Page 110 of Level Up for Love

Chapter

Thirty-One

Hi all!

We’ve still got a few sessions left, but it looks like everyone’s holiday schedules got busier than anticipated, so we’ll be postponing until after the New Year. Keep an eye out for a new scheduling email to come soon.

Happy holidays!

Cheers,

Warlocke

His email comes through the day after I get home, and its cheery professionalism makes me sick. My stomach churns with an uncomfortable mix of anger, regret, guilt, and resolve, and I try to swallow it all down.

Before the weekend at the cabin, Wesley would have just shot us a casual message via Discord and not bothered with the official Game Knight email account. But of course, if it weren’t for what happened at the cabin, Wesley wouldn’t have needed to message us at all. We would have just kept playing as usual. I doubt we have more than a session or two left.

I think of Vadrien, immortal after all, frozen in a story that doesn’t have the chance to end.

Now the Discord channel sits awkwardly silent, and for a while, I don’t talk to anyone—not even Mona. I pick up extra projects at work, buy the last of my Christmas gifts, and throw myself into finishing Afterwards. I stop sharing files with Wesley and cut him off completely from seeing the changes and updates I make to the game. Feeling petty, I even buy a month pass to a more crowded commercial gym. I refuse to miss my workouts—if anything, I push myself harder now than I ever have. With every new present I wrap for my stepsiblings, cousins, and more, I try not to think about what the holiday will be like for him—what questions Lynn and Stuart will press him with this time.

I even go out one night for drinks with work friends, and I think about trying to meet someone while I linger at the bar. But I keep seeing him everywhere, thinking that the flash of a crooked smile or the reflection of lights on pale hair in the crowd might be him, until the person turns around and I find myself disappointed and lonely. I sip at my cranberry vodka—so festive! I think bitterly—and stick to myself.

On Christmas Eve, after the little ones have gone to sleep, Mona and I sneak out from the basement guest room we’re sharing to put the presents under the tree, at Mom’s request. When we were little, we’d ruined the Santa secret for ourselves pretty early. The tree was tucked into the same corner every year, and one year, we crawled out of bed and hid among the gifts underneath branches heavy with handmade ornaments. We watched, wide-eyed, as Dad walked in after midnight and began placing even more presents, these wrapped in different paper and tagged as “From Santa.” We might’ve gotten away with it if Mona hadn’t burst into tears shortly after.

Now, after arranging the kids’ presents in a semicircle around the tree, next to our gifts to each other and the unopened cards Dad mailed, Mona and I lie down and scooch back until our heads are underneath the tree, the wine bottle we’ve been sharing left off to the side. We squint up at the multicolored lights as they wink above us, ornaments swaying over our faces. Carving out some time for ourselves on Christmas like this has become something of a tradition.

“Do you think this is what cats feel like when they crawl under these?” I ask.

But Mona’s not looking up—she’s looking at me.

Her eyes are so wide and earnest that I can see dozens of lights reflected in their depths, and it reminds me of the way Wesley looked at me on the porch swing—before it all fell apart.

Unease twists in my stomach.

“What is it?” I don’t bother to keep the resignation out of my tone.

“We have to talk.” I set my jaw, but she shakes her head gently. “Not about Wesley—though I hope we will talk about that eventually.” She takes a deep breath. “Rea…I couldn’t find the right time to tell you this, but—Shay got into grad school. In Portland.”

“Maine?”

Mona shakes her head. “Oregon.”

My heart squeezes. “Oh, Mona. I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry?”

“I know how well things were going. I just—she’s really leaving? Are you okay?”

“Of course I am. I’m so happy for her.”

“But what about you?”

“Reagan—” Mona pauses to wet her lips, and I suddenly notice the way she’s steeling herself. The way her narrow shoulders are pushed back and down, the way her brow knits and unknits across her forehead.

She exhales in a rush. “Reagan, I’m going with her.”

“Oh.”