“See you in a few minutes, honey.”
And then he leaves me to stare at a slew of memories that I never lived.
I trace the outline of a glass one from Dreamy Pines Farm in Sweetheart Springs. This one we picked up only a few months ago when we followed through on our plans to go back for our “six-month anniversary”.
The glass warms beneath my fingertips, and I yank my hand back.
I know what this is.
This is what I wished for under the lights of the wish tree at the farm, standing beside Sebastian.
I wish I could see what it’s like to live without fear.
Somehow, I’m standing inside the answer. Like some weird time warp from the Ghost of Christmas Future.
“If this is a haunting, it’s the kind I asked for,” I whisper. “Just… maybe skip the part where I can’t wake up.”
Nothing. Not even a whisper of a ghostly breeze. Which is great, because now I just look even more nuts than I already did.
Which means one thing: I’m stuck in the life I could haveifI’d quit running.
That’s scarier than a ghost.
thirty-one
LAILA
The house has shiftedsince last night. The room I fell asleep in last night was downstairs, but this morning it’s upstairs.
I take my time exploring the rooms, soaking in the tiny details. So much of our story plays out on the walls of our home.
Our wedding photos fill the hallway, all taken on Ever After Farms, bathed in gorgeous golden light from the sunset. Ella, Luke, and Lucy are there, a piece of family I didn’t know I was missing until recently. I was always so jealous of Ella’s relationship with the Jacksons, and yet somehow they all became part of my world too. Love bloomed there.
The maternity photo stops me in my tracks. Holden’s hands cradle the swell of my belly, the love for this unborn child so apparent it takes my breath away. Pure awe. I trace the photo like I did the ornament on our tree, afraid that it might disappear if I blink.
More canvases follow—our children.
My throat tightens as I absorb these two tiny humans. A little girl with a smattering of freckles. A little boy with Holden’s smile. I don’t know them yet, but I ache with a love so deep it’s hard to fathom.
This life isn’t mine, even if all the pictures disagree. I have no memory to match them. But they fill me full of emotions I can’t even name.
“All I’m asking for is to let it get messy and real. I want to weather it all, not just enjoy the best moments.”
He only ever outright asked me once—on a sleigh ride through the snow—to stop living life through a filter. I couldn’t see the big picture then, but I see it now.
I don’t know how to circle back to this.
He asked me to marry him, and I told him I needed to figure out who I am first. He deserves someone who’s whole. I obviously figured that part out, but how?
The realization that we could be so close to living this life knocks the breath out of me. By sticking to only one weekend a year for so long, I’ve robbed him of this life.
No, even I know that’s not fair of me to tell myself. Holden would be furious if he knew I carried that sort of guilt. It’s a work in progress.
I haven’t robbed himyet, but I’ve prolonged it. Fear prevented me from seeing the possibilities of a life with Holden. But so has the lack of example.
As I walk down the stairs, it’s unnerving how many details bring back memories of last Christmas. The fresh garland wrapped around the handrail makes my heart pump in overdrive. It smells fresh, so I imagine it came from Luke’s farm.
Above the fireplace hangs a painting I know before my braincan even name it—a snow-dusted market square with wreaths and ribbons and tiny candy-cane lampposts glowing beneath a golden sky. It’s the one from Sweetheart Springs. Piper Donovan’s signature still hides in the corner, faint against the snow. The same painting Holden and I stood in front of, talking about what home should feel like. I told him it belonged over a mantel, one packed with knick-knacks, garland, and laughter. I guess he listened, because that’s exactly where it lives now.
