’s arm, the faint scent of cinnamon and vanilla.
To be extra sure, I pinch the skin of my forearm, hissing when I feel the bite of my nails.
Definitely not dreaming.
“I should check on Ella,” I mumble. “Make sure that they’re not snowed in at the farm.”
Usually, I’m looking for any excuse to be close to Holden for a bit longer, but nothing has been normal since October. This shouldn’t feel so off.
Except—it feels like what we started last December.
“I thought you stopped taking melatonin, honey,” he says. “They always give you weird dreams.” He props himself on his forearm and blinks down at me. No glasses yet, just a sleepy, rumpled version of my favorite person.
“Couldn’t sleep,” I say.
“Then you should’ve woken me,” he murmurs. “That’s what I’m here for.” He smiles, small and drowsy, and it’s the kind of moment that used to make everything else fade. For half a heartbeat, I almost let it. “It hasn’t snowed here in years.”
My stomach drops. “It snowed last night.You were there.”
I shove the covers back, wincing at the sudden drop in the air temperature. Anxious to prove him wrong, I gesture at the fireplace, but it’s dark, cold, and spotless. Like we didn’t fall asleep to crackling logs and the warm heat.
My breath catches. I glance down at my pajamas…snowmen. Not plaid and definitely not mine. Yet, the details are wrong in the prettiest way.
I don’t know why my next instinct is to lift my left hand, but it is. Or why it feels like all the air has been sucked out of the room when my rings are back on my hand. The only difference is thattwoslim Art Déco bands frame the beautiful moss green agate ring, now.
Wife status: confirmed.
The world tilts, golden light rippling across the floor like sunlight caught in glass.
“Where did you get these?” I whisper.
Holden is setting up in bed now, his brow furrowed in concern. “We picked them out together, La.”
There’s an odd mix of terror and elation battling in my chest.
I spin slowly, taking in all the details of this room. Thewalls are cream, with exposed wood beams stretching across the ceiling above us. Garland drapes across the headboard—yet something else that reminds me of our fake honeymoon—and a massive Christmas tree glows by the picture window. It’s stuffed to the brim with ornaments that I don’t remember ever picking out.
Photos cover the walls—so many photos—in frames on the dresser and nightstands. Wide grins, tanned faces, laughter. A well-documented love story of two people who chose each other.
A copy ofThe Enchanted Hollow Bedtime Collectionsits on the nightstand, Aurora Thorne’s name embossed in silver—a wink from the universe. My story that Ella’s dad always told me is in there. The one that says that every gumdrop is just a sweeter breadcrumb, a way home disguised as sugar. I used to think that was just a pretty line in a story. Now I’m wondering if she meant it literally.
This “life” feels disguised in sugar; it’s so sweet.
“La?” His eyes are soft with concern. “You okay?”
“I don’t know,” I manage.
“You didn’t move all night,” he says gently.
Maybe I’m suffering a psychotic break.
