Page 85 of Back to December
Holden has always wanted us to stay in the moment, and I’ve always wanted to preserve memories. It’s nice to know we came to some sort of agreement here.
I swallow hard. “This feels so real.”
“Why wouldn’t it be, honey?” he asks, shifting his hand so his thumb brushes against my jaw. “We’re real.”
This moment is too perfect. He’s saying and doing all the right things—which is very on brand for Holden—but it’s everything else. It’s all shiny and sharp-edged and flawless.
Like one wrong move might mess it all up.
“Perfection is an illusion,” he continues, his voice soothing my nerves. “You’ve always told me that. The chaos, the messiness, the choosing—that’s real. And I’ll always choose you.” The words land like a promise I don’t remember earning.
But I didn’t choose this.
I don’t know how. Or what to say back.
And as usual, Holden accepts that.
He wraps his arms around me, drawing me into his chest. Once again, Holden is my anchor. He’s doing the same thing he’s always done for me—he’s offering me unconditional steadiness.
Maybe this reality exists because I picked the blue pill, and I’m blissfully and ignorantly living in a simulation of my deepest desires.
“Are you hungry?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Not really.”
“The kids requested gingerbread pancakes for breakfast, so why don’t I go get started on that? You can take a few minutes and come down when you’re ready.”
“G-g-gingerbread pancakes?” I stutter. I’m much less surprised by his offering of food than bywhorequested it. He’s always making sure I eat.
Of course. Even my subconscious runs on sugar.
He grins and kisses me once more. “Don’t act like you didn’t cast a vote last night.”
I wasn’t here, so I didn’t cast any votes. But if I had been,I would’ve. I hate how much this tracks so close to the life I dream of on therareoccasion that I let myself.
He heads to the bathroom to grab a robe and do whatever else he needs to do, and I glance around the room again. I don’t know where I keep anything. If I walk around opening and closing doors, Holden is really going to think I’ve lost it.
I decide to investigate the tree until he leaves.
Holden always gave me a gingerbread ornament every year until the visit to Sweetheart Springs. That started a new tradition of ornaments he paints. Or at least I think it’s a new tradition because in my reality, he’s only ever given me one. A painting of the bridge on a wood round.
I can measure time by the ones adorning the tree—there are now five more.
That means?—
“That trip changed everything for us, you know,” he says softly.
I don’t know when he came up behind me, but I startle a little, my touch causing the ornament to sway on its branch.
“Oh?” I ask, steadying it.
He wraps his hands around my waist, the faintest scent of his mint toothpaste wafting over my shoulder. This Holden is freer with his touches than mine. I didn’t think that was possible, but maybe that’s marriage.
“Yeah. You really must’ve liked pretending to be my wife.”
He noses my neck right where it meets my shoulder, and I can’t help the giggle that escapes. He’s got insider knowledge of every spot that makes me squirm. Totally unfair.
“Maybe I did,” I say.
