Page 32 of Back to December
But Holden is real. I don’t think I’ve ever purposefully drawn comparisons between the two, but now that Ella has brought it to my attention, it might as well be a viral video I can’t look away from.
From his open affection with me to his ridiculous optimism, all the way down to his baking skills, Holden has all the characteristics that I loved about Peeta. Ofcourse,I’d find my own Peeta Mellark and be terrified to commit. It’s the cruelest kind of irony.
“Don’t project my crush on Josh Hutcherson when we were younger into this conversation.”
“Just a simple observation,” she says. “Might I point out that Holden doesn’t have blonde hair, though?”
We both know my feelings have nothing to do with the movie version of Peeta. Or really even the book version. But she doesn’t press, and I don’t offer.
“Don’t tell me that makes me Katniss. I’ll kick you right out of this room.”
“I really missed how entertaining the two of you are when we’re all together,” Bridget says. At some point, shescooted up to Ella’s headboard, and she’s sitting propped up, watching our conversation play out.
Ella sits quietly for a moment, like she’s contemplating whether it’s worth my wrath. Then she tips her head and says, “Remind me why you’re here again, Laila? Wasn’t it something like: ‘I’m here to keep the attention off you as much as I can’?”
She’s quoting me tome. Siblings are awful sometimes.
“I also said I was here to test out being a full-time influencer,” I snap.
“Butare you? What Annie mentioned doesn’t sound full-time. And that’s fine. Because I hear a bunch of excuses and no solutions.”
I hold up a hand. “Point made. Why do I even talk to you?”
“Because you love me.” She smiles. “And you know that I’m not afraid of you. I’ll tell you how I see it. How serious is it now—with Holden?”
Serious enough that I don’t want to admit that I can’t sleep unless I’m at Holden’s. Which is really unfair to him, since he works early mornings, and he keeps insisting I take his bed. He’s too tall for his couch, so his legs hang off, and every morning I tell myself that I’ll stay here. I’ll sleep in my bed.
But the ghosts of what was and what we could be always chase me back to him. The irony is suffocating.
“I don’t want her to touch him, Ella,” I whisper. “I don’t want her to tarnish any more of this relationship.”
Every time I picture Mom meddling, the fear wins. Love asks me to stay; fear tells me to run before she ruins it. I’m so tired of letting her write my endings.
Bridget leans forward, her hand raised like she’s in class. “Sorry to interrupt, but I have a blunt question: Is Mom the reason you won’t choose him? Because if so, she’s still running your life.”
Ihatethat she’s right.
Maybe that’s the difference between us. Mom believes love burns. That it consumes. Holden makes me believe it can glow instead. Like it could be golden and lasting.
The type of real life fairytale that Ella believes in, and I’m too scared to.
“It feels like a no-win situation,” I whisper. “If I leap, Mom will aim to cause damage. If I pull back, I’m hurting him, anyway.”
Ella tucks a curl behind my ear. “Maybe the win isn’t avoiding pain. Maybe it’s choosing the love that makes the pain worth it.”
“One weekend a year wasn’t ever supposed to turn into this. It was supposed to prevent things from getting serious.” I groan.
“I don’t think that worked. What’s the saying these days? You’re down bad for him.”
Despite my frustration, I laugh. “Please don’t ever say that again.”
“Did I say it wrong?” she frowns.
Bridget joins in our laughter. “No, it’s just weird.”
“Two more days—after Thursday night, we can aim for normal. Cider on the farm. Movie nights. Complete veg mode.”
Normal sounds safe, and I crave that like I crave Holden’s baked goods.
