She hesitates, then nods. “Partly. Mostly because it felt too hard. Going home and pretending everything’s fine. Pretending I’m the same person they said goodbye to last year. In my mind I would have a baby or two by now, but instead I have an ex-husband.”
I don’t know what to say, so I don’t say anything. The silence between us fills up with everything that doesn’t need to be explained. The weight of starting over, the exhaustion from being strong for too long.
She exhales slowly, crossing her arms. “I used to love Christmas Eve. Actually, my family only celebrated Christmas Day the years I was with my in-laws for Christmas Eve. Otherwise, they go all out on the twenty-fourth. I feel like… it’s different now. Things changed a lot.”
I want to reach for her but I settle for brushing my hand against hers. “Different isn’t always bad.”
Her smile is small, wistful. “No. But it’s not the same.”
The band shifts to something faster, percussion-heavy, wild and loud enough to shake some glasses on the cocktail tables. Someone shouts something in Spanish and half the wedding surges toward the sand. The bride ties a knot on the bottom of her dress, the groom follows, and suddenly the dance floor is a blur of arms and laughter and rum.
Sol looks toward the crowd, then back at me, eyebrow arched.
“Let’s go,” I say. “Let’s make different look fun.”
“Ben…” she starts, mock-warning, but she’s already laughing as I tug her hand.
We squeeze into the mass of dancers, swallowed by the sound and movement. The air is thick and warm, the kind that clings to our skin. A saxophone wails over the drums, and she spins under my arm, her hair catching the light of the hundreds of fairy lights strewn above us.
Sol moves easily—hips, shoulders, hands—all in rhythm with the music, and I’m completely undone. I can’t dance to save my life, but she’s too good at it to care, and the way she’s smiling makes me forget to be embarrassed.
“Relax,” she says over the noise, tugging me closer to her body. Her curves are soft, and I place one hand on her lower back to keep her there. “It’s not rocket science.”
“I overthink for a living!” I shout back.
Her laugh breaks open against my neck, loud and bright. I grip her waist, guiding her in time with the beat, but she’s the one in control—always just a little ahead of me, teasing me with every turn. The music pulses through the dance floor, through us, until I can’t tell whose heartbeat I’m feeling.
When she turns back toward me, our faces are inches apart. Sweat shines on her collarbone, and her lips part on a breath that I feel before I hear.
“You’re so bad at this,” she says, breathless.
“Yeah,” I say, leaning in. “But I’m trying.”
And then I kiss her. It’s rougher than I mean it to be—hot, messy, full of all the things we haven’t said. She gasps against my mouth, but she doesn’t pull away. Her hands slide up my chest, curling behind my neck, holding me there like she’s decided not to think either.
The music changes again, slower this time, smoother. She presses her forehead to mine, eyes still closed.
“Different,” she murmurs.
“Better,” I whisper back.
We stay there through the next song, and the next; dancing, kissing, stopping just long enough to drink from the same glass before diving back into the crowd.
CHAPTER 13
SOL
“Merry Christmas, Sunshine.”
His voice wakes me before the light does. I blink and he’s there, sitting cross-legged on the edge of the bed, hair still damp from a shower I did not hear him have, holding a paper cup of coffee like it’s an offering. That ridiculous Santa hat is on again, and his eyes shine with so much playfulness. There’s zero trace of the many drinks we had last night, and instead, that fucking crooked smile is plastered on his face.
The curtains are slightly open, letting the ocean in: white surf, blue sky, sunlight bright enough to sting. It smells like citrus shampoo and coffee—like a domestic scene I haven’t had in months.
I groan and pull the sheet higher. “You’re too cheerful.”
He grins. “It’s a holiday. I brought caffeine and a present.”
“A present?”
