The thought shreds me. I don’t know which is worse: being forgotten or being avoided.
Tears slip free, hot and unrelenting. I squeeze my eyes shut and let them fall, wishing—aching—for my mom. When I was small and the world felt too sharp, she’d curl around me and tell me what to do.
What would she tell me now? To fight for Alex? Or let him go?
But how do you let go of someone you never really had?
Chapter Thirty-Three
Alex
“Alex, we need to get you cleaned up,” Mom says.
I’m still staring out the window, even though their car is long out of sight.
“Come on, big brother.” Mallory tugs gently on my arm.
I let her lead me into the kitchen, still in a daze. Just yesterday, Finley and I were chopping down a tree, hanging ornaments, wrapping gifts she convinced me to buy. And now she’s gone. She was here less than seventy-two hours, yet her presence lingers everywhere. Without her, everything feels wrong.
Mallory nudges me onto a stool at the island. She and Mom disinfect my scratches, but all I can think about is Finley tending to my knee. I haven’t hurt this much since the incident six years ago. But that was shame and guilt. This is intense loss with some guilt mixed in.
Mallory wraps my hands in gauze until I look like a mummy. When they finish, I murmur a quiet thank you then head up upstairs.
In my room, I stop short. On the bed is a small, wrapped present with a folded note.
Alex,
With everything that happened last night and today, I didn’t get a chance to give you your present. Despite everything, I still consider my time here a gift.
Please stay the rest of the week for your mom and try to mend things with your family—even Grant. You’re so lucky to have them. Don’t take them for granted. I don’t know what happened to drive you away, but they love you. They miss you.
They want the best for you. I do too.
XOXO
Finley
P.S. Now you get your own bed.
My eyes sting and the words are blurry. Typical Finley—always thinking about what’s best for everyone at the expense of herself. Because it isn’t lost on me that in this whole mess, she’s the one who lost the most.
Our Christmas tree glitters in the corner, mocking me with its twinkling lights and the stupid stocking cap perched on top. Frustration boils over, and I start shoving my things in my suitcase.
“What are you doing?” Mallory’s voice breaks through, tight with panic from the open doorway.
“I’m not leaving,” I grunt, keeping my back to her. “Grant wants his damn bed so much, he can have it.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispers.
I snap the zipper closed hard enough to make my fingers sting. I’m so damn tired of everyone saying they’re sorry. Sorry doesn’t fix anything. Sorry doesn’t bring Finley back. Sorry doesn’t take her pain away.
I grab the note and gift off the bed, stuff them into my bag, then head for the door. Mallory’s still planted there, watching me with wide, uncertain eyes. There’s something in her expression, something that tells me this isn’t just about Finley leaving.
“What?” I bark, sharper than I mean to.
She flinches, but she doesn’t back down. Instead, she shuts the door behind her and squares her shoulders. “I read Holiday Fake Out.”
I shake my head in confusion. “What the hell are you talking about?”
