Page 38 of Back to December
Ella’s father loved that story. At some point, in all the times he recited it from memory while we shucked pecans or before bedtime, I claimed it as mine. It’s nice to know Aurora Thorne—whoever she is—treasured these stories enough to collect them so other people can enjoy them, too. Seeing the story in print made me think of him, like part of what he loved found a way to keep growing, even when we weren’t looking.
It wasn’t as scary as Hansel and Gretel—no blind witch waiting to eat children—but it carried the same kind of lesson. I reach for it when I feel lost, chasing comfort in applause instead of quiet.
I hate the quiet.
Thankfully, I’ve got a whole background symphony of nature and happiness while I sit here. It’s just enough.
This place feels like the ending I never let myself imagine.
“Should’ve known I’d find you here,” Holden says softly behind me.
He sits beside me without waiting for an invitation, his shoulder brushing mine, his warmth steady against the slight chill that rolls off the water.
I smile at him. “Just thinking.”
“About what?”
“Modern folklore. Henry says wedding rehearsals are our generation’s version of myth-making.” I chuckle. “He’s always reframing familiar things in a way that just clicks with me.”
“I’d say that means you’re on the right path then,” he says. “What else does he say?”
I draw a figure-eight in the water with my toes. “He says that we gather around food and people, say the right words in the right order, post it all online, and call it proof. But we’re focusing on the wrong part. The photos, not the pattern.”
“The way people keep finding reasons to circle back to love,” Holden supplies.
His words settle in my chest, the same way they always do—like he’s reminding me that love isn’t a destination. It’s a home you keep finding, even when you think you’ve lost the map.
I think about the posts sitting in my drafts folder on various apps: the blurred photo of Holly and Cade laughing under string lights, the caption about how love stories aren’t fairy tales—they’re habits. Tiny, ordinary miracles we choose to keep believing in.
But it still doesn’t feel quite right.
“Tell me about her,” I say, dragging my toes through the dark water.
Holden bumps my leg with his. “You’re working with her, La. What could I tell you that you don’t already know?”
He notices things people usually don’t. Or maybe it’s just with me.
I want something important that I can use to tell the final bits of their story, beyond hashtags and pretty photos, that people expect from a wedding. They’ll have a photographer and a videographer, and their versions of the story are important. But I’m telling a different story, and I want to see if I’m on the right track.
Sweet Treats started as a maybe—an idea I was too afraid to say out loud. But Holly’s wedding felt like the perfect experiment. If I could tell one love story honestly, without filters or brand polish, maybe I could remember how to tell my own again.
“An outside perspective. I’ve heard how the Jacksons feel about her—and of course, I love their opinions. But she lived with them for months. What didyou see?”
He thinks about that for a second, eyes on the ripples spreading from my foot.
“This town never stops talking about her,” he says finally. “Like she’s some kind of fairytale—the girl who ran away from the castle, and Cade’s the one who rescued her.”
“I can see that,” I say softly.
“They’re too fixated on the romance of it, I think. At the pep rally last week, Vera went on and on about how they’re thishugedeal—but honestly, the only thing that makes them extraordinary is that they’re famous.”
“Before she volunteered you for the chili taste-tester position?” I tease.
He grimaces. “I told you we’re not talking about thatever again. Some people should never be allowed near a kitchen. Ever.”
A laugh tips out of me, completely free and relaxed. I’m not used to feeling like this, and I’m trying to ignore the “shoe could drop at any moment” feeling hovering around the edges of this moment.
“Like me?”
