This time, my words are even less convincing.
“And is that what you want?”
His hand tightens almost imperceptibly around mine, as if he’s steeling himself for an answer he knows he’s not going to like.
“No. Of course not,” I tell him. “It’s the very last thing I want. If it was up to me, it would last forever.”
My voice catches on that last word. Until now, my feelings about Elliot have been a secret I’ve been trying to keep even from myself. But now they’re out there in the open, and it’s a feeling that reminds me of the time I fell off a swing when I was eight years old — or, more specifically, of the moment before I hit the ground, when it felt almost like flying. This, too, could go either way; although, if my past record is anything to go by, I suspect the only way for me is down.
My entire body tenses up, waiting for the moment of impact.
But it doesn’t come.
Instead, Elliot takes my face gently in his hands and tilts it up towards his, until I’m forced to look him in the eye.
“That’s settled, then,” he says simply. “I’m glad we’re on the same page.”
“Are … are you making a book pun?” I ask croakily.
Elliot grins.
“Bad time to get cheesy on you, huh?” he says wryly. “Sorry. What I meant to say was that I feel like that too. I don’t want to have to say goodbye to you, Holly. Not on Christmas Eve, and not any time after that, either.”
We look at each other, both of us intensely aware that everything has just changed between us.
“So, what do we do? There’s that whole ‘different continents’ thing to deal with, remember?”
This time, my voice comes out as a whisper rather than a croak. It’s only a marginal improvement, but Elliot doesn’t seem to notice.
“So we’ll deal with it,” he says lightly. “Somehow. I don’t know exactlyhowyet, but we’ll find a way. It can be one of those plot points we have to figure out.”
“You’re doing it again with the book puns,” I say, laughing. I don’t care, though, because, instead of answering, he just leans forward and kisses me, and it’s the kind of kiss that makes me feel like he might be right; that we can figure this out.
And maybe our story won’t have to end after all.
15
It’s called ‘ instalove’ according to Paris. It’s her least favorite trope.
“It’s love at first sight, basically,” she tells me, pausing in the act of shelving a new delivery of romantasy novels the morning after the book signing. “When the two main characters meet and they instantlyknowthey’re destined to be together.The Snow Globeis one example of it, obviously, but there are loads more. It’s, like, super popular, for some reason.”
She looks at me as if she might be about to hold me personally responsible for this; which honestly wouldn’t surprise me.
“Was that what it was like, then?” she asks, curiosity getting the better of her, and forcing her to drop the ‘cool girl’ act for a second. “With you and Elliot? Was it just like in the book? Did your eyes meet across the bookstore, and then, WHAM! That was it?”
I take the books from her and start organizing them according to the color of their spines, even though I know she’ll just put them back into alphabetical order again as soon as I’m safely in my office.
“No, of course not,” I reply, my eyes fixed on what I’m doing. “We didn’t meet in the bookstore. And I don’t believe in love at first sight, anyway. Or ‘insta love’ or whatever you want to call it. It’s definitelynot what happened to me and Elliot. Everyone knows howthatturned out.”
“We don’treally, though,” points out Paris bluntly. “No one knows. In the book, he waits for her in front of the Christmas tree in the village square, like they agreed, but she doesn’t turn up. We never find out why. It’s like he meant to write a sequel at some point, but just never got around to it.”
“The thing with the Christmas tree didn’t happen,” I tell her, still focused on the books. “Elliot just made that bit up.”
The question of whatdidhappen hangs in the air between us, like a piece of mistletoe on an unsuccessful first date. Strangely, not even Levi has ever dared ask me about therealending of my relationship with Elliot. No one has; not even Dad. Which means Elliot is the only person who knows; because, God knows, it’s as much of a mystery to me as it is to anyone else.
“Is it weird?” Paris asks, having allowed a respectful amount of time to pass between this question and her last one. “Him being back here?”
“Yeah,” I admit, pulling my hair back and securing it with a pencil I grabbed from my desk earlier. “It’s pretty weird. I wish I’d had some time to prepare for it, you know?”
